XXVII: "The Phantom's Fleet-Fingered Hands"

Awakening from a night's rest, my mind was still adrift with the remnants of a peculiar dream. I found myself in a vast cosmic expanse, amidst a constellation of stars and planets, floating as a being of pure, radiant light, devoid of facial features or details – a mere silhouette of luminance. As I looked behind, I beheld a similar entity, which in turn gazed back at another, and so on into infinity, a never-ending sequence of mirror images stretching into the cosmos. Pondering over the dream's significance, I pushed the thought aside. There were matters at hand that required my attention.

Having resolved not to utilize the Philosopher's Stone, I had decided to bestow it upon Psyche, though in a manner befitting my reputation as the phantom. Psyche, ever so proud, would never accept such a gift directly from me.

As I prepared to venture out in disguise, I carefully selected each element of my attire to embody the essence of a Victorian working-class man. I began with a shirt of coarse, sturdy cotton, its earthy brown hue a nod to the laborious life of a common worker. The fabric was practical, designed for durability rather than aesthetics. I buttoned it up to the collar and rolled the sleeves to my elbows, revealing forearms that might suggest a familiarity with physical toil.

Over this, I donned a waistcoat, slightly darker than my shirt, bearing the faint, faded stripes of wear. It was a garment that spoke of utility, its pockets worn from use, likely holding the tools or trinkets of a Parisian tradesman. The waistcoat was snugly buttoned, its aged buckle adding to the authenticity of my disguise.

My trousers were of a heavy, dark fabric, perhaps a resilient wool blend, suited for the rigors of manual labor. They hung loosely for mobility, tapering near the ankles where they met my thick, woolen socks and well-worn boots.

The pièce de résistance of my disguise was the fake mustache adorning my upper lip. It was a robust addition, mimicking the popular style among working men of the era, curling slightly at the ends for a semblance of respectability.

To complete my guise, I affixed a simple, black eyepatch over my left eye. It was not merely a disguise but a symbol of the trials faced by the working class. The patch, secured by a thin elastic band, lent me an air of ruggedness, suggesting a history of personal hardship or a work-related injury.

Thus arrayed, I transformed from the enigmatic Eros Corciato into an unremarkable figure of the working masses, indistinct from the laborers who traversed the streets of industrial-era Paris.

I had knowledge of her preferred haunt, La Petite Chaise, a café famed for its delectable croissants and robust espresso, which she favored. Thus, I set off in a chariot, maintaining a discreet distance upon arrival. Observing from a vantage point, I witnessed Psyche in a heated exchange with LeBlanc, likely over the realization that the stone they possessed was mere chicanery and not the true Magnum Opus.

As she stormed out, I seized the opportunity, carefully timing my approach. With a feigned clumsiness, I 'accidentally' bumped into her, offering an apologetic gesture. "Pardon me, Mademoiselle," I said, my tone sincere. "Navigating with just one good eye can be quite the challenge." She returned a courteous smile and wished me well, unaware of the sleight of hand I had just performed.

As Psyche walked away, little did she know that within her pocket now lay the Philosopher's Stone and a small note, deftly placed by my hand. A trick befitting the reputation of the phantom, leaving no trace of my intervention except for the mysterious gift she would soon discover.

Enclosed within the letter I deftly placed in Psyche's pocket was a riddle, a playful taunt to stir her curiosity and perhaps, a touch of ire.

"In the embrace of shadows' cloak, unseen I glide,

A mere murmur amidst the Parisian tide.

With nimble fingers and guile so keen,

My presence felt, yet never seen.

Known as the phantom, in silence I tread,

Through streets at dusk, under the moon's overhead.

What entity might I be?"

Accompanying the riddle, a simple yet profound message: "The Stone is at your disposal, use it as you will."

I could only imagine the tumult of emotions that must have engulfed Psyche upon discovering the riddle and the stone. Perhaps a flash of vexation at my elusive games, yet simultaneously, a surge of exhilaration. Our contest, a dance of wits and cunning, was akin to an eternal chess game, with neither of us ever truly achieving checkmate. Each encounter, a battle won or lost, yet the greater war, the grand narrative of our rivalry, remained perpetually undecided. In this intricate ballet of intellect and strategy, victory was not the goal, but rather the enduring thrill of the game itself.

Having completed my clandestine errand, I next directed the chariot towards Café De La Paix, where Mystera awaited. Upon my arrival, she was ensconced in her usual morning ritual – delicately savoring a cappuccino and indulging in a sweet pastry. Her predilection for sugary delights was fitting, I mused; such a sweetly charming soul as hers seemed naturally inclined towards similar tastes.

As I made my approach, her eyes met mine, a sparkle of recognition lighting them up. "Ah, what do we have here? My very own rugged laborer, complete with brawny forearms, a formidable mustache, and the mysterious allure of an eyepatch," she teased with an air of playful admiration.

Responding to her jest with a smile, I promptly removed my mustache and eyepatch, resuming my usual visage. "The stone has been surreptitiously returned to Psyche," I informed her, settling into my seat. "Knowing her pride, direct acceptance was out of the question, thus necessitating a bit of subterfuge on my part. And as for LeBlanc, he seemed rather forlorn at La Petite Chaise – Psyche left him there, in a state of solitary disquiet. He's a man accustomed to acquiring what he desires, save for one elusive jewel, the blue topaz that is Psyche herself."

With a brief pause to survey the café, I continued, "Now, let us partake in our breakfast and turn our thoughts to the upcoming weekend's venture. It promises to be an intriguing journey, one filled with amusement and unexpected turns."