Seeing Alistair Finch had crystallized Lysander's purpose into a single, sharp point: infiltration. He needed to get inside that house. He needed to see the laboratory, find notes, understand the mechanics of the experiment that had bound him. But a direct assault was suicide. He was a child. Finch would dismiss him, or worse, see him as the fascinating anomaly he was and make him a subject of further study. No, his approach had to be one of stealth and cunning. He had to become a ghost in Finch's machine.
This new phase of his plan required a different kind of weapon: not just language or physical prowess, but a deep, manipulative understanding of human nature. He had to architect a lie, a persona that would allow him to get close without raising alarm.
He began by feigning a new, specific interest. He asked Clara for "shiny rocks." He became fascinated with Edmund's metal tools, asking detailed, probing questions about their composition.
"Papa, this knife... is it iron? Why does it get red in the fire? Can it become... something else?"
Edmund, increasingly accustomed to his son's bizarrely specific curiosity, would humo him. "It's steel, son. A strong metal. And no, fire just softens it. It doesn't turn it into silver, if that's what you're thinking." He said the last part with a pointed look, as if aware of the direction of Lysander's thoughts.
Lysander was carefully constructing a cover story. He was not a time-lost soul; he was a precocious boy with an intense, almost obsessive interest in metallurgy and transformation—the very subjects that would interest an alchemist. It was a mask he would one day need to wear perfectly.
His other project was mapping Finch's routines. Through carefully guided conversations with his parents and by engineering more "walks" with his father that happened to pass the end of Elm Street, he began to build a picture of the alchemist's habits. Finch was a creature of the night. He received deliveries of strange materials under the cover of darkness. He was often seen at the apothecary just before closing, purchasing materials in small, furtive quantities. He rarely spoke to anyone, and when he did, it was with a brusque, impatient manner.
Lysander learned that Finch had one apparent weakness: a fondness for a particular spiced wine from a vendor near the docks. Once a week, like clockwork, he would emerge from his house in the late afternoon and make the journey to purchase a bottle.
This was a potential opening. A chance encounter. But it required Lysander to be mobile and unsupervised, two things a two-year-old, no matter how precocious, could not manage.
His solution was Theodore.
Theodore, the son of a neighboring cloth merchant, was a boisterous, good-natured boy of about five. He was everything Lysander was not: loud, physically confident, and blissfully unburdened by cosmic dread. Theodore had taken a liking to the "quiet little baby" who could talk so well, and often came to play in their yard.
Lysander saw in Theodore not a friend, but a tool. A shield and a vehicle. He began to cultivate the friendship with a strategist's cold calculation. He would share his toys. He would listen with feigned interest to Theodore's rambling stories about chasing dogs and playing soldiers. He made himself a pleasant, entertaining companion.
One day, as they were playing near the fence, Lysander broached his idea.
"Theo," he said, using the familiar name to build rapport. "I know a place. A secret place. With a magic man."
Theodore's eyes widened. "A magic man? A sorcerer?"
"He makes... blue fire," Lysander said, weaving the rumors he had collected into a tantalizing tale. "And shiny rocks. I saw him. On Elm Street."
Elm Street held a forbidden allure for all the children. Theodore was immediately hooked. "We're not supposed to go there! My ma says he'll turn us into frogs!"
"That's why it's a secret," Lysander whispered conspiratorially. "We can just look. From far away. We can see his house. We can be... explorers."
The idea of being an explorer, of defying parental authority for a grand adventure, was irresistible to a five-year-old. A plan was hatched. During the bustling activity of market day, when parents were distracted, Theodore would "help" Lysander sneak away. They would go to Elm Street, hide, and watch the magic man's house.
The day arrived. The street was packed with people and noise. Clara was haggling with a vegetable seller, her basket heavy, her attention divided. It was the perfect moment.
"Theo," Lysander whispered, nodding towards an alley that led in the general direction of Elm Street.
Theodore, his face flushed with excitement and nerves, grabbed Lysander's hand. "Come on! Quick!"
They slipped away from the stall, two small figures disappearing into the crowd. Lysander's heart hammered against his ribs, not with fear, but with triumph. He was taking active control. He was using the world's perception of him as a child to his advantage. Who would suspect a toddler of such a deliberate, calculated mission?
They reached the mouth of Elm Street and ducked behind a rain barrel, their hiding spot offering a clear view of Finch's house. The journey had been long for Lysander's short legs, and he was breathing heavily.
"Now what?" Theodore whispered, his eyes wide.
"Now... we wait," Lysander said.
They didn't have to wait long. Just as Lysander had predicted, the door of the hunched house opened, and Alistair Finch emerged. He was wearing the same shabby coat, his eyes scanning the street with that familiar, paranoid glance before he set off in the direction of the docks.
"He's going for his wine," Lysander murmured.
"He's scary," Theodore said, his bravado fading.
"He's just a man," Lysander said, though he didn't believe it. He was watching Finch's retreating back, a plan forming in his mind. This weekly ritual was a vulnerability. A predictable absence.
As they sneaked back to the market, successfully slipping back into the crowd before Clara even noticed they were gone, Lysander felt a profound sense of accomplishment. He had done it. He had reconnoitered the enemy's position. He had identified a pattern. He had used Theodore, a living person, as a pawn in his game, and it had worked.
The architecture of his lie was taking shape. The persona of the curious boy was solidifying. The map of Finch's life was being drawn. He was no longer just surviving the loop. He was learning to manipulate the very world within it. The next step, he knew, would be to turn that weekly absence into an opportunity. He needed to get inside that house. But for that, he would need a key. And he was now one step closer to forging it.