The Elixir Invitation arrived on a Tuesday in November, bound in cream paper and sealed with black wax bearing a crest I had never seen. Inside was a single card:
The Charing Cross Society requests the presence of Mr. Arthur Pendelton at Harrowfield House, Belgravia, Thursday the seventeenth at eight in the evening. No explanation. No return address. I stood in the gas-lit corridor of my lodgings above a shoe shop on Finsbury Street and read the card three times, each time feeling the same tight sensation in my chest — not fear, precisely, but the...
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