The world was not just connected, it was conspiring to drive him mad. Foster walked away from Regent and Sycamore, Lily Moses's bewildered face burned into his mind.
_Why did the name "Elara Vex" pop into her head? Why did Leo have to live at that specific, cursed intersection? What kind of world have I fallen into, where a random choice of a false name could resonate with such dark significance?_
The questions multiplied like a virus, each one splitting into two more, until his mind ached with the sheer, tangled weight of it all.
He needed to do something with his hands. Something that made sense. He went to see Mr. Havelock, to fulfill his promise and to anchor himself in the simple, logical world of gears and springs.
—
The clock tower mechanism was a sprawling working of brass and steel laid out on sheets on Havelock's workbench.
For the next several hours, Foster lost himself in the work. His hands, guided by Foster Ambrose's ingrained skill, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled the intricate movement.
There was a cause and effect here. A bent pivot meant a stuck gear. A weak spring meant losing time. It was a language he could understand.
As they worked, Havelock spoke in his low, steady voice.
"They don't build them like this anymore. This clock was made when time was a communal truth. Now?"
He gestured vaguely outside. "Everyone has their own little timepiece in their pocket. No shared rhythm. It makes the city seem… disjointed."
Foster grunted in agreement, his focus on aligning a wheel. The work was calming, but it couldn't silence the other, more pressing ticking in his head—the ticking of his financial clock.
The thousand dollar membership fee had nearly bankrupted him.
He had come across the rental receipt for the house in Foster's drawer, and a wave of cold dread had washed over him. He was grateful the rent was paid for the year, a small piece of stability for Ortego.
But his police salary, even with the occasional stipend, was a thin thread. The repair work for Havelock was leisurely. The fifteen dollars for each Oxford Club meeting was another drain.
He looked at the complex clockwork. This was a finite job. The money would be good, but it was a one-time payment. He needed a steady inflow.
He thought of the political figures he sometimes saw at the Aethelstan Club, the well-dressed men who moved with an air of perpetual funding.
Perhaps, he pondered, he could leverage his police experience into some kind of security consultant work for a city councilman's campaign.
It was a distasteful thought—mingling with the political machines he distrusted. But it was a path to raising his financial status, even by an inch.
He had a brother to feed, a house to keep, and a secret war to fund. The Lonely Saviour was discovering that in this world, even salvation required a balanced financial account.
As the final gear was seated into place, Havelock looked at him, his expression unreadable.
"You have a gift for this, Foster. For seeing how things fit together."
He paused. "Just remember, some mechanisms are designed to keep things out. And others… are designed to keep things in."
The words hung in the oil-scented air, another cryptic piece of the puzzle. Foster left the shop with his pay, the coins feeling insignificantly light in his pocket.
He had fixed a clock, but the greater machine of the city was still a mystery, and he was running out of both time and money to solve it.