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Chapter Text

“Mr. Crowley! You’re teaching?”

“Uh, yeah. Hope it’s not a shock.”

“Nice work giving us a warning – “

Adam grinned. Pepper looked genuinely astonished, almost as much as Crowley was to see her in his class.

"Didn't have much’ve one myself. Not really clear, but Mr. Davies had to leave in a hurry, and someone mentioned to your Ma that I had the qualifications to waive a teaching certificate, and your Ma told the headmaster, and, well, I’ll be teaching Business and Econ this term, and – oi! You! Johnson, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Saw you nick that Aero bar. Put it back. That’s my lunch.”

“That’s not healthy,” declared Pepper.

“Better’n nippin’ out for a smoke.”

“Eyes in back’ve ‘is bleedin’ head,” muttered Johnson under his breath.

“Ears, too,” Crowley commented without looking round. Then to Adam:  “They still make y’do lines for swears?”

It was an entirely reasonable twist for his life to take, Crowley reflected. Hadn’t the whole thing so far made perfect sense? First, grow up poor in a string of Council flats and poky rowhouses, so poor you don’t grasp how poor you are until you discover you’ll have to nick your smokes once you get hooked on them. (Probably saved from a worse habit, though there’d been some close calls with shopkeepers, and it means you’ve got a dead eye for someone trying to, for instance, gaff your lunch.) Then go to Uni and take all the courses that promise loads of dosh no matter what it is you really love. (After exams, you get out your flute and play until your roommate yells at you to put a sock in it, and you want to keep him sweet, because maybe tomorrow night or the night after you’ll come back from that sketchy pub with some bloke you picked up for a quick blow job, and so far, he’s pretended to be asleep). Once you’ve got that degree, cash it in for the biggest return you can get, and find ways to spoil yourself, no one else to spend it on now because, surprise! the only parent you ever knew cashed out of life the week you graduated. Dicky heart, who knew, hard cheese ennit? Dress sharp, go places where the other trade’ll notice, hook up, break up, rinse and repeat, eventually get it down to an efficient process (you learn that in business school), manage the breakup before your fancy clothes are back on.

And then you take a drive and there’s a place called Tadfield that looks like the villages on Christmas cards or candy boxes, where the weather’s absurdly perfect and it’s safe walking out at night and even the working women bake for the school fund and they have a resident witch. Where someone’s put up a cottage for sale, right when you’ve got the cash to buy it outright. Where they don’t want you to stop playing your flute, and the local squire is a chubby, curly-haired cherub just a little too good to be real, only he is, and you fight it every way you can because if you break up with this one you’ll never come back from it, until the night when you finally give in, and – .

“Reader, I married him,” murmured Crowley.

Which made him the squire’s wife, he supposed, a bit like Jane Eyre in truth. She was a governess, wasn’t she (he was vague on the particulars), so it made perfect sense, didn’t it, that here he was in a chalky smelling classroom at Tadfield Secondary teaching business classes to the local young. Might even last a semester. Things were lasting longer in his life, these days.

First day of class went about the way he expected.  Teenagers he mostly recognized straggled in with slips to be signed (he didn’t bother reading them); everyone introduced themselves unnecessarily (Tadfield was small, everyone seemed to know everyone by name already, and he knew most of the faces); the teaching materials had been cleverly concealed in some pocket dimension he’d find eventually. Wing it.

“So. You’re taking Business. This is an elective. Might get us off to a good start if I know what you’re lookin’ to get out of it. Startin’ one of your own? Bright lights, big city? Just want to be able to keep your own accounts?”

“Wanna get rich,” said Greasy Johnson. He did have a name, but Crowley had forgotten to look it up on what he thought of as The Manifest. He had a way of lounging back in his mass-produced classroom chair that reminded Crowley of himself – just this side of insolence, buffered by a genial manner and what would’ve been good looks if he’d had better skin.

“And not for the first time, I’ll say Careful What You Wish For. Anyone else? Miss, ah, Moonchild? Bit surprised you’re in here, bangin’ on about the evils of capitalism last I remember.”

“You have to understand the system in order to subvert it,” said Pepper crisply, sitting up as attentively and primly as Greasy wasn’t. She’d started wearing her hair in beaded rows, and looked closer to twenty than fifteen.

“Do my best to help you with that then,” he said.

“Aren’t you the bloke drives the Bentley?” asked someone whom he recognized vaguely as what Adam and his friends called a Johnsonite. Pepper darted a scornful look in his direction.

Celebrity was clearly going to complicate things.

It wasn’t lost on him that Greasy used the leg-stretch break in the middle of class – “sit too long and your ideas dry up” – to relocate to the empty chair at the two-person form where Pepper sat. Nor did he miss the way the boy – more of a man in silhouette; he’d gotten husky during Crowley’s two years in Tadfield – stepped between the form and the door as class ended, asking Pepper some inconsequential question about the syllabus. He’d seen that maneuver in enough pickup spots.

“Mr. Johnson,” he said. “I’ll charitably forgive your designs on my lunch if you’ll take this up to Mrs. Michael in the office.” A random sheaf of half-filled forms was the first thing he found on his desk. He’d apologize for the empty fields later. “Much appreciated.”

“Thank you,” said Pepper when they were alone in the classroom.

“Ah – seen plenty’ve his type in action. Off to a good start, y’think?”

“Favourite class already.”

“Viva the revolution,” said Crowley.

She shifted from foot to foot.

“You’ve, uh, cut your hair? I like it.”

It also wasn’t lost on him that she didn’t leave the room till he did.

“Pronto, zuccherina.”

The voice from the Director’s office – which was also the music library, just off the rehearsal room – was surpisingly docile coming from the Dottore Beatrice Zingarelli, who had been rifling through the shelves of scores and expostulating porca something only moments before. Crowley caught his husband’s glance and raised an eyebrow.

The room was already full and buzzing – Harv Hastur trying to play chords on his French horn, Aziraphale’s cousin Gabriel drowning him out with the Siegfried Call, Newt Pulsifer in the back uttering big squashy cushions of sound from his tuba. His wife’s oboe notes cut through it all, as oboes will.

New members, audition schedule, Autumn Concert lineup. “There’ll be a short Board meeting after the rehearsal – herb tea from Miss Device’s garden” (Anathema had taken Newt’s hand in marriage but not his name), “plenty of  biscuits – oh goodness, I almost forgot, we’ll have a guest singer this season – a last minute development – the Maestro’s suggested already that she join Mrs. Potts to re-create their 1998 triumph in Poppaea. Over to you, Maestro.”

Mrs. Potts did not appear to know anything about the last minute development. Crowley was working so hard to overhear her hissed conversation with Deirdre Young that he missed most of what Zingarelli was saying.  Amica cara from first days in England – rehearsal coach for Birmingham Opera  – known for her travesti (“ ‘at’s girls playin’ boys,” Liguri explained to no one in particular) – spending autumn in Tadfield –

The woman at Zingarelli’s elbow was fashion-magazine angular: sharp cheekbones, coarse sallow skin, a too-toothy smile, dark oiled hair scraped back and chopsticked into a bun. Crowley disliked her on sight. He liked her even less when, thanking the Maestro for the introduction, she kissed them in a proprietary way on both cheeks. Zingarelli was a pocket-sized terror, no less grimy and disheveled than the first day they’d mounted the podium, but they were Tadfield’s terror now. There was a distinct drop in the room’s temperature

“So pleased to be here – Be-a-tri-ce was kind enough to invite me – no roles till spring – “

“Travesty is right,” Tracy Potts was whispering, not quite softly enough. “If you think I am ever again going to share a stage with Drusilla Gonville – “

If there were a more British name, Crowley hadn’t heard it.

“So I am agog at the thought of revisiting one of my favourite duets with Mrs. Potts – where are you, my dear? Oh – you’re looking so well preserved – “ Her enunciation suggested formalin might be involved. “But here, I’m taking up your time, and I still haven’t unpacked – I look forward to meeting all of you – thank you again, Be-a-tri-ce – “ And with a final flourish, she turned to the Maestro again, and kissed them a final time – with a relishing smack – full on the mouth.

Her kitten-heeled retreat toward the hall door was accompanied by the sound of a horn mute hitting the floor and rolling to a stop under Crowley’s seat.

“Crikey,” came Hastur’s voice through the scatter of applause. “Sign me up for that.”

“Cominciamo,” said Zingarelli, opening the score in front of them.

Crowley, waiting for Aziraphale and the other Board members to finish with small matters of business, pretended not to be listening to the muffled argument just audible through the Director’s office door.

“Isn’t she the one who – when you got thrown out of – “

“E se lo e? You said you did not care there were others – ”

“Not under my nose – “

“Inglese teso. The flat by me is empty, she says she wants sabbatical, I invite. She is gone at New Year’s – “

“I have a reputation here – “

“Si, come asino tonto – “

A muted crashing sound suggested there were one or two picture frames left in the office. Gabriel didn’t meet anyone’s eyes on his way out, in fact refusing so resolutely to look at anything that he kicked the horn mute, which was indeed Hastur’s, clean into the hallway.

“I think it went all right,” said Crowley later, ceasing even any pretense of reading the cosy whodunit he kept by the bed. It had been there for two or three months; sleep, or something else, repeatedly distracted him.

“What, dear? Couldn’t hear you, water running.”

“First day of class. Most’ve ’em paid attention and only one of ’em asked how long you had to work in finance before you got a car like mine.”

“Well, it does make rather the statement. I’ve considered walking before it with a red lantern when you drive it into Tadfield, the way they did with the first horseless carriages.”

“Y’just wanna make me drive it slower.”

“It does quite make my heart race.”

“Here I thought it was me.”

There was a seismic shift in the covers as Mother Shipton made the considerable leap to the foot of the bed in an explosion of thick grey fur and feline entitlement, apparently despairing that Aziraphale would leave water trickling for her to lap, a recently discovered vice of civilization.

“Quite a metabolism, isn’t it? Remember when she wouldn’t even come inside?”

“Body heat,” said Crowley. “Speaking of metabolism.”

“Yes?”

“I got a lecture from Pepper about healthy food and an offer to make me an organic lunch.”

“I’m hardly a fan of unsalted groats, but you really don’t eat properly.”

“ ‘S’ just that I think she might have a bit’ve a crush on me. Little awkward.”

“My dear, I’ve been aware of that for quite some time. Nothing disrespectful of our marriage, but she will go popping out to the desk whenever you come in for a word with me. I wondered if you’d noticed.”

“Thought she was a feminist firebrand, ‘n’all.”

