Sophia stood frozen, watching in disbelief as her ten-year-old brother approached the agitated French woman with the calm confidence of someone twice his age. Her instinct screamed to pull him back—what was he thinking? Children didn't insert themselves into adult problems, especially not ones involving frustrated foreigners in public places. Yet something in Lysander's posture, the determined set of his small shoulders, kept her rooted to the spot.
"Excusez-moi, madame," Lysander said, his voice steady despite its childish pitch. "Je peux peut-être vous aider?" [Excuse me, ma'am. Perhaps I can help you?]
The French woman turned, surprise flickering across her elegant features as she looked down at the small boy addressing her in her native tongue. The sales associate's expression mirrored the woman's astonishment, relief blending with confusion at this unexpected development.
"Vous parlez français?" the woman asked, her voice softening with surprise and the first glimmer of hope. [You speak French?]
Lysander nodded modestly. "Un peu. Assez pour aider, j'espère." [A little. Enough to help, I hope.]
Sophia's jaw dropped. Where on earth had her little brother learned to speak French? The Lysander she thought she knew was obsessed with video games and sports cards, not foreign languages. This new, unfamiliar version of her brother—poised, helpful, surprisingly knowledgeable—had been emerging more frequently in recent weeks, and she still hadn't adjusted to the transformation.
"S'il vous plaît, madame," Lysander continued carefully, "la vendeuse essaie vraiment de vous aider, mais elle ne comprend pas. Pouvez-vous parler plus lentement?" [Please, ma'am, the saleswoman is really trying to help you, but she doesn't understand. Could you speak more slowly?]
The woman took a deep breath, visibly attempting to compose herself. Instead of calming completely, however, she suddenly reached out and grasped Lysander's forearms, her elegantly manicured fingers holding him firmly as she bent closer to his eye level.
"Ce collier," she said urgently, gesturing with her chin toward the mannequin's pendant, her hands still gripping Lysander's arms. "Il ressemble exactement à un bijou de famille perdu il y a des années. Je dois savoir qui l'a créé." [This necklace. It looks exactly like a family heirloom lost years ago. I need to know who created it.]
Sophia burst into motion, protective instincts flaring at the sight of an adult—a stranger—putting hands on her little brother. "Hey! Let him go!" she exclaimed, striding forward with the righteous indignation of an older sibling.
Before she could reach them, however, Lysander held up a hand toward her, a slight shake of his head signaling that he had the situation under control. The gesture was so unexpectedly authoritative coming from her usually deferential brother that it stopped her in her tracks.
"It's okay, Sophia," he said calmly in English, before turning back to the woman. "Madame, je comprends que c'est important, mais vous me serrez les bras assez fort." [Ma'am, I understand this is important, but you're holding my arms quite tightly.]
The salesperson had moved closer as well, her expression alarmed. "Ma'am, please let go of him. He's just a child," she said, reaching a tentative hand toward the woman's shoulder.
"It's alright," Lysander assured the salesperson. "She's not trying to hurt me. She's asking about the origin of the necklace on that mannequin. She thinks it resembles a family heirloom she lost years ago and wants to know who designed it."
The French woman released her grip on Lysander's arms instantly, her expression morphing into embarrassment as she straightened up. "Je suis vraiment désolée," she said, smoothing her hands down her tailored jacket. "Je ne voulais pas vous effrayer." [I'm truly sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.]
"Ce n'est rien," Lysander replied with a small smile. "Je vais traduire pour vous." [It's nothing. I'll translate for you.]
He turned to the relieved saleswoman. "She apologizes for grabbing me. She's wondering if you know who designed the necklace on that display. It apparently looks very similar to a family heirloom she lost, and she's hoping to trace its origins."
The saleswoman's expression softened in understanding. "Oh! I see. Yes, that's actually from our new collection. It's a collaboration with a local jewelry designer—Mariposa Designs, I think? We have the information at the counter. Would she like me to write down the contact details?"
"That would be perfect, thank you," Lysander said, before turning back to the French woman. "La vendeuse dit que le collier fait partie d'une nouvelle collection. C'est une collaboration avec un créateur de bijoux local appelé Mariposa Designs. Elle va vous écrire les coordonnées." [The saleswoman says the necklace is part of a new collection. It's a collaboration with a local jewelry designer called Mariposa Designs. She's going to write down the contact information for you.]
Relief washed over the woman's face. "Merci, merci beaucoup! Vous ne pouvez pas imaginer à quel point c'est important pour moi." [Thank you, thank you very much! You can't imagine how important this is to me.]
The saleswoman hurried to the register, retrieving a notepad and pen from beneath the counter. With careful attention, she wrote down the jewelry designer's name, contact information, and the collection title, then returned to hand the note to the French woman.
"Voici les informations," Lysander said, gesturing toward the paper. "Le nom du designer, son numéro de téléphone, et le nom de la collection." [Here's the information. The designer's name, phone number, and the collection name.]
