The geography book was now significantly heavier. Foster sat at the kitchen table, the hollowed-out cavity filled with a stack of bills. He counted it twice, his fingers trembling slightly.
It was there. The thousand dollars. The price of entry into the Aethelstan Club & Social Foundation.
It felt less like an achievement and more like a necessary medical procedure—painful and expensive, but vital for survival. He had earned it with police stipends, with the grease and metal scrapings of countless repairs, and with the quiet, desperate energy of a man building a life raft.
He drafted the letter of inquiry with the same care he'd give a sensitive police report.
He used Foster Ambrose's name and his official title, not as a boast, but as a credential, a shred of legitimacy in a world that clearly valued status. He mentioned an interest in "civic history and interdisciplinary discourse," phrases he'd pieced together from the journal and the station rumors. He posted it and waited, the days stretching longer with a new kind of anxiety.
The response came not by post, but by a uniformed courier who handed him a thick, cream-colored envelope. The paper was of a quality he'd only ever seen in evidence bags containing forged documents. It was an invitation for an "introductory interview."
—
The Aethelstan Club & Social Foundation was even more imposing from the inside. The foyer was a vaulted space of white marble and dark wood. The air was still and cool, smelling of lemon polish and old money. A receptionist—a woman with a posture so perfect it seemed engineered, greeted him from behind a vast, mahogany desk.
"Mr. Ambrose," she said, her voice low and smooth. "The membership secretary will see you shortly."
He was led to a small, elegant office. The man behind the desk was in his fifties, with a carefully neutral expression and eyes that missed nothing.
"Mr. Ambrose. I am Mr. Sterling. We appreciate your interest in the Foundation."
He glanced at a data slate on his desk, presumably displaying Foster's application. "A police officer. An uncommon, but not unprecedented, profession for our membership."
"It grants a unique perspective on the city. Foster said, repeating a line he'd practiced.
"Indeed," Sterling said, noncommittally. He outlined the terms:
The thousand-dollar fee was a one-time membership buy-in, granting access to the facilities and the right to form or join a club.
However, to actually hold meetings, one needed to rent a room. A standard meeting room cost fifteen dollars per session, which covered basic amenities.
"Many of our clubs value discretion," Sterling continued, his tone shifting to one of practiced confidentiality. "For that reason, we strongly advise the use of an alias within the club registry. Your true identity will, of course, be recorded in our official ledger for matters of accountability and security, but it remains strictly confidential. The public-facing club roster will only show your chosen alias."
Foster's mind raced. An alias. A secret identity within a secret society. It was another layer, another lock. "I understand." he said.
"Very good." Sterling produced a heavy, leather-bound ledger—the official book, and a more slender, printed booklet—the club registry. "The first step is to establish your club. Do you have a name?"
Foster had thought about this. It couldn't sound like a faction. It needed to be neutral, academic, and almost boring. Something that would attract the curious, not the committed.
"The Oxford Club." He said.
Sterling wrote it down in the ledger. "And your alias?"
A name that meant something only to him. A name that reflected his solitary, desperate mission in this world.
"The Lonely Saviour." Foster said, the words feeling both foolish and profoundly true.
Sterling didn't bat an eye. He simply recorded it.
"Now, Mr. Ambrose, there is one final requirement before your club can be active and added to the registry for others to see. You must have a minimum of three members. We cannot allocate room rentals to a club of one. Once you have secured your other members, you'll be informed, and we will formally activate The Oxford Club."
Foster's heart sank slightly. He had the money, he had the name, but he needed people. He was back to being alone.
He paid the thousand dollars, a transaction that felt like handing over a piece of his soul.
Sterling provided a receipt and a temporary membership card. "You may use the common areas until your club is fully formed. We will contact you once the requirements are met."
As Foster stood to leave, his eyes fell on the open club registry on Sterling's desk. He saw a dozen names, some bland, some pompous. And then he saw it, listed with a subtle, gold-embossed star: The High Ancient Mandate. His breath caught. Seeing it officially documented made it more real, more formidable.
He walked out of the cool, quiet club and back into the chaos of the city. He had done it. He was in. But he was standing at the base of a new, even steeper mountain. He had a club with no members, an alias with no reputation, and a burning need to understand the forces that moved in the shadows of this opulent, secretive world.
He was inside the gates. Now, he had to find out what he was sharing the garden with.