Unlike the Lazarus Coven, the Sentinels do not have a central place of worship and gathering. They select venues for their meetings which are as varied and disparate as the membership itself. There is no rule of inheritance that decrees who should belong, so that each member must be proposed by an existing Sentinel and voted in by the Ruling Elect. This consists of seven men of long-standing allegiance to the group. There is not, never has been, nor ever will be, a female Sentinel. The greatest quality a member can possess is power, and it was long ago decided that while many women are in possession of admirable qualities, when pitted against men, their inherent weakness tells. And weakness will not be tolerated. In fact, new members are rare. Efforts are made to ensure that numbers do not decline, but none presently in charge consider there is an advantage to being greatly numerous, so the need for admitting someone new to this most secret of societies seldom arises.

As Stricklend passes through the great doors of St. Paul’s Cathedral and finds the interior temperature scarcely higher than the bitter November night outside, he knows some will question the wisdom of this particular venue choice. Admittedly, there will be few visitors wishing to gain entry, so there will be fewer questions asked about why the whispering gallery and all points above it should be “temporarily shut for maintenance.” This aside, other members of the group might consider there are places which would afford more comfort. But then, this meeting has been convened at the behest of Stricklend himself for an issue that is both serious and urgent. Personal comfort was not a matter to which he gave any consideration whatsoever.