“It doesn’t inhibit the chemistry they’re awash in. I’m sure she won’t do anything obvious and pathetic, like the eighth-year boy at my prep who studied the language of flowers and left little nosegays for one of the prefects. He feigned bafflement, but I think he knew it was me all the time.”

“You didn’t.”

“Youth is foolish. Just be a gentleman, treat her kindly and wait it out. Someone her own age is bound to nose in. She’s a smart young lady and very charismatic, if you’re the right age and preference.”

“That Johnson oik’s sizing her up.”

“Oh dear, that won’t do,” said Aziraphale, slipping under the sheets. He always started the night in piped pyjamas, though it was often remarkable where they ended up.

“Know somethin’ will do.”

:”What?”

“Me,” said Crowley, accidentally shifting Mother Shipton off the duvet.

“She’ll be back,” said Aziraphale, setting the book gently on the night-stand. No matter how attractive the other business at hand, or how debased the genre, it was, after all, a book.

Mother Shipton came back up. Later.

Chapter Text

Despite Gabriel's animadversions, Drusilla Gonville did not seem inclined to linger in Sapphic dalliance with Dr. Zingarelli. Instead she made a beeline for the Pippin and Tun.

“Closed t’place Saturday,” said Harv Hastur (who always looked as if he’d just closed a pub), all but dragging Crowley to his first afterschool pint. “Rite of passage,” explained Dr. Liguri, who was rarely seen without Hastur, and vice versa. Their combined pong of stale cigarette smoke, formaldehyde, grime, and unidentifiable chemical reagents identified them at conversational distance as either members of the science faculty or graverobbers, possibly both.

“Left wi’ that young chap from Curry’s Garage.”

“Ah, he was just seein’ she got home all right.” Hastur, for once, took the gallant perspective.

“Heard ‘er lettin’ ‘im out later.”

Hastur and Liguri accounted for the bottom level of one of Tadfield’s few blocks of flats, near the Post Office. They were let furnished, and Dr. Zingarelli hadn't looked for anything larger when they moved entirely to Tadfield after a year of using one as a pied a terre. Crowley gathered that they and Drusilla, upstairs, were in and out of each other’s space as much as the Graveyard Twins.

“Singin’ her head off all t’hours God sends, winds a bloke up,” groused Liguri.

“Ah, no taste, you.”

“Ar, shut it. Let’s just get this lad properly sloshed.”

“Just one – pickin’ up Azi at the library – “

“Whipped good, en’t y’?”

“Ssssh, we en’t s’posed t’know ‘bout the whippin’. Wilf! Three Apple Brown over here.”

“Two and a lager,” corrected Crowley. His phone pinged.

Darling – we’re having the most frightful time with the library system. Pepper’s called the fellow from the computer lab. I really must tarry for him. Don’t wait dinner.

At Tun anyway with Froggy & Lizard, Crowley thumbed in. Pick something up?

Capital. I’ll text you when he’s done. Perhaps that curry thingummy they’ve started doing.

Crowley flicked the thumbs-up and heart emojis.

“Kissy kissy,” said Liguri with a suggestive noise.

“A wizard has a staff with a knob on the end,” came a white-voice soprano from the far end of the common room.

“Startin’ early,” grunted Hastur.

“And the wizard’s staff is the wizard’s friend – “

Someone had a badly tuned twelve-string guitar. Tracy Potts was in voice, and clearly outside a substantial amount of the Tun’s offerings. The melody, a bit unfortunately, was “Froggy Went A-Courtin’.”

“The wizard’s staff rises to the call
When a maid appears in nothing at all – “

Here Tracy punctuated the traditional melody with a coloratura arpeggio.

“Can’t fooken get away from it,” groaned Liguri.

“My dear! You still have almost your full range.”

Drusilla had risen from a far corner, holding the dregs of a reddish drink that suggested vampire provenance.

“What a quaint little ditty. You must teach it to me.”

“If you’ve time, ducks. You always did have such struggles with the libretto.”

“Well, no one cared about the words in your parts. All those piercing notes. Can you still fit into that leather pinnie you wore for Flute? I always thought you were going to pop a lace with those high Fs.”

“Och, Jezebel, mebbe we should be goin’.”

“And who is this dear little man?”

“The Sergeant and I are engaged.”

“Where? I’ll buy tickets – “

“She’s goin’ to marry me, ye hussy – “

“You are brave. Did she ever tell you about – “

“Get y’another?” said Hastur at her elbow.

“Oh – how sweet.” The Sergeant seized the opportunity to haul Tracy through the doors into the early sunset light, which was only partly to blame for the high flares of colour on her cheeks. Drusilla handed Hastur the pub’s thumbprint tumbler, noticeably avoiding any contact. “I saw you at the rehearsal, didn’t I?”

“Third chair h – ” started Hastur, but she was speaking to Crowley, who was leaning on the bar with his elbows bracketing his lager.

“Anthony Crowley. Flute.”

“Haven’t I seen you driving about in that remarkable car? You must take me for a spin sometime. I’m sure there are some lovely sights around here. Cunning little churches. Deserted orchards. You could steal some apples for me.”

“Here y’are, ‘nother Americano,” said Hastur in a hopeful tone, passing the glass.

“Oh – dear, they used the dry vermouth. I wanted the sweet. Be a love?” She turned back to Crowley, tilting her head to admire the snake tattoo that threaded down one temple. Nowadays Aziraphale murmured my darling serpent and how beautifully you squirm, but for a long time it had just been a reminder that people would take you home and mark you as theirs, and then chuck you back out like a recreational shopper. He flinched a little as a perfect fingernail traced it.

“What a clever little snake. I’ll bet you know how to wriggle into all the crevices.”

“Ah – oughta tell you I’m married.”

“ ‘N’ whipped,” said Ligur.

“Oh, dear. So love hath made thee a tame snake.  Who dashed my hopes before they rose?”

“Um –  town librarian. Whom I have to meet in – sorry, gotta order something for supper – “

“Whipped,” Liguri repeated as Hastur handed her the second drink, which she accepted without a glance.

“Oh, those are the easiest.”

“We’re the horn section, ‘member?” said Hastur a little too eagerly.

“You look it,” said Drusilla without explaining quite what that meant. Liguri elbowed Hastur as she tasted her drink with the air of someone who might  just send it back a second time.

“You en’t gettin’ lucky n’matter how much you spruce up,” he said, a little too gleefully. Hastur did appear to have started washing a bit more thoroughly, and might have even aired his frayed anorak. It was the first sign of interest he’d ever shown in anything other than playing his horn, practical jokes and dissection.

Crowley thought he’d made a clean getaway by the time the plastic sack with the clamshell of aromatic curry was in his hand, but he found Drusilla at his elbow as he emerged from the Tun, feeling the first little shiver of autumn and wishing for a warm coat.

“My new neighbours are being entirely too neighbourly,” she purred. “So I told them I wanted to see the library. Will you walk me?”

“Uh – sure.”  Crowley jammed the hand that wasn’t carrying dinner firmly into his jacket pocket. It didn’t stop Drusilla from touching his sleeve as she chatted, balancing herself totally unnecessarily on his shoulder as they stepped off a kerb. He counted the steps to the friendly glow of the library entrance. Pepper was perched on a tall stool behind the checkout desk, apparently deep in a book, but when the entry door sighed open her upward glance turned to a sunrise smile. How had he missed it? Shit.

“They’re almost through in the back,” she said, setting down Polyamory Without Pain (what are they teaching them in schools these days? he wondered). “I just didn’t want to lock up till you got here. Is that lentil curry?”

“They said so.”

“Well, I’m glad you ordered something healthy for a change.”

“Takes a bit of managing, does he?” said Drusilla.

“Oh, loads.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” This to Crowley.

“Uh, Drusilla Gonville, stayin’ here till New Year’s, this is Pepper – “

“Are you reading – ? Yes, I thought so. My dear. I know the author. In fact I helped her with some of her research. I’d love to talk about it sometime, if you’d enjoy a chat.”

“Um – yeah.”

“It’s so good to see that someone here at least has an open mind. Let me give you my mobile number or – “

“Ms. Gonville – “

“ – I could drop back by here – I ‘d love to make the library a gift of some of my recordings – “

“Ah – Ms. Gonville, not to be rude, but I need to talk to Pepper about a few things.”

Drusilla mimed tragedy as only a stage performer can do. “Oh, well, then. I’ll leave you two alone.” Crowley winced. When he looked back from her departing silhouette Pepper’s expression was apprehensive, and he remembered that he was, not simply her crush for the next five minutes or so, but also an adult with power over her. He added to his ever-growing mental to-do list “think about whether you’re ok with that,” and said out loud, “No worries. She was just comin’ on a little strong.”

“That’s what people always say when women are assertive.” Pepper slid a marker into the book, adding, to his surprise, “I think she’s cool. I wonder if her name's in here.”

“Not the -- uh, usual reading.”

“Sosh class. I proposed a research paper about the social impact of nontraditional relationships.”

“Could ask me,” said Crowley, promptly kicking himself.

“Oh, you and Mr. Fell are so traditional. It’s sweet really.”

“Uh. Um.”

“Shall I go get him?”

“Sure, uh – speakin’ of comin’ on strong. That Johnson kid still botherin’ you?”

Pepper’s nose wrinkled. “Not really.”

“You want to be careful. I’ve seen his type in action.” He refrained from mentioning that he’d been on the receiving end of the action, too many times.

“I know aikido. I’ll be fine.”

He hoped so.

“Ooof! You’re feeding Ship too much. Nearly squashed the nads, there.” Mother Shipton still fought a bit shy of handling – even petting was only allowed on certain tracts of her explosion of dense fur – but she was becoming quite the athlete of the terminal-velocity landing on an unexpecting human frame.

“I think I’m feeding her exactly enough. I keep saying, you have peculiar notions of what constitutes an adequate diet.”

“She’s getting enormous. I read online that rich food can give them a bloating thingy.”

“You got her the cream.”

“That was just for a little spoilin’.”

“I’m envious. Spoil me.”

“Mmmph. Are we a traditional relationship? Or what?”

“Dear. We are whatever we want to be. What brings this on?”

“Ah, Pepper said we were traditional. And sweet. We old married people now? Wanna tick it off my life achievement list.”

“Well. We appear to be people, we are definitely married – I have a distinct recollection of the event – and we are no longer precisely young, certainly not in comparison to Ms. Moonchild and her companions. But if you’ll be so kind, I can demonstrate that parts of me are still quite vigourous. Perhaps even to the point of improving your diet.”

“Never get tired of the ways you find to say suck my cock.”

“Language, dear.”

“You like it.”

“Maestro, perhaps if we could go through that figure again?”

