The door opened before Edmund could even raise his hand to knock. It was the same rabbity boy from the market, his eyes wide. "The master is expecting you," he mumbled, stepping aside to let them enter a narrow, dark hallway.
The smell that assaulted them was indescribable. It was a physical presence, a cloying mixture of sulfur, vinegar, rotting eggs, sweet decay, and the underlying, metallic scent of mercury. It was the smell from Lysander's memory, a thousand times stronger. Clara, who had reluctantly agreed to come, brought a handkerchief to her nose, her eyes watering.
The hallway opened into a large, single room that served as both living quarters and laboratory. It was a chaos of breathtaking proportions. Every surface was covered with glassware: retorts, alembics, and beakers of strange, bubbling liquids in hues of lurid green, oily yellow, and blood red. Books were stacked in teetering pillars, their spines cracked and leather peeling. Manuscripts covered in dense, cryptic script were scattered amongst the chemical apparatus. In one corner, a small, miserable-looking cot was barely visible behind a mountain of leather-bound volumes. In the center of the room, a furnace glowed, heating a crucible from which a faint, greenish smoke emanated.
And standing in the midst of this magnificent disorder was Alistair Finch.
He was closer now, and Lysander could see the details the distance had previously obscured. The gauntness of his face was pronounced, his cheekbones sharp beneath the pale skin. His dark eyes, which had seemed burning from afar, now looked sunken and feverish, the pupils dilated. He wore a stained leather apron over his clothes, and his hands were covered in a fine powder that looked like cinnabar.
"Mr. and Mrs. Brentwood," Finch said, his voice a dry, rustling sound, like pages turning. He did not smile. His eyes swept over them with a dismissive swiftness before landing, and locking, onto Lysander. "And the prodigy."
His gaze was not warm, nor was it friendly. It was the look of a naturalist who has discovered a new species of insect, analytical, possessive, and utterly devoid of human empathy. Lysander felt a primal urge to step back, to hide behind his father. He forced himself to stand his ground, meeting that intense stare with what he hoped looked like childish curiosity, and not the cold, calculated recognition it was.
"Mr. Finch," Edmund said, his voice tight with nervousness. "Thank you for your… invitation."
"The pursuit of knowledge requires no thanks," Finch said dismissively, his eyes still on Lysander. "Come, boy. Tell me. What do you know of the Hermetic tradition?"
It was a test, a brutal and direct one, designed to overwhelm and expose a fraud.
Lysander took a small step forward, letting go of his father's hand. He could feel Clara's anxious breath on his neck. He had prepared for this. He had to be perfect.
"Hermes Trismegistus," Lysander said, his voice clear and steady in the oppressive silence. "'As above, so below.' The principle of correspondence. That which is in the macrocosm is reflected in the microcosm."
Finch's expression did not change, but a faint, almost imperceptible light kindled in the depths of his eyes. "And how does this principle apply to the Great Work?"
"The transformation of base metal into gold is the exaltation of matter," Lysander recited, paraphrasing texts he had consumed in another life. "It is the physical mirror of the soul's journey from ignorance to enlightenment. The Philosopher's Stone is not just a substance, but a state of being."
The silence in the room was now profound, broken only by the gurgle of a nearby retort. Edmund and Clara were staring at their son as if he were speaking in tongues. Finch, however, took a slow step closer. He crouched down, bringing his face level with Lysander's. The smell of chemicals on his breath was overpowering.
"Who taught you these things?" Finch asked, his voice a low, intent whisper.
"No one," Lysander said, holding that unnerving gaze. He delivered his line, the cornerstone of his entire fabricated identity. "The words… they are just there. When I see your symbols," he pointed to a drawing of the ouroboros on a nearby manuscript, "I know what they mean. It is like… remembering a dream."
Finch's lips stretched into a thin, bloodless smile. It was not a pleasant sight. "Remembering," he repeated, the word hanging in the chemical-laden air like a new element he had just discovered. "Yes. Perhaps you are."
He stood up abruptly, turning to Edmund and Clara. "The boy will visit me. Twice a week. In the afternoons. We have… much to discuss."
It was not a request. It was a statement. A decree.
Clara found her voice. "Mr. Finch, he is just a child."
"And I am just a scholar," Finch interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The mind knows no age. He is a remarkable resource. An untainted vessel. He will be safe here. My work is with ideas, not with… physicalities." He gestured vaguely at his dangerous-looking equipment.
Edmund, swayed by the man's forceful intellect and his own paternal pride, placed a hand on Clara's arm. "If you assure us of his safety…"
"I assure you of nothing but the pursuit of truth," Finch said, his gaze already drifting back to Lysander, a possessive, hungry look in his eyes. "You may go now. The boy will stay for an hour. Jacob will see him home." He gestured to the rabbit-like boy.
The dismissal was absolute. With worried, backward glances, Edmund and Clara were shepherded out by Jacob, leaving Lysander alone in the lair of the ouroboros with the man who had set his life on an endless loop.
The door clicked shut. The silence stretched. Finch turned his full, unnerving attention back to Lysander.
"Now," Finch said, picking up a small, beautifully cut crystal from a table. It refracted the light from the furnace, casting tiny, dancing rainbows on the grimy walls. "Let us begin in earnest. Tell me, child. What do you know of the nature of Time?"
Lysander's blood ran cold. The question was too direct, too coincidental. He looked at the crystal, at the shimmering, fractured light, and then back into the fever-bright eyes of his captor. The game had just become infinitely more dangerous. He was no longer the hunter. He was the specimen under the lens.