The sharp, polished persona of Andrew Garfield felt increasingly like a suit of clothes two sizes too small.
Foster needed to ground himself, to talk to someone real without the layers of deception. Well, with one less layer, anyway.
He found himself outside Havelock's shop, the bell jingling its familiar welcome as he stepped into the sanctuary of oil and ozone.
Havelock looked up from a complex brass astrolabe he was cleaning, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his loupe.
He took in the slicked-back hair, the silver glasses, the immaculate vest. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face before it settled into neutral politeness. Another rich dilettante.
"Good afternoon." Foster said, pitching his voice into Andrew Garfield's cultured, slightly bored register.
"I was just in the neighborhood, admiring the… historic architecture. Thought I'd browse your collection."
"By all means," Havelock said, his tone dry.
"Browse away. Just mind the dust. It's authentically historic." He turned back to his astrolabe, clearly hoping the man would leave.
Foster wandered the shop, picking up items with a feigned, casual interest.
_Okay, act rich and clueless._
He coached himself.
_You're a man who buys history by the pound to fill empty shelves in a tastelessly large house._
He picked up a tarnished silver snuff box.
"Lovely patina." he murmured, inwardly thinking.
_It looks like something a pirate dug out of his nose._
"That's tarnish, sir." Havelock said without looking up. "The patina is the green on the copper elephant over there."
"Ah, of course." Foster put the snuff box down a little too quickly and moved to a rack of antique walking sticks.
He pulled one out, a gnarled thing with a silver wolf's head for a handle.
"Sturdy. Good for… walking."
_And fending off overly honest clockmakers._
He added mentally.
"It's also not a toy." Havelock said, his voice a low rumble.
"The head is loose. Wouldn't want it to fly off and dent your… waistcoat."
Foster carefully re-racked the stick. He was failing miserably at this.
He decided to try a different tack, leaning against the counter near Havelock.
"Fascinating work. You know, I've always been interested in the… older mechanisms of the city. The things people don't see anymore."
Havelock paused his cleaning. He looked at Foster—at Andrew—over his loupe.
"Is that so." It wasn't a question.
_Here we go._ The old man thought.
_Another one who wants to sound profound without getting his hands dirty. Probably writing a thesis on 'urban decay' or some other nonsense._
"It is." Foster said, warming to his theme.
"The hidden gears, so to speak. The foundations upon which the modern city is built."
_That sounded sufficiently pompous._
He thought with internal glee.
"Foundations need upkeep." Havelock said, turning back to his work.
"Not just admiration from a distance. You can't appreciate a gear by looking at it. You have to understand its function. Its purpose. Otherwise, it's just a paperweight."
_He's definitely judging me._
Foster thought.
_And he's not wrong._
He felt a pang of guilt for wasting the old man's time.
After another five minutes of Foster awkwardly hovering and commenting on the weathervane on the roof:
"Is that original?" "It's a weathervane. It points."
Havelock had had enough. He put down his tools with a definitive clink.
"See anything you like, sir?" He asked, his voice dangerously pleasant.
"Oh, it's all… very unique."
Foster said, beginning a retreat toward the door. "I'll certainly keep your shop in mind."
"I'm sure." Havelock said. He reached under the counter and pulled out a small, tarnished brass compass on a fob.
It was clearly something he'd fished out of a "junk" bin.
"How about this? A fine piece. Belonged to a surveyor who mapped the old city tunnels. A steal at ten dollars."
Foster stared at the compass. It was, without a doubt, the most useless thing he'd seen in the shop.
_He's charging me an idiot tax._
He realized with a mix of humiliation and amusement.
_The 'Time-Wasting Rich Guy' fee._
He looked at Havelock's unblinking stare. There was no refusing. It was the price of his poorly executed performance.
"A… fine piece." Foster echoed weakly. He pulled out his wallet and handed over the ten dollars, the bills feeling like they were laughing at him.
Havelock pocketed the money and handed him the compass.
"Pleasure doing business with you. Do come again when you're ready for a real conversation."
Thoroughly chastised, Foster fled the shop, the stupid compass burning a hole in his pocket.
The walk home was a masterclass in self-recrimination.
He took his now-customary looping detour, his mind a whirlpool of failed investigations, forced purchases, and the profound sense that he was a terrible actor in every role he played.
The final transformation in the private restroom was a relief.
He scrubbed the gel from his hair, changed back into Foster's comfortable, worn clothes, and stuffed the ridiculous compass into the bottom of his bag.
Emerging as himself, he felt the weight of the Andrew Garfield persona lift, leaving only the familiar, weary weight of being Foster Ambrose.
He arrived home to a dark, quiet house. Peeking into Ortego's room, he found the boy fast asleep, a textbook on advanced thermodynamics open on his chest.
Foster carefully removed it, tucked the blankets around his brother's shoulders, and stood there for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing. This, at least, was real.
After retreating into his room, he collapsed into his own bed, the events of the day:
Hanson's unsettling visit, the fruitless investigation, Havelock's ten-dollar lesson.
Swirling into a meaningless blur. Sleep claimed him instantly, a brief, merciful escape from the exhausting business of being two people, and failing at both.