The woman accepted the paper with both hands, studying it intently before carefully folding it and tucking it into her handbag. Her entire demeanor had transformed—the frantic energy replaced by composed gratitude.
"Je ne sais pas comment vous remercier, jeune homme," she said, reaching into her purse again. "S'il vous plaît, acceptez ceci pour votre aide." [I don't know how to thank you, young man. Please accept this for your help.]
She withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, offering it to Lysander with a gracious smile. Sophia watched with interest, certain her brother would accept the unexpected windfall—what ten-year-old wouldn't?
"Non, merci, madame," Lysander said instead, gently pushing her hand away. "Je suis content d'avoir pu vous aider. Je suis ici avec ma sœur," he gestured toward Sophia, "pour l'aider à trouver de l'inspiration pour un costume de théâtre. Pas besoin de me payer." [No thank you, ma'am. I'm happy I could help. I'm here with my sister to help her find inspiration for a theater costume. No need to pay me.]
Sophia's eyebrows rose even higher, if that were possible. The Lysander she knew would have pocketed that twenty dollars without a second thought. Who was this polite, self-possessed child who had apparently replaced her little brother?
"Très bien," the woman conceded, returning the money to her purse. "Mais vous êtes un jeune homme extraordinaire. Vos parents doivent être très fiers." [Very well. But you are an extraordinary young man. Your parents must be very proud.]
While the French woman continued expressing her gratitude, Sophia sidled up to her brother, nudging him with her elbow. "Okay, genius," she whispered. "Where did you learn to speak French? And don't tell me they taught you that in fifth grade, because I know they didn't."
Lysander glanced at her, a flicker of something—calculation? concern?—crossing his features before he schooled them into casual nonchalance. "Internet," he whispered back. "I've been using the computer at night sometimes."
"You've been what?" Sophia hissed. "Mom and Dad would flip if they knew."
"It's not a big deal," Lysander replied, his attention divided between his sister's interrogation and the French woman's continued thanks. "I just got interested in languages. There are these websites where you can learn the basics."
"Since when do you care about learning languages?" Sophia pressed, studying her brother with narrowed eyes. "Last year you complained for weeks about having to memorize state capitals."
A hint of discomfort crossed Lysander's face. "People change, okay? I just... got curious."
Before Sophia could push further, the French woman concluded her effusive thanks and departed with a final wave, leaving them alone with the still-bewildered saleswoman, who was looking at Lysander with newfound respect.
"That was amazing," she said. "How old are you?"
"Ten," Lysander replied with a modest shrug.
"And you taught yourself French? Online?"
Lysander nodded, his expression carefully neutral. "Just the basics. Enough to help out."
"Well, thanks for saving the day," the saleswoman said. "Are you two looking for anything in particular? I'd be happy to help after that rescue."
"My sister needs costume inspiration," Lysander explained, seeming eager to change the subject. "She's playing Juliet in a school production."
As the saleswoman turned her attention to Sophia, asking about the production's time period and style, Sophia continued to steal glances at her brother. Something didn't add up. The French he'd spoken hadn't sounded like "just the basics" to her untrained ear. And the confidence with which he'd approached the situation—the way he'd calmly mediated between two adults—felt decidedly un-childlike.
When the saleswoman stepped away briefly to retrieve some accessories she thought might work for a modern Juliet, Sophia turned fully toward her brother. "Spill it," she demanded quietly. "The whole truth. Where did you really learn to speak French like that?"
Lysander sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly as if in resignation. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell Mom and Dad."
"Depends on what you're about to say," Sophia replied, crossing her arms. "But go on."
Lysander glanced around to ensure no one was within earshot. "I've been getting up late at night, after everyone's asleep," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I use the family computer to look things up, learn stuff. Languages, history, all kinds of things. I just... I got interested in how the world works."
"But why the secrecy?" Sophia asked, genuinely puzzled. Their parents would probably be thrilled to discover their ten-year-old was secretly studying instead of playing video games.
Lysander shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes. "I don't know. I guess I wanted something that was just mine. Something I discovered on my own." He looked up at her then, his expression suddenly earnest. "Please don't tell. I'll get in trouble for using the computer without permission."
Sophia studied her brother's face, sensing there was more to the story than he was sharing. The Lysander of a few months ago rarely showed interest in anything beyond his immediate enjoyment. This new, curious, oddly mature version of her brother was something of a mystery—one she wasn't entirely sure how to approach.
"Fine," she relented after a moment. "Your weird midnight French lessons can stay between us. For now." She tapped his chest with one finger. "But I'm watching you, weirdo. You're acting different lately."
Relief washed over Lysander's features, quickly replaced by his usual casual expression as the saleswoman returned with an armful of accessories. "Thanks, Sophia," he murmured, before turning his attention back to the business at hand—helping his sister find the perfect modern interpretation of Shakespeare's most famous tragic heroine.
As Sophia allowed herself to be redirected toward the task of costume selection, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something significant happening with her little brother—something she couldn't quite put her finger on, but that seemed to be changing the dynamics of their entire family in subtle but unmistakable ways.