Gabriel’s nose was out of joint. In ordinary circumstances, Crowley would have said that it couldn’t happen to a better guy – Gabriel had, after all, had a serious go at diddling Crowley’s husband out of his trust fund – but the miserable way he didn’t quite look at Dr. Zingarelli, and didn’t quite ever look away from them, actually began to evoke Crowley’s sympathy.

“I was informed you were familiar with the Variazioni Haydn. Perhaps, Signior Archer, you could find an hour in your busy schedule to rehearse your section without taking up our time.”

That stung. Gabriel had had to endure an enquiry after that episode of creative financial management. The malfeasance was judged to be limited to reckless investment of a fund with strict rules for low risk, but he’d still lost his position, had to move from his cottage to a bedsit let by a widow in Upper Tadfield, and was currently flogging himself as an investment adviser out of a second-tier firm with offices in Oxford’s business district.

“I think it would be better in the context of the full orchestra – “

“From the letter F,” said Zingarelli, starting from a spot well after the offending brass figure, not even rising to a flung baton or an Italian term of abuse. Indifference from the Maestro was worse than rage; it was like being airlocked, and Crowley had learned they saved it for only the worst offenders. Any minute now Gabriel would be freezing visibly in the vacuum of space.

Crowley didn’t even notice him leaving when the orchestra wrapped up – usually, you heard as well as saw Gabriel’s exit, a flourish of the pale lavender-grey muffler flung around his neck as he opined on the state of the program’s readiness. The limpid notes of the Poppaea duet sounded as they cleaned their instruments (Tracy had grudgingly agreed; word was that the Maestro had got hold of a remarkable American gin and been the last person standing after a long session at the Pottage, as the little dwelling at the end of Drawveil Lane was called). It was the final scene, in which the newly married Emperor Nero, a mezzo role, and his wife Poppaea linger on stage after the choral ceremony of investiture and sing Let me gaze upon you, let me embrace you.

“It’s a frightfully cynical opera,” said Aziraphale as the doors sighed shut on the Maestro’s keyboard bridge. “Quite as modern as Sondheim, in its way.”

“Sondheim? Always surprisin’ me, you.”

“Dear. Preference is not the same as ignorance. Monteverdi’s libretto displays a far lighter hand. But his audiences expected to see adultery and betrayal soundly punished, instead of ending in an entirely unironic love duet. The new Empress barely survived the year, I believe it’s in Suetonius. But I’m sure our audience will find it endearing, and who am I to spoil it?”

“Everyone loves a lover, ‘n’that?”

“Something like that. It’s an ugly story, but I think Tadfield has the innocence to reclaim it. Just as you and I reclaimed that pretty snake.” Aziraphale dared a light touch at Crowley’s temple (they were still, technically, in public and on school grounds). “There’s another pleasant little duet in the second act, too, a page and a maid flirting. The flute’s got rather a lot to do. I’ll look it up for you.”

Sento un certo non so che,
Che me pizzica e diletta,
Dimmi tu che cosa egli e,
Damigella amorosetta.

I feel something, I don’t know what,
That plucks at me and delights me –
Will you tell me what it is, pretty girl?

There seemed to be a lot of it about. Crowley hadn’t ever been a part of it, and had forgotten how much of Secondary school involved awkward, hesitant adolescent mating rituals.

Well, most of them hesitant. Greasy Johnson and several of his mates seemed to be complicating Pepper’s way forward as she tried to make her way down the car park toward the library. It didn’t look like a situation that aikido was going to solve, unless Pepper were secretly Captain Marvel or Emma Peel.

“Oi, just sayin’ I’ve won prizes. Tell ‘er, Wozzers.”

One of the Johnsonites, a weedy, unprepossessing boy named Woolley, chimed in obediently. “Massive, it is, biggest one in England. ‘S’ got a tank all to itself. Judges couldn’t believe it.”

“You won’t either. C’mon back with me, mum’s not home till six. Have a little knees-up, do you good.”

“I’ve got hours at the library – “

“Ms. Moonchild! Have you got a moment?”

Johnson’s head snapped around.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Johnson, but I need to ask Ms. Moonchild about the project proposal she’s turned in. The one about Universal Basic Income,” he added aside to Pepper, who’d brought up the subject briefly a day or two before, during the post-class lingering that had become a routine he neither acknowledged nor encouraged.

“Ah, let’s go back to mine, I’ve got the new Call Of Duty game,” Woolley shrugged.

“Thanks,” said Pepper quietly as the Johnsonites receded.

"He still after you then?” said Crowley.

“He keeps asking me back to his place to see his tropical fish. I told him I don’t believe in imprisoning animals for entertainment.”

“Not takin’ no for an answer, then?”

“He says I’m too intense and I’d like the way they calm you down.”

“I’d say you’re fine the way you are.” Ouch. That came out sounding wrong. “Told anyone? Principal? Your Ma?”

“I can take care of myself.” She was full of defiant confidence, the Page of Wands from Anathema’s Tarot.

“Right. Walk with me, Bentley’s this way.”

“You can’t go giving me rides, they already say I’m your pet – “ Wonderful.

‘Not what I meant. Just need to get something.”

The glove box was a jumble, containing, surprisingly, gloves, as well as several Velvet Underground and Queen CDs and the case for Aziraphale’s recording of the Monteverdi opera, which was in the deck. Buried in the back he found what he wanted. He’d had it there for years, since the second time a pickup in a club went wrong, but with luck it still worked.

“Spray dye,” he said. “Not pepper like the coppers use. It’s the only thing that’s legal. Won’t hurt him, but if he gets grabby, an eyeful’ll put him off balance. Mark Of The Beast won’t come off for a week. Bright red. Stylish.”

He tossed the small red canister up and caught it; held it out until she opened her palm, dropped it without letting their hands touch. It lay across the dark creases in the pale beige skin like exhibit A. There was a clip and a loop, for belt or keyring.

“Keep it handy,” he said. “Never had to use it, myself. Few close calls. I used to do some dumb things.”

“Before you met Mr. Fell.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Looked in a lot’ve wrong places before that. It takes time. You get there.”

There was no sign of the Johnsonites. She moved off toward the library, remarkably collected. Had she already gotten taller since the beginning of the year? It looked like it. He realized he was staring after her when she glanced back; he had his dark glasses on against the bright day, so her eyes didn’t exactly hold his, but she finally flashed an odd, sad smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Crowley.”

He lifted his hand to wave, then decided that verged on the flirtatious, and tried to turn it into a little saluting gesture, ending with a thumbs-up, you’ll be fine. No one had warned him about this side of secondary instruction. He felt a longing to meditate in front of a tank of tropical fish himself.

Chapter Text

Pur ti miro,
Pur ti godo,
Pur ti stringo,
Pur t'annodo.

Più non peno,
Più non moro,
O mia vita,
O mio tesoro.

The famous travesti and the retired coloratura might hiss and yowl at one another in the Tun’s bar, but now their voices, soaring over the faintly out of tune piano, were molten, mingled silver and gold. Let me gaze upon you, let me rejoice in you, let me seize you, let me encircle you. No more pain, no more dying, o my life, my treasure. The two women regarded each other with something like grudging fondness as the duet concluded, yes, my only good, my heart, my life, yes.

“You still do that little ritardando on mia vita,”said Tracy.

“You should be used to it, then, dear.”

“You know I’ve been coaching Wilhelmina in the part.” Crowley recognized the name of a direly athletic young woman from Upper Tadfield; Wilhelmina Bowles-Smythe was the one person he could think of whose name was more aggressively British than Drusilla’s. That must hurt. “She can restrain herself from anachronistic rubatos.”

“And my protégé in Birmingham has the high notes you had back at Glyndebourne. Ah, youth.”

“State ‘zitte, voi due,” *  growled the Maestro, making pencil markings in the continuo part.

[*Shut up.]

“So what is it like to be working together again?” inquired the woman who’d been sitting in the corner as inconspicuously as possible through the first half of rehearsal, meaning everyone was glancing at her aside and whispering: Ministry of Education? New Assistant Director? Crowley, who retained a bit of his London look, recognized another.

“Oh, darling, I can’t describe the thrill. I don’t know how it is for Mrs. Potts, but I feel as if twenty years have simply fallen away.”

“There was meant to be a famous rivalry between you two. Or was that just for the newspapers?”

“Drusilla does everything for the newspapers. You should know that.”

“Mrs. Potts, tell me a little about performing for a hall that doesn’t have the sophistication of an urban audience. Is it liberating? Frustrating? Do you ever contemplate coming out of retirement?”

“A stringer with Opera magazine, apparently,” said Aziraphale softly. “I gather our guest for the season called in a favour and arranged something of a human interest piece. Art in the provinces, and that sort of thing.”

“Bake sales, oh my goodness,” chuckled the journalist, scribbling with a stylus on a touchscreen.

“It’s been very refreshing after the pressures of the circuit," came Drusilla's velvety purr. "Giulio Cesare all but did for me, you know, it’s healing just to enjoy the offerings of a little local pub – “

“ – I hear the offerings have been coming thick and fast, dear – “

” – and putter away an afternoon helping Beata with the music library. It’s terribly chaotic, you know, this old Mr.Tyler’s filing system is completely random. I did that job at conservatory, it was a work scholarship, and I got quite good at organizing things so that you can put your hand right on what you want.”

“Yeah, bet she can,” came Liguri’s undertone from behind them. It was the evening’s first peep from the horn section. He and Hastur had gone pointedly to opposite ends of the car park for their smoke break, and Gabriel and his metronome had yet to make an appearance.

“What about you, dottore? How have you had to adjust your expectations? What’s different here?”

“Sorry to be late, Maestro – “ This was Gabriel, entering in a great flurry. “Business in London, missed the early train – “

Zingarelli glanced over one shoulder, looking the first chair hornist up and down as if he were not in just the wrong room but the wrong building and possibly the wrong latitude.

“A few of the musicians think themselves far more important than they are. A parte questo, niente.” **

[** "Otherwise, nothing."]

“Oh, dear,” murmured Aziraphale. “I believe we have just seen a man murdered.”

“Not dead enough,” replied Crowley, as Gabriel, face approximately the same shade as his lavender silk muffler, sat down and began assembling his screw-bell horn.

“Ah, si, we have Mister Cr-ow-ley.” Zingarelli had never stopped pronouncing his name like a pained exclamation. The journalist seemed to be curious about new transplants to the area. “He has come here from London, two years now.”

“Oh! Pleasure to meet you –  Sophia Stackpole, I see you’re the flute section – London? who did you play with there?”

Everyone, he considered saying, and decided on “No one you’d have heard of. Happy amateur.”

“Tell me what’s different about playing here.”

“Um. More fart jokes, mainly.”

Ms. Stackpole’s eyes acquired a slightly dazed expression..

“Come here from Bradford, m’self,” said Hastur, who had been hovering hopefully .”Ever hear their accordion band?”

“Ah – no,” said Ms. Stackpole brightly. “Um – I understand that the Minister for the Arts paid a visit during the Doctor’s first season – was that a memorable event?”

“ – noon should be fine,” came Aziraphale’s voice from behind them. Crowley glanced over his shoulder, feeling a jolt of irritation at the sight of Gabriel bending over his cousin Azi, proprietary hand on his chair-back.

“S’pose you’d call it memorable,” said Hastur, “best part was when ‘is son blew up the bogs.”

Ms. Stackpole’s gaze was becoming downright glassy. “Well, I’ll. Um. Look forward to the performance, Mr.  – ?”

Aziraphale leaned toward Crowley as he sidled toward his seat. “Dear. That was a bit of anarchy.”

“Tryin’ to make us quaint,” said Crowley sourly. “Bugger that.”

“Well, dear, we are quaint.”

“You know what I mean. Like that Hobbit village in Oz.”

“You have become a partisan of country life. We’ve quite worn the London finish off you.”

“Might’ve missed a few spots.”

“Should I examine more closely?”

“Yeah. Maybe you should. Later.”

“Pronto,” said Dr. Zingarelli from the podium.

“Nice job leavin’ us to scrap with the Brahms, guv.” Hastur was clearly still stinging from the Maestro’s  assassini! after the third fudged entrance in the St. Anthony Variations, a piece the group normally knew in their sleep.

“Some of us have talents that occasionally take them away from babysitting you two,” came Gabriel’s flat American accents.

“ – anyway, she was getting altogether too cosy with Arthur at the Board meeting, and I can tell you he gave her the right about – ” this was Deirdre Young, who never missed a rehearsal.

“Perhaps a phone interview later – you can count on my coming up for the performance – “ Ms. Stackpole was hanging in there bravely.

Car doors slammed; bicycles glittered away, their spokes reflecting the streetlamps.  Wensley passed with his bassoon case, waving.. Crowley had promised himself not to say anything, and therefore it popped out as soon as they cornered out of the school’s car park.

“What did Gabriel want?”

“I meant to tell you,” said Aziraphale. “He seems to think it urgent to speak to me. Something personal. I told him I’d lunch with him on Tuesday, I’ve been meaning to pop up to my tailors’ in Oxford and he’s just a few streets over.” The firm Gabriel worked for now wasn’t exactly dodgy, but it was the sort whose representatives called round at your house and asked if you had a retirement plan.

“Don’t let him talk you into investing anything. Or letting him borrow money.”

“I think he only has some questions. We have to mend fences sometime, you know, family and that. I wouldn’t ask you to spend Christmas with them, but surely we can be civil.”

“He tried to civilly blow your trust fund on day trading.”

“And you caught him, and protected me, and I am eternally grateful. I do think we can consider his fangs drawn.”

Ship met them at the door, yowling a loud complaint about the lateness of dinner.

“You’re still feeding her too much,” said Crowley. “She knocked the breath out of me when she jumped up last night.”

“I suppose you think I’m overly devoted to food.”

Crowley was stunned for a moment. “Where did that come from? Gabriel?”

“Ah – he used to twit me about it when we were younger. I suppose I‘m bracing for commentary on my lunch preferences. You know he’s got that whole American fitness obsession, though I do suspect I could probably take him, Queensberry rules.”

“I can’t believe I was startin’ to feel sorry for that git. Tell him he’s bloody buying you dessert, and you’d better eat every bite.”

“Are you telling me what to do?” twinkled Aziraphale. Bastard. He’d been telling Crowley what to do since their first morning together, and it was the most free and loved he’d ever felt. It wasn’t fair fighting to remind him. (Were they fighting?)

“Just don’t like the bugger,” Crowley muttered.

“Please don’t be concerned. Gabriel shall not run my life – and nor shall you, my love, as much as I would gladly do for you. This very instant, if it’s not too late.”

Crowley embraced him, foreheads together, listening to the uncouth gobbling of Mother Shipton, who had the manners of her feral origins.

“ ‘S’ late, angel.” He let his lips brush the pink shell of ear, to show he wasn’t sulking (he was, of course, sulking). “Not used t’dealing with kids. Gonna be a while training up to it.”

“As you wish.”

He lay awake a long time after Aziraphale had dropped off, snoring gently, one protective hand on his hip. Crowley got sore from not moving after a while, but he wasn’t going to wake Aziraphale up to turn over, and lay there feeling a grievance against Gabriel, Drusilla Gonville, Greasy Johnson, and every other chocolate-covered cricket in the candy box of Tadfield.

When he finally did sleep, it was fitful; he hadn’t had his old nightmare, of falling in fire and being judged, not since their first night together, but something like it came back now. It was too disjointed to recall except for a memory of looking into rooms, one and then another, all opening off the same endless corridor, and one of the doors had something unpleasant behind it but he couldn’t stop opening them and risking meeting it.

Finally he must have, because he wasn’t sure he was awake until he heard himself saying to Aziraphale “okay, ‘m’okay,” and realized he’d been making a strangled wailing noise into the sweat-damp pillow. Aziraphale brought a flannel full of shaved ice, the way he did when things had been, well, intense, and at some point during the cold sponging on the back of his neck and scalp, he fell asleep again, and this time it was into a deep, black, soundless gulf, with no doors.

He woke to sounds of industry and no Aziraphale. Usually, no matter the daily schedule, there was time for five or ten minutes of sybaritic snuggling before the start of the day, lately accompanied by Mother Shipton’s resolute tread up and down their flanks, but today even she had abandoned him. The other side of the bed was cold. He sat up, calling “Hello?” and thinking disjointedly of doors that people could disappear behind.

Before he could feel more than confused, padding footsteps approached, and a smell of coffee. “Ah, you’re up,” said Aziraphale. “I didn’t want to wake you, you’d had such a bad night and these workpeople come at uncivil times. You know how lightly I sleep.” (The same could not be said of Crowley, who had once slept through an alarm of fire in his block of flats.) “They’re pouring the slab today. I was expecting them tomorrow but some other job’s been canceled.”

“Oh shit. I’ll move the car.” The Bentley had inscribed her own set of ruts in the shoulder of the lane outside Aziraphale’s property, and with work already underway on the conservatory in the back, he’d hired a firm that put in driveways and walks to give her a proper berth.

“It’s quite all right. I’ve just pulled her up the lane a bit, out of the way of the backhoe.” Aziraphale knew how to drive, he just preferred not to. Crowley felt an unreasoning annoyance.

“You ought to’ve woken me.” She’s mine.

“You were sleeping so sweetly. Here, I’ve done it the way you like it. The keys are back on the hook, everything should all be done and drying by the time you come home. I’ve made sure they’re doing the design you wanted, that tinted edging that looks like brickwork.”

He had done the coffee just the way Crowley liked. It had been a learning curve for him, but he’d insisted.

“And they’re plumbing in the conservatory later today, that was all the ruckus I’d planned on. A nuisance, but it can’t be helped. Ship will go to ground.”

It was only half way to the school, barely in time for the opening bell, that Crowley realized they hadn’t kissed before he left. Aziraphale had been out in the garden telling the work crew this and that. They always kissed.

He’d text at lunchtime.

Most days, older reprobates like Crowley and the Lurking Twins had the loading dock to themselves. Crowley had been leaning his head back against the concealing angle of masonry, eyes closed, savouring the first drag of a Player Blue and the way the late autumn sun warmed the bricks. Reward at the end of a long week.

“Made it to Friday,” came a familiar voice, followed by the scrape of a match and the powerful scent of Harv Hastur’s Gauloise. Crowley opened his eyes and stared.

“Froggy! Hardly knew y’. Conference or what?””

Hastur’s usual frayed and fragrant anorak was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a suit jacket that might have fit him when he graduated Secondary himself. The single button nearly popped when he moved his arms, and the sleeves were too short. His shirt had been white once, and it looked like he’d had a go at extirpating an inkstain only to spread it over most of the pocket. He apparently owned a tie.

“Ahh, me’n Lizard, couple’ve bachelors, y’know how it is, get used t’just bein’ comfortable. Look in the mirror one day, there’s some old casual starin’ back at you. Flash bastard like you comes around, you realize it.” Certainly the last thing Hastur looked was comfortable. The jacket strained across his shoulders, showcasing an old mend in the armpit. He’d made an unsuccessful attempt to batter his straw-coloured, straw-textured hair into some sort of  order, making it look more than ever like an abandoned wren’s nest. “Least I did.”

“You two all right?”

“Ah. Y’know.” Hastur breathed out a grateful cloud, closing eyes in his turn. “Sometimes y’got to move on in life. People change. Y’move on. Can’t be brewin’ up stinks and playin’ the drongo y’ whole life. Some’ve us grow up.”

Hastur stubbed the butt of his Gauloise against the wall, then pocketed it, explaining the stale aroma that had always clung to his anorak. “Pint later?”

Crowley considered. “Nah,” he said. “Get home to dinner. Left in kind of a hurry this morning.”

“Ah, Darby and Joan.” Hastur flashed him a stained grin, followed it with a little volley of obscenely squelching kissy noises. “See you ‘round then, Missus Fell.”

The unsettled feeling was edged out by more banal tribulations: reprimanding Pepper for checking her phone in class (they all did it, why did was it an issue today?), Greasy snickering in reaction (“kindly shut up, Mr. Johnson,” he’d interpolated into his lecture without breaking stride), Pepper dodging out the door the moment the bell rang.

“You shut it,” Adam snapped a moment later. Crowley froze for a moment. Adam’s fists were balled by his sides, as if oblivious to the fact that he and Greasy were alone in the room with a teacher. His colour was high and there was a stormy look in his eyes that Crowley had never seen. For a moment he was a little afraid of the boy.

Greasy just grinned, glancing over at Crowley. Crowley jerked his thumb toward the door.

“You. Go.”

Adam started out after him.

“Mr. Young.”

A sneaker skidded on the battered lino.

“I will honour the solemn oath of  the Them. By not asking you what Mr. Johnson just said.”

“Thank you,” said Adam quietly.

“In return, I expect you to behave as if you have forgotten it. Do we understand one another?”

A short hesitation. “Yeah. Okay, Mr. Crowley. You got it.”

“That’s settled, then. See you at the market. I hear your Mum’s baking again.”

