The sight of Elara, a living, breathing, charcoal-smudged testament to a world he had not imagined, ignited a feverish energy in Lysander. The listless despair was now a forgotten country. His mind, a library stacked with the books of a future not yet written, began to operate with a new, terrifying efficiency. He was no longer just a passenger; he was an engineer, and the clunky vehicle of his infancy was something he would learn to pilot with precision.
His first order of business was language. The frustrated grunts and gurgles of his first year were no longer acceptable. He had to master this clumsy instrument of tongue and teeth. He began a rigorous, silent regimen. As Clara sang to him or Edmund told him stories of the leather trade, Lysander would watch their mouths with an anatomist's intensity, noting the placement of the tongue, the shape of the lips for each syllable. He practiced in the quiet moments, forming the sounds in the back of his throat, testing their feel.
The results began to show with a speed that was, to his parents, both miraculous and unnerving. He did not simply repeat words; he used them with intent. When Clara offered him a spoonful of porridge, he didn't just say "mama," a word he had long been capable of. He looked at the spoon, then at her, and said, with perfect, chilling clarity, "Hot."
Clara froze, the spoon midway to his mouth. She stared at him. "What did you say, my love?"
"Hot," he repeated, pointing a chubby finger at the steam rising from the bowl.
It was a simple, practical word, but the context and the clarity were light-years beyond his age. A slow, wide smile spread across Clara's face, a mixture of delight and disbelief. "Edmund! Edmund, come quickly! He said 'hot'! He knew the porridge was hot!"
Edmund rushed in, his face a mirror of his wife's astonishment. "He said it? Clearly?"
"As clear as you or I!" Clara's laughter was a little breathless, a little shaky.
Lysander observed their reaction coolly. This was a calculated risk. He needed to accelerate his ability to communicate, but he could not afford to reveal the full extent of the intellect behind the words. He would be a prodigy, not a phantom. He would feed them words like "book," "light," "draw," and "why," carefully curating a vocabulary that suggested remarkable intelligence, not an impossible one.
His second project was physical. He was done with the helpless flailing. He spent hours on the rug, pushing his body to its limits. He practiced crawling until his knees were raw, not towards toys, but towards specific objects: a fallen book, his father's discarded work boots, the specific window that looked out onto the street. He was building strength, yes, but he was also charting the territory of his home, memorizing every board that creaked, every shadow cast at a particular time of day.
One afternoon, he orchestrated his most audacious physical feat yet. He waited until Clara was distracted, mending a dress by the fire. He pulled himself up, using the leg of a heavy oak chair for support. His legs trembled with the effort, but his will was iron. He took one wobbling, precarious step. Then another. He was not walking towards his mother. He was walking towards a low shelf where Edmund kept a few ledgers and, crucially, a small, brass-handled magnifying glass.
He reached the shelf, his heart pounding with a mix of exertion and triumph. He stretched out a hand and closed his fingers around the cool, smooth handle of the glass.
Clara looked up from her sewing, perhaps sensing the unusual silence. Her gasp was a sharp intake of air. "Lysander!"
He turned, the magnifying glass held triumphantly in his fist, and took two more stumbling steps towards her before collapsing into a satisfied heap on the rug.
She was on her knees beside him in an instant, gathering him up, her eyes wide. "You… you walked! You walked all the way across the room!" She hugged him tightly, laughing and crying at once. "And you took the glass! You knew what you wanted!"
When Edmund came home, the story was told and retold, the magnifying glass now a sacred relic of the miracle. Lysander allowed himself to be the center of their joyful fuss, but his mind was elsewhere. The magnifying glass was not a toy. It was a tool. It was a step towards examining the world in minute detail, just as he was examining his own past.
His ultimate goal, the specter that haunted his every waking moment, was Alistair Finch. He began to use his burgeoning language skills to probe for information, weaving his questions into the fabric of his childish curiosity.
"Papa," he said one evening as Edmund smoked his pipe by the fire. "Fire… color?"
Edmund smiled. "Aye, son. Orange and yellow. Hot, like you said."
Lysander pointed to the flame. "Other fire? Blue fire?"
Edmund chuckled. "Blue fire? That's a strange thought. Alchemist's fire, maybe. They say some of those fellows can make a flame burn blue with their queer salts."
Lysander's heart skipped a beat. He kept his face neutral. "Al… kemist?"
"Aye," Edmund said, puffing on his pipe. "Men who play at being wizards, trying to turn lead into gold. Waste of time, if you ask me. There's one down on Elm Street, name of Finch. Best to stay away from such nonsense."
Elm Street. The name was a coordinate, etched into his mind. He had a location.
Days later, he was playing with a set of wooden blocks with Clara. He was not building random towers; he was constructing a model of the street plan he remembered from his previous life, a map of the city held in his mind.
"Mama," he said, placing a block carefully. "Man… blue fire? Elm Street?"
Clara's hands stilled. She looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Who told you about that, my love?"
Lysander simply pointed to his own head, a gesture he had used before. "I… think it."
A shadow passed over Clara's face, a flicker of the same unease he had seen before. She forced a smile. "Well, you mustn't think about such things. They are not for good Christian boys. That man… he deals in dangerous things. Promise me you will not think of him."
It was a warning, and it was a confirmation. Finch was not just a rumor; he was a known, and feared, entity. The hunt was on. Lysander, trapped in a body that was still mastering the art of walking, had successfully identified his quarry. The next step was to find a way to approach him. But for that, he would need more than words and a magnifying glass. He would need an opportunity. And he would have to be patient. The geometry of his escape was becoming clearer, but it was still a whisper, a pattern of lines only he could see on the dark slate of his future.