Wolfgang tosses the rag over their shoulder and crosses around the counter, heading to another on the opposite end of the store. They crouch and unlock the cabinet underneath with a ring of keys hanging from a belt loop, pulling out a plain, battered cardboard box that they set down on the glass countertop and start sorting through. They place a series of things on the counter next to them: a spool of copper wire; an awl; a pair of pliers; a jeweler's hammer; an antique hands-free eye magnifier; and an old, leather-bound book with a cover plain of any identifying features save a Magen David with a red eye in the center. They turn and disappear briefly into the back, coming back with, inexplicably, an egg. They put it next to the other things.
“No. The effect is tied to the fetish. You would need to take it off to reset it. Wait three hours. I can make it... I don't know, nine hours? I don't want to make it too long, um — then you get a side effects.”
They pull up a tall chair behind the counter, curling into it with one leg bent, foot on the edge of the seat, bent over. They unspool a length of wire and clip it, then hold it between their two hands, rubbing them together with the wire held there, like when you're a kid making a Play-Doh snake. What emerges from the top is no longer copper, but silver, delicate, thin, glinting in the light like the real thing. They pull it out from between their hands like they're just spinning thread.
Pause. “I need your Hebrew name, and the name of your mother.”