“I missed all this in school,” he lamented to Aziraphale, after he'd admired the work, wheedled Ship out of the boiler cupboard, and shared fettucine and a plate of caprese, finally draping himself haphazardly over the battered couch with a postprandial glass of Sauternes dangling between his fingers.  “Cliques. Crushes. I was just trying not to get my arse battered black and blue.”

“Your schoolmates had a very unimaginative perspective on your arse.”

Crowley snorted in spite of himself. “Seriously, angel, makes me wonder if I bit off more’n I can chew here. I mean, that arsehole in Birmingham’s an everlasting pain in my belly." He'd kept a single consulting client, negotiating occasional days off from teaching  until the contract was up. "But I can at least be an arsehole right back. You know, the car-hire firm? But… ‘s like when I teach them about business cycles and what incorporation means, it’s only the halfth of it. Say I apologize to Pepper for bein’ a bitch. ‘S’ like I’m givin’ her hope? Then I gotta discourage that and I sound like bloody Narcissus. She’s a great kid, I just wish that Johnson git would give it a rest.”

“You may find that they are more resilient than you imagine,” said Aziraphale. “Even you were, you know. I become lost in admiration of you at times.” He rose to circle behind the sofa, reached down to lace fingers with the hand that wasn’t holding the wineglass

“Sorry, angel. Just… get used to it, I guess. Done deadlines, but quarter grades and parent conferences and  – “

The other manicured hand slid down along Crowley’s shirtfront, under the waistcoat, to graze over the small rigid curve of the gold nipple ring beneath the black linen.

“You’re overthinking things again, dear,” said Aziraphale. “You know what we do when that happens.”

Crowley felt himself relaxing on a long shaky exhale.

“Do you feel equal to taking direction?”

Words often failed him at moments like this, but he managed a vaguely articulate “Ah-uh.”

“Finish your glass, then, please, and stand. Cross your wrists behind your back, there, just so. It’s quite all right. I’ve closed the blinds.”

Aziraphale had more instructions, and Crowley felt the day recede into a distant haze as he did exactly what was required of him, so that was all right, and he was loved, and Gabriel wasn’t going to be a problem.

That night he didn’t dream.

Chapter Text

Pepper didn’t linger after class on Monday, or Tuesday, leaving Crowley both relieved and a little forlorn; Greasy and Adam seemed to have found their way to some sort of détente. Crowley resolutely said nothing about Aziraphale’s lunch appointment with his cousin, remarking only on the new plaid bow tie he brought back from the tailor’s (“I simply couldn’t resist, it makes the crosswoven tussah I picked for my new shirts absolutely glow”). He was blindsided when Aziraphale asked him over the washing-up:

“Dear, are you still content with the terms of our pre-nup? Awful, crass expression, but I suppose one must call it something. We’re really on equal footing at this point, after all. One cottage apiece, one tidy brokerage account apiece. I suppose the Bentley is the only outlier.”

Crowley fumbled a plate, almost let it plunge toward the lino. “The fuck? Angel, it was my idea.”

“Yes, when we’d been, ah, lovers for barely a day. I wondered if you’d have felt so cautious if we’d been… together longer.”

“The point was to make it clear I was protecting you. Christ, angel, why does this come up now?”

“Gabriel had some questions. I realized I honestly couldn’t answer all of them.”

“Sod him,” said Crowley with feeling, jabbing a breadknife into the wooden storage block as if it were Gabriel’s gullet.

“Innocent ones, truly. Were we both satisfied with the solicitor who drew the papers up for me, and that kind of thing. I remember it was a referral found in a hurry,”

“If he’s trying to pick a hole in the legitimacy of our marriage, he can go to the Registry Office. They’re open from nine to four.”

“He really hasn’t told me exactly why.”

“Well, it’s none of his goddamned business. Tell him to drop by mine when I’m working on the garden. I’ve got a maul for driving stakes and some sand for amending the soil, and I’ll let him have a whole sack of it to pound straight up his arse.”

“My dear. Please, don’t be cross. I had no intention of implying any doubt of you. And you know how grateful I am to have escaped the consequences of my cousin’s ethical laxness. I think even he’s actually somewhat grateful to you,  you know, for stopping him before he did something really damaging. It seemed time to accept his overtures toward rapprochement.”  Final pot rinsed, up in the drainer.  “Tadfield is quite a small place.”

“Well, he can rapproche about something else.” Crowley tossed the dishtowel onto the counter and stalked out to the half-finished conservatory, where there was really nothing to do but sit on a utility bucket turned top down on the underflooring, imagining the placement of plants they hadn’t bought yet and of furnishings they hadn’t entirely decided on yet. It was about an hour later when Aziraphale stepped into the dim, chilly space with a mug of hot whisky and lemon, exhaling the aroma of a whole cinnamon stick that protruded like a jaunty little straw.

“Have they ordered the bricks for the flooring already?” said Crowley, taking it without looking up.

“I don’t think so, dear. There was some sort of a delay with getting the colour match.”

“Think I’m liking the flagstone idea better anyway. Let’s call in the morning and see, ‘n’, y’know, think I really do want that big blue glazed urn after all, the one we saw at Hillier’s.”

“Dear. I already reserved it.  You were clearly in love with it.”

That ended the subject of Gabriel. For the time being.

“ – way Mum heard it, she's lucky she didn't get nicked,” came Adam’s voice from around the corner of the hall as Crowley stepped, coffee infused, out of the faculty breakroom.

“The way Drusilla told me, she was being harassed,” maintained Pepper stoutly, sounding a few paces closer.

“First names then?” said Adam. “Right, reckon you’ve got a new crush. Mister Crowley made more sense. At least he’s nice.”

Nice??? Crowley felt his ears swiveling like radar dishes, and made a show of checking something nonexistent on his mobile, sidestepping to let other teachers through the door.

“I do not have a crush.”

“Well maybe she does. It’s creepy if you ask me.”

“Shedscmdownthlibryalot,” came a voice that was almost certainly Wensleydale’s.

“Oh, louder, Wensley, why don’t you.” Pepper’s voice was uncomfortably close.

“I said she comes down to the library a lot.”

“Why shouldn’t she? She’s an intelligent woman, and very socially advanced, and some people enjoy talking about ideas.”

“Right, that’s how you get thrown out the Tun. I heard Wilf talking to my Mum how he had to call a Constable – ”

Crowley would have found out why exactly that was, except that at that precise moment there was a thunderclap at the other end of the hallway, loud and explosive enough that the window across from him buzzed in its frame, accompanied by shouts from all quarters and a faint sound of shivering glass. There was a distant burst of the kind of language expressly prohibited in the Tadfield Secondary Code Of Student Conduct, and running feet preceded another, less vigourous report and a billow of mephitic smoke. A fire alarm began to bray, the algebra instructor – a fussy, balding man – hove into view chivvying students toward the stairs at a truly astonishing rate of speed, and Crowley, to his own surprise, found himself using the mobile to summon the fire brigade.

“Free period, ‘s’not like there was summun else in the room – “

“That’s as it may be, Dr. Liguri – “

“We’ve got PPV runnin’ in the upstairs hall, give’s about half an hour t’clear the fumes out. It’ll want gloves and goggles cleanin’ up the foam, that stuff’s right nasty.”

Liguri’s eyebrows were faintly singed, but no other damage was apparent, at least from where Crowley stood. Tadfield’s fire tender idled in the traffic circle.

“From now on kindly keep these sorts of experiments at home – “

“Here,” came Hastur’s voice at Crowley’s elbow. He realized he’d been unconsciously patting his pockets and accepted the proffered Gauloise. Today Froggy sported a guayabera  that was a few sizes too large and a haze of what was almost surely Paco Rabanne. The smoke raked Crowley’s throat with something nearly as caustic as the chemical explosion that had evacuated the school.

“Mister Crowley – Dr. Hastur – not on school property, please – “ Deirdre Young, inevitably present when anything more dramatic than a late postal delivery happened in Tadfield. Crowley sheepishly threaded through the scattering of spectators to the opposite side of the lane.

“ ‘S’ happened before when he got in a funk,” said Hastur, sucking hard enough on his own cigarette to hollow his cheeks. “Figured he was due. Muggin’ me off and slammin’ doors. You’d think a mate’d want to see a mate happy, wouldn’t you?”

“Happy ‘bout what?”

A dreamy look came into Hastur’s eyes, which he closed briefly.

“She likes me, Red,” he said, smiling alarmingly around the unfiltered end of the Gauloise. “Just a matter’ve time now.”

“Beg pardon?”

“See, other night she was drinkin' with Sylvie, y’know the one from the chemist’s wears the stud in her tongue? Bet that feels like somethin’. And her glass was empty and I saw me chance, so I said, Wilf, fix her another, and he says it’s from the gentleman, and she come right over to me ‘n’poured the whole thing over my head.” His expression became almost blissful. “Wilf threw a strop and said she ‘ad to leave, ’n’ by the time I’d cleaned up in the gents, constable’s walkin’ her out. Had to send the suit out to Timpson's t’get the stain out.” This at least explained the emergency guayabera.

“Uh, I don’t think that means they like you.”

“Ah, that’s how some of ’em show it. Hear the two of  ’em rowin’ upstairs sometimes, callin’ names. Figure it's foreplay, like.”

That didn't sound like zuccherina and amica cara. But Crowley had his own memories of indoor and outdoor manners. He thumbed the snake tattoo, remembering there, now you're wearing my mark, so people will know you’re mine, you little slut.

If Hastur noticed his silence, he didn't comment. “She’ll come round, Red. You'll see. Just a matter of time.”

“She has been stopping by a bit. Mostly just to drop off books – “

“Oh, member of your church then.” Crowley sized up a potted fig. Too many spots.

“And stay for a few minutes’ conversation -- never that long, a lot of the older students have project deadlines and we stay busy. I think the most recent subject was queer representation, as I gather they like to call it, in opera. Britten looms large, of course – oh, look. What about an orange tree? I can’t remember if oranges are bad for cats or if they just don’t like the smell.”

“It’s lilies they can’t be around. And poinsettias. I looked it up.”

“Great, vulgar, overrated things, poinsettias. Well – I gather our Ms. Gonville has actually sung in several of the roles Britten wrote for Peter Pears – I’ve got the disc of her in Turn Of The Screw, Peter Quint you know – here, they’re selling off the flowering tropicals, you’d better reserve anything you want. We can arrange for delivery when the work’s done. Providential that Dr. Liguri chose today to blow up the school, really.”

“D’you think that sort’ve thing’s all right for someone Pepper’s age?”

“My dear. You do realize that she’s old enough to drink a half in the Tun? That is, if one of us bought it for her, and if she hadn’t this stern opposition to unhealthy practices.”

“Yeah, been warned about my Aero bars.”

“And she’s quite mature even for an eleventh-year. Most days anyone would think she were in charge of the library, and I just work there. She even seems to have gotten the whip hand of your Mr. Johnson. Who’s discovered a newfound zeal for library studies --  I don’t believe I’ve ever seen succulents like this, what do you think?"

“Thought he was doin’ better in class.”

“So it’s not odd for her to prefer conversing with older people. Even geriatrics like us.”

“Just don’t like seein’ her quarrel with her friends. One’ve  ’em,  y’ know, swore the sacred oath and all.”

“I’m afraid it’s something that happens.  I’ve been working with young people long enough to see it. Friends drift apart.”

“Never really had any back then, I guess.”

Aziraphale chanced a discreet handclasp.

“Here, let’s get a clerk to see about putting things aside – that trolley’s going to topple over.”

The question of what to do with Nasturtium Cottage remained.

Crowley considered it as he culled the last, green, slightly wormy tomatoes and a few stunted capsicums, yanking up the vines to make room for autumn vegetables; spinach, broccoli, carrots.

He’d bought the place on an unplanned, random road trip with no more concrete object than getting out of London for a day. Maybe it had been practice for his very sudden, impulsive marriage. It had made him a citizen of Tadfield, and brought him to Aziraphale; it had offered a sort of bilocal cohabitation in the early months, a refuge during the groundbreaking for the conservatory (”dear, you need a part of our house that’s your own, without all my clutter, I can see how much an open space means to you”).

But the work would be done soon, and there was no sense in keeping a cottage only to let it stand empty. He'd strung it out, finding repairs and upgrades to make (nothing ever seemed to quite sort the dodgy drains). Sell? A buyer might not let kids climb the spreading apple tree, or even cut it down. Let it? (Those drains were locally famous; it would mean digging up the whole back garden.)  Perhaps one of those AirBnB arrangements for holidayers (“close to historic Oxford, beautiful countryside”). He’d put the question to Deirdre Young and Mrs. Potts, among others – it had become clear that he didn’t own property in Tadfield so much as Tadfield owned him now – and no one outright hated the idea, but no one had said it was a lovely notion either.

And then there was, well, all right, here we get to it, don’t we, Anthony laddie (as Rob Shadwell would say when he was well oiled and making some incomprehensible point). Until Aziraphale, they’d always wearied of him – in a season, a month, a fortnight, a weekend, why was he still there in the morning? He'd held onto the cottage for the same reason he'd held onto that one client tying him to his consulting career. If what he had with Aziraphale came to an end, he’d have to leave Tadfield and start over, seeing him every day would be like being flayed, but until he managed a graceful exit he’d need someplace to be ––

Stop. Stop. We’ve been all over this. He could‘ve ended it any time, you had the papers drawn up that way, and instead he’s built a space for you in his home (“nowhere near so large as the space I have for you in my heart, dear”). You’ve got a cat together (that seemed somehow important), you’re the Squire’s Wife and that’s a lifetime appointment –-

“Hey, Mr. Crowley.”

The Them were leaning their bicycles against his fence. At least, Adam, Brian and Wensley were.

"Apples ready yet?”

“Be a couple weeks,” he said. It was already getting hot. “Wanna pick some rocks instead?” Inexplicably, every time he dug out a row before planting there were more little pebbles and clumps, and sifting the earth through a chicken-wire screen over an old bin had become a spring and autumn ritual.

“Nah,” said Adam after considering. “We thought we’d go out to the Hogback and clear up some of that old stuff at the clubhouse.”

“Pepper not with you today?” The Them had always been as inseparable as the Twins – well, as the Twins used to be.

“Ah, when we got to the market she was already jawing with Dagon and actin’ like she didn’t know us, so we just came on.”

“Dagon?”

“The singer lady,” said Wensley “We call ‘er that cos. Here.”

He shuffled through his bicycle panniers and pulled out a CD case, Great Counter-Tenor Roles Of Handel And Mozart. Like a good number of people who’ve long passed the age of excitement at having a cheque book or bank card, Drusilla’s signature had become a baroque design, featuring a capital D, a scrawl ending with a legible A, and the first three letters of the surname Gonville before a final trail into  arabesque, D~~~A  G-O-N~~~.

“They’re good,” said Wensley. “I’ve been listening. She made a big deal out of signing it when she dropped it at the library, I thought I ought to.”

“I’d lots rather listen to Dua Lipa,” said Brian.

“I don’t s’pose she’d bang on so much about Feminine Theory and Autonomy,” reflected Wensley.

“She doesn’t even have a car,” Brian pointed out.

“And it’s just makin’ Pepper act bossy,” Wensley added.

“Bossier,” said Brian.

“The other day Brian came in while they were talking, and all’ve a sudden she’s telling him to wash his hands before touching the books.”

Brian, who seemed to always have the traces of something sweet and sticky on his fingers, looked mildly abashed.

“I think we should put a stop to it,” said Adam, and Crowley heard the faint take-charge note that Adam had gotten from neither his easily flustered mother nor his diffident father. “She’s stuck up, and she’s makin’ Pepper that way too.”

“And how’d’you propose to do that?” said Crowley, leaning on his spade. He’d be sore later.

“Well, um. Tell Pepper we won’t be her friends any more if she keeps on with it.”

“S’pose you could do,”  Crowley said. :”What if she says fine, don’t be?”

“She wouldn’t. We’re the Them. Always have been.”

Crowley parked the shovel against the fence, balancing his backside on the composter. “Then what would be next?” he said, wondering where this confident, adult person had come from, was it something that happened when you took the job? “Say Pepper starts dating, and decides to go out with Mr. Johnson. Would it be him or us?” Crowley had been folded into the society of the Them the night before his first concert in Tadfield, and he reminded them now with a gesture that included everyone present. “Mind you, I don’t deny he’s a git. Don’t quote me.”

“Yeah, but she wouldn’t, see. We all hate him. But she's just awful, and Pepper can't see it. We’d be helpin’.”

“Yeah, it usually starts out that way. There’s people would tell me I shouldn’t be married to Mr. Fell, y’ know, and they’d say they were helping.”

“But you should be, anyone can see that. He’s wizard, ‘n’ so are you.”

“Adam? Remember the night I swore the oath with you? You said you wanted people to be free. That means deciding for themselves who they'll talk to. Where they want to be.”

Adam kicked the dirt. A little crimson blaze flushed up over either still beardless, Devon-cream cheek. “ ‘S’ different when you love ’em,” he said almost inaudibly.

They’re old enough for this, thought Crowley, and said “Right at the beginning. When I met Mr. Fell. It can be a little scary, caring about someone a lot? And he promised that he wouldn’t try to hold me, if I wanted to leave. So we’d know that every day we were waking up and choosing one another. If you try to make someone else choose you, it doesn't count.”

This clearly had not come from the person who'd just been jamming a spade against buried rocks and trying to think of a reason to keep the cottage. Apparently there were a good many people in his head today.

“Ow, here she comes,” said Brian, and kicked a leg over his bike.

“Sucks,” muttered Adam, doing the same.

“See you, Mister Crowley,” called Wensleydale.

“Think about it,” said Crowley, Adam’s clear blue eyes caught his a moment.

“Yeah.” The exchange delayed the Them just long enough for Drusilla Gonville, smartly turned out in a black pencil-skirted dress and city shoes, to settle bangled forearms on the fence rail.

“It’s so good of you to make time for the young people,” she said as the boys cycled away, pulling faces. Her voice purred at the deeper end of her concert register, a near tenor full of velvet and golden syrup. Her teeth were remarkably pointed, and whatever hairdressing she used on her chopsticked French roll had an actual holographic glitter in the slanting sun. “What a charming little cottage. I didn’t realize you lived so close in.”

“Ah – well, don’t, really. Ours is up near the orchards. Bought this before we got married.  Working out what to do with it.”

“Oh, yes, my very married snake. But you still have your kitchen garden here. How industrious.” She scanned his vegetable beds, and himself, with an appraising eye. Crowley found himself regretting that he’d stripped off to a tee-shirt that was already clinging a little with sweat.

“Ah, better sun here. Long’s I’ve still got it.” He fished a ragged dishtowel out of his back pocket to mop his neck off, and Drusilla followed the movement as if he were posing at a physique contest.

“Do you suppose you’ll let it? Or sell?”

“Well – “

“I’d absolutely make you an offer. I’ve simply fallen in love with Tadfield, it would be a place to stay in the off season. And for retirement, like dear Mrs. Potts. A shame she had to call it a day so early, isn’t it? You must give me a look around.”

“Um – some other time, p’raps. Want to finish here and get home for tea.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re on such a very short lead.” She dropped a wink. “I can’t argue with your taste. But I’d say a relationship is better for a bit of liberty. Well, that’s me.”

Liberty? He stalled on his reaction, baffled. Had he just told Adam with great grown-up wisdom that people get to decide where they want to be? The mental picture of Drusilla Gonville, boarding the eight-twenty bus to the Botley Road Station in Oxford, superimposed itself on the real woman, already waving and walking away down the lane. One kitten heel caught briefly in the rut from Adam’s bicycle. Good job, he thought sourly, and went back to sifting.

Gabriel showed up as Crowley was hosing off his wellies, distinctly not leaning on the fence rail, which might, after all, have smudged his dove-gray tailored jacket,

“Aziraphale said I’d find you here.”

For a wild moment Crowley almost grabbed the maul and the sand sack. “Well, you found me. Help you with something?”

“Um. Wanted to say. I figure we got off on the wrong foot to begin with.”

“Is there a right foot?”

“What I mean is, I don’t want to be enemies. Az and I have been talking.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Crowley bent to scour the garden plot for cultivator, trowel, weeder, already becoming hard to see in the late light.

“Um. Just that I can tell you and Az have.” Lift of eyebrows above violet eyes. “Been very happy. I’m glad for you both.” Shrug .”Guess it was natural to think you were just after his money.”

“Wouldn’t know anyone like that, squire.”

“It, ah, really wasn’t that way.”

“If you’re fishin’ for a character reference, stow it.”

“No, I mean, I think l – we both care about Aziraphale. We should know each other better,”

“Should we?”

“Well. You married into the family, hardly know you, seems wrong. Know you moved up from London, that’s about it.”

“Done your research, en’t you?”

“Different world, I guess,” said Gabriel. “Lots of night life, clubbing? That kind of thing?”

“That kind of thing,” said Crowley in as even a tone as possible. A last tangle of tomato vines went into the composter.

“People. Um. Getting together. All different ways. Open relationships, and those Pride marches, and – things.”

“Why,” said Crowley, dropping all pretence of clearing up, “are you asking?”

“Lot to think about lately, that’s all..”

“If you’re asking me whether you’ll catch more fish on the other bank of the river, mate, I don’t do life advice.” Not for anyone over sixteen, anyway.

“I didn’t mean that – I mean I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with – I’m just trying to figure some things out.”

“Let me know when you do,” said Crowley and started the hose again.

“Your cousin seems suddenly curious ‘bout my checkered past,” Crowley said as evenly as possible over dinner.

“Oh dear. He asked after you at the market. I thought he only wanted to make, well, peace overtures.”

“Half a mo’ there I thought he was lookin’ to find out where to score.”

“I suppose with the Maestro being so resolutely – well, that’s not for me to discuss, really. I’m sorry he was a bother.”

“Reckon he just wanted to know how bad I am for you.”

“Oh, exceedingly bad. Action must be taken.”

“Mmmffff. Maybe we are a polyam’rous household after all. Should tell Gabriel.”

“My dear?”

“Ship. Way too curious about the goin’s-on.”

“One reads that cats consider anything their humans are doing to be interesting. I suppose it means we’re a family.”

“Cats get married?”

“Informally, I suppose. You sometimes hear the ceremonies in the midnight hours.”

“Polyam’rously. Polymeow. Paw. Paw lolly.”

“I can tell you’re done up from all the gardening, dear. Go to sleep.”

Chapter Text

I am the smooth world's double face,
Mercury's heels feathered with mischief
and a God's deceit --
The brittle blandishment of counterfeit,
In me secrets
and half-formed desires meet.

Britten’s opera music always gave Crowley hives, but on the positive side, it kept you from spacing out on the motorway. Turn of the Screw was full of portentous moments, heralded by thumping percussion and dissonant chords. Drusilla Gonville’s interpretation of Peter Quint, the ghostly valet haunting the children of Bly House, was described in the review snippets on the CD case as “a sinister triumph” and “a dark seduction, ” her chemistry with the young singers playing Flora and Miles “a delectable evil.”

I seek a friend -
Obedient to follow where I lead –
Then to his bright subservience
I'll expound
the desperate passions
of a haunted heart,
and in that hour
The ceremony
of innocence is drowned.

“Bloody morbid, ask me,” muttered Crowley. There was something a little unsettling about hearing her voice purling out of the Bentley’s speakers, as if she would at any moment digress from the Myfanwy Piper libretto to address him personally. I see you’ve driven up to meet with That One Client you’ve kept, Crowley. Hang onto a bit of your old life. In case it all goes sideways. Why don’t you trust? Sell me the cottage and take your chances. Make me part of Tadfield, the smooth world's double face.

His mobile in its dash cradle chimed, Aziraphale’s ring. He flicked Mute on the stereo.

“Hello, darling. Will you be on your way soon?”

“Headin’ back already. Pick up some supper?”

“If you wouldn’t mind awfully. Just a ploughman’s, it doesn’t do to play on a full stomach.”

“Yours to command,” said Crowley.

“I do believe you are..”

“Half an hour?”

“Spiffing.  You’re driving, I shan’t keep you.”

The taut, white English voices brayed in unison as he unmuted the player:

Day by day the bars we break,
break the love that laps them round,
cheat the careful watching eyes,
The ceremony
of innocence is drowned.

“Fuck this,” he said and groped in the glovebox, coming up with Best Of Queen. He made the interchange for Tadfield just as Killer Queen gave way to Fat Bottomed Girls.

“Right you are, Mr. Crowley. Just give’s a minute.”

Wilf was pulling pints as quickly as he could work the taps. The Tun was packed with the Greater Tadfield Friends of Music, presumably lubricating their instruments for better performance at rehearsal.

“No rush.” Crowley nodded in the direction of the gents’. “Just off the road, gotta spend a penny.”

There were two pairs of feet visible on the floor of  the stall nearest the urinals, one standing, one with soles upturned in a way that suggested a kneeling posture.. Crowley’s eyebrows rose slightly. Even in the places he’d frequented in London, it was early in the evening for that kind of thing. He paused with his hand on his zip, feeling unspeakably awkward. There were some deep, heaving breaths and a shuffling noise.

“Thought we had something. Something real, y’know? I really did.” This was followed by a thick, unpleasant gargling sound.

The accent was American. The second speaker wasn’t.

“Witch, she is. Mates for twenty years, you’d think e’d hear what I’m tellin’ ‘im but no, he’s gotta run back to his place for a wank if she’s much as looks at ‘im.” An expressive utterance somewhere between a growl and a huff. ”Give it a minute, lad. Gonna be more where that came from, reckon.”

There was no missing Liguri’s basso accents. Crowley considered backing out of the lavatory, but he really needed a wee.

“Goin’ to – Ibs – Ibiza’t Christmas, y’know, plans all made, bought the tickets. Place booked, n’ they said fuck me. I mean fuck you. T’me. “F’I got a problem. Course I got a problem. Gotta – ah – oopp – rrrrrcccch!!!!”

"Got your scarf, mate, s’okay, just let it out – “

“Tried to talk to ’em and just got the you Ingleezy thing, not even English, ‘m from Connecticut – ‘d’ever tell you? Same’s J. P. Morgan. Biggest money genius ‘n’ history. Went t’Yale. Me I mean, not him. I – urrcccchhh! Sorry, shit, got your shoe – “

Gradually grasping that he was witness not to an impromptu amour but to the rather literal upshot of an amateur drinking session, Crowley unzipped and saw to business, somewhat covered by the Tun’s noisy plumbing. His ears became antennas as he washed his hands.

“Thought e’d come round after a few days, ’e would. But no, won’t hear a word. Popped into me flat and borrowed m’ best shirt without askin’, ‘d’I tell you that? I had Drabbles come out put on a deadbolt.. Then he calls em back nex’ day for a new lock. Never locked each other out before.” Liguri didn’t sound crisply sober himself, but he was an old hand. “Allus in and out.”

“Like them an’ – her. Wants me t’be open to – gungghhh – bein’. Open.” Gabriel’s voice was close to sobs. “Under m’nose. ‘N ’I got nothin’ n’offer but bedsit at Mrs. Farnleigh’s. No overnight guests.” Big whooping breaths, as at the end of a footrace. “They won’t even. Throw anything. Tried. Hch.”

“We’ll get you some Crabbie’s. Best thing for it. Water on the side. C’mon now, up you come.”

Crowley let the door fall soundlessly shut behind him.

Newt and Shadwell pinch-hit in the the Brahms, rather disastrously (at one point, Shadwell forgot the horn part was written a fifth higher than the intended pitch – “you fooken horn boogers ‘ave t’be different, don’t ye”). The resulting dog’s dinner depressed everyone but R. P. Tyler, who assailed the triangle at the finale with his customary triumphant brio. Liguri showed up after the break, on his own and noticeably worse for wear.

“Signior Fell. Perhaps you could persuade your cousin to attend rehearsal occasionally?”  said the Maestro..

“I – ah – I expect he’s been taken ill,” managed Aziraphale, almost drowned out on the last words by a heartfelt belch from Liguri.

The waltzes in the Fledermaus overture sounded like dirges, the Holst was ragged (Shadwell got confused and started playing his part a fifth lower, resulting in something close to Gregorian chant in the Chaconne), and even God couldn’t have saved the National Anthem. Almost no one stayed for tea and the Ladies’ Beneficial Society biscuits, and Deirdre Young could be heard snapping at the student violinist who always helped her set them out.

“What the fuck is happening to this place?” said Crowley as they slid into the Bentley, thumbing off the stereo before it could hit Aziraphale with a broadside of bebop.

“Dear, I honestly don’t know.”

I do, thought Crowley as they pulled into the lane. Break the love that laps them round. The ceremony of innocence is drowned.

“Hush. Hush. It’s all right, I’ve got you.”

Who had him? The point was that he had to choose a door by himself. He’d always been left to choose by himself. None of the choices were good ones, but that didn’t mean he could refuse. He was supposed to know, and he didn’t.

“Can’t – “ It came out stretched and unintelligible, even he could tell there was some sort of disconnect between his brain and his speech, a sound emerging like the one Ship made the day he’d unwittingly stepped on her tail. Then there was grey light, and the heaviness that comes from restless sleep.

“You were dreaming again. It must have been dreadful. I wish I could make it stop.”

“You did.”

“I mean for good. I suppose it’s naive to think things like that ever go away entirely. I’m afraid I may have led you astray with this teaching thing.”

The water glass was on the bedtable. They’d chosen matching bedtables. “Didn’t make me, angel. Spent too much of my life sellin’ air. Wanted to do somethin’ good, saw the chance.”

“Is it the falling one still?”

Crowley shook his head. “It’s – Bluebeard’s Castle kind of a thing.”

“Evocative opera, though not one of my favourites. Doors?”

Nod. “Not sure if they’re keepin’ something in, or keepin’ me out. Either way I don’t want to open any, but got to, see? Need to find out something, even if it – “ kills me wasn’t the right term. He’d be alive afterward, but something would be broken. “Can’t go forward, can’t go back. You find something good, it always ends. Cos you fuck up.”

“That’s the nightmare talking. Come here.”

He was soft, and didn’t seem to care that Crowley’s neck and scalp were clammy, the T-shirt he’d worn to bed damp.

““Look’t Tadfield. Everyone arguin’. The kids. Lizard ‘n’ Froggy..”

“And none of that’s down to you, so far as I can see.”

“No, mean – can’t have nice things. Always lose ’em.”

“We’ve been round and round this, dear. It’s natural for you to feel that way. It’s simply not the case, that’s all.”

Crowley burrowed into his warmth. The damp of English winter was creeping in. “Dunno if I can do this. Kids. Was easier, just lookin’ after myself.”

“You’re doing splendidly. Far better than you did with yourself, I may say.”

They lay quietly for a while as the light crept in around the edges of the curtains, Crowley feeling both tense and groggy. “Not gonna get back to sleep,” he said. “Drive you in?”

“Not today, dear. There’s a double crew coming in to finish the work, if they can get through it before it rains. I’ve written Miss Moonchild a permission so she can cover for me at the library during class hours. I gather she’s doing swimmingly in everything.”

A first wheeze of air brakes and basso engine rumble sounded as the coffee dripped. “Ship’s back in the boiler cupboard. Thought we shut it last night?"

“She kept scratching to get back in. It is getting chillier. And I suppose it feels safe with all the hammering and shouting.”

The single eye, reflecting an astonishing blue-green, shone unwinking from beneath the inline heating unit that had replaced the old boiler. It left a nook just large enough for some odds and ends of old towels and the haphazard mass of fur that had fobbed itself off on them as a cat.

 “She’s a bit off food anyway. I’ll try her on some of those Blink treats later.”

“Told you, been spoilin’ her. Used to huntin’, bringin’ down the wild hart ‘n’ that, aren’t you, Ship?”

Ship hissed.

“Off with you. That’s the glazier now, he’ll block you in.”

“Tonight’s gonna be it. I’m tellin’ you, mate. Heard her askin’ Lizard to keep the stinks down, she’s hopin’ for company, see.”

Hastur had possibly emptied the whole cologne bottle. He smelled like the men’s toiletries counter at Selfridges.

“She said anything to you?”

“Nah, but a bloke knows. She’s up there singin’ that Italian stuff, hasn’t rowed with Themself in days, settin’ her cap for me.  You watch. I’ve already been round to chemist’s, and got a box’ve wine from the Tesco in Botley.”

“Don’t let her dump the lot on your head.”

”Ah, laugh now. It’ll be a little serenade, a little vino, an’ bam! Your mate Froggy’s gettin’ stuck in. You watch.”

“Just as soon not,” said Crowley.

“Mr. Crowley?”

He realized it was the first time he’d heard Pepper’s voice in days.

“I won’t be in class today. I didn’t want you to think I was skipping.”

“It’s all right. Mr. Fell told me.”

“Oh. Ah.”

There was apparently something very interesting on the toe of her trainer.

“I just wanted to say. I’m sorry I’ve been acting cross with you.”

“Have you? Hadn’t noticed.” Her eyes flashed up at that, and he saw the hurt. “All right, I have. Look, I’m sorry too. When I snapped at you about the phone. Got up on the wrong side – “ don’t say bed – “I mean, just hadn’t slept right. Shouldn’t have dumped it on you. Specially not in front of your mates.”

“It’s all right.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I suppose. Things have just been – a lot.”

“Your friends?”

She nodded. “They think that ‘cos I’m a girl they can tell me how to live my life. Didn’t think it was gonna be like that with us.”

“I think they’re friends, and they care about you. I’d have given a lot for friends like that.”

“And that – being a girl means I can’t take care of myself.” Her chin came up, a little pugnaciously.

“Greasy?”

“Yeah. That kind of thing.”

“It sounds as if you got him sorted.”

“He doesn’t bother me any more. I still keep this on my belt though.” The spray dye was just visible half-tucked into the pocket below her belt loop. “I can look after myself, you know, Mr. Crowley. I can.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Had she grown another inch since term started, or was she just making a point of standing taller? “And you don’t always, so promise you’ll eat a proper lunch. You can’t just live on coffee.”

“Rumbled me,” he said, grinning, as the first bell rang for class. They were friends again. “I’ll see about it.”

“They said another hour. They’ve got these work lights strung up, just cleaning mostly, but you can’t get to the drive.”

“I’ve got some grading. I can stay a little late at the library and use their wi-fi." That, at least, felt more comfortable than it would have yesterday.

“Friday, remember, closes at six.”

“Bollocks. So it does. I’ll work around it, angel, used to London, remember?” Rush hour in Tadfield amounted to a vehicle in the village centre at the same hour that R. P. Tyler liked to walk his arthritic dachshund Shutzi.

The sun was setting behind rainclouds as he lugged his laptop and a budget of exercise books to the car park. Pepper was just visible closing up the library doors, outlined against a thick, underlit cloudbank that reduced the sunset to a trace of gold edging. She set off in a direction opposite the usual, heading not toward Acacia Close where she lived but down toward the Village Centre.

Crowley was still considering the significance of this when a shadow detached itself from the small hedge that buffered the library entrance from the car park. Greasy Johnson’s face was briefly distinct in the circle of a streetlamp that couldn’t decide whether to be on or off. He gave Pepper a head start before following.

Crowley’s hair prickled up, remembering midnight streets outside shabby bars that echoed with one too many sets of footfalls, saw you lookin’ at me, what about it, Red?. He was gliding as silently as he could to intercept Greasy when a movement near the bicycle racks caught his eye, just where the library joined the school building. He didn’t even need to see faces to recognize Adam’s tumble of blond hair, the glint of Wensley’s glasses, Brian’s slope-shouldered silhouette. They followed Greasy, hesitating when he hesitated, keeping on the grass instead of the gravel footpath.

Pepper was out of sight. Crowley circled the car park, a little urgency coming into his jog – been taking too many smoke breaks with Hastur, wind short, dammit, when was the last time he’d run – and closed as silently as he could behind the Them,

“Brian. Like to tell me what’s going on?” he said softly.

“Mr. Crowley.” Adam’s stage whisper was fervent “We can’t stop.”

“I see that. Have you three got something to say to Mr. Johnson?” Greasy was just visible at the end of a street leading off the Village Centre, where Tadfield’s few small flat blocks jostled the Post Office.

“He’s followin’ Pepper.”

“I saw that too.”

“She won’t listen to us. Bet he will though.”

“He’s just been waitin’ his chance. One of those blokes who can’t take No for an answer. Hangin’ in the library. Wensley told us.”

“And you plan to what?”

“Fix his clock.”

“Three on one?”

“He’s followin’ her. Got to do something about that, don’t we?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, falling into step with them as the grass verge ran out and the grit crepitated softly under their shoes. Greasy stood before one of the flat blocks, hesitating in the act of stepping into the entry. There was a large composting box in the small gravelled garden, the sound of a French horn warming up, and – was that Gabriel’s car?.

Pepper was nowhere in sight. The dim hall light showed two doors – closed doors, mute doors, asking to be opened. For a moment Crowley was somewhere other than Tadfield, and there was something ugly behind one of those doors but it was his job to open it, and then he snapped back to the moment as Adam closed the distance and grabbed the bigger boy’s shoulder, yanking him around and almost off balance.

“Bloody ‘ell – “ Greasy dodged and wove, swinging clumsily and missing. Adam punched back, just as Greasy held up a forearm to block him, deftly deflecting the blow upward and straight into his lip. Adam yelped and grabbed his knuckles, and Brian made a do-or-die run for Greasy as Crowley stepped between them, today is a good day to die, and discovered that grownup authority was an actual force that could roll off his body, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Wanda The Scarlet Witch. Make a note.

“Everyone care to talk?” he said. “Without hitting?”

“Guh,” said Greasy, spitting a pinkish gobbet onto the gravel. The damage didn’t look serious.

“Git,” said Adam.

“Mr. Johnson,” said Crowley. “I believe what you were doing might be considered stalking. Care to explain yourself?”

“I was lookin’ after her,” said Greasy, holding the back of his hand to his split lip, so that the words came out sounding as if he’d had six drinks. “Girls shouldn’t be out on their own after dark. It’s not safe.”

“If there’s a safer place than Tadfield, I don’t know of it. Unless, Mr. Johnson, you were single-handedly trying to move the needle.” The language of marketing sprang back to his lips. “What were you going to do? Wait and follow her home?”

“I dunno,” said Greasy. “Only I … I don’t think she ought t’be callin’ on grown people like that. And grown people shouldn’t be blowin’ kisses and goin’ all cara cara on people our age. That’s Italian,” he added. “It means sweetie.”

“And what did you plan to do about it?” said Crowley, a little more gently.  “Break the door down?”

“I’m tellin’ you, I don’t know – “

A door slammed open on the floor above. “Vai, you stupid Inglese!" came a familiar shout down the stairwell. "Vattene subito!”* Gabriel hurtled into view, backward and not, it appeared, entirely under his own power. Something shattered with a sound like a cymbal smash on the closed door behind him, and a fragment of what looked like a red-omnibus souvenir teapot dropped through the railings to explode into smaller shards at their feet.  “Stay here, go, I do not care –– “

[* "Go, you stupid Englishman! Go at once!"]

“I am,” shouted Gabriel, clambering up from the floor of the landing, “from fucking Connecticut!”

“Bene, so go back to fucking Connecticut!”

“It’s London, got a job lined up, they want my answer, but I’ll say No if you’ll say Yes – “

“You want me on leash, vaffanculo!”**

[** "Fuck you!"]

“That’s just the point – I talked to a lawyer, we can put it in black and white beforehand – our own kind of marriage, that you'll be free to do what you want, only just come back to me – “

Oblivious to his paralyzed audience below, he dropped to one knee and fumbled in his coat pocket, flipping open a small, immediately recognizable flocked box. “My grandfather’s –  we can size it to fit you, we’ll be man and – and person, and –”

“Stop it!” came a screech from behind the closed door. It seemed a perfectly reasonable interjection at this point, but a beat after the Maestro and Gabriel fell abruptly silent it came again.

“Please just stop it!”

Pepper’s voice. Crowley found himself shoving Gabriel aside with no memory of taking the stairs, battering the door with the side of his fist, almost falling in as it swung open and Pepper fell out directly into his arms.

Drusilla Gonville stood in the entry hall, a figure from verismo opera costumed in silver-grey kimono, matching lounge pants, and what Crowley realized after a first thump of stark panic was not blood but a liberal dousing of red dye. “You stupid girl, it was just a kiss – “

She shut up, registering that the stalls were filled for this performance.

“But you wouldn’t stop,” Pepper shouted back, twisting in Crowley’s arms. “I told you I didn’t want to and you wouldn’t stop – “

The famous travesti visibly mastered herself, locking eyes with Crowley above Pepper’s head. “All right then, take your little wifeykins,” she said. “Since you’re both prudes -- and apparently joined at the hip – “

“Wha – Wife?” stammered Crowley.

“Cos'hai che non va?” shouted the Maestro. “Il Signior Crowley e gay! E il marito del Signior Fell! Idiota!*** She is sixteen!!”

[*** "What’s wrong with you? Mr. Crowley is gay! And he’s married to Mr. Fell! Idiot!"]

Drusilla appeared to be singing a high F on the staff, though no sound came out.

“E basta! You are leaving tomorrow! You will not be here to upset her one more day!”

“It’s okay – “ began Pepper.

“And Signorina Bowles–Smythe will sing with Mrs. Potts – the first autobus, alle otto e venti in punto – “ ****

[**** "Promptly at eight-twenty in the morning!"]

At first Crowley thought the Maestro had found something else to throw. Then the first crashing sound was followed by a deep boom, the landing rippling underfoot, breaking his grip on Pepper and sending Gabriel’s grandfather’s ring bouncing down the staircase in an arcing flash of gold. There was a smaller series of bangs, the horn music ceased, Hastur burst into the entry below, and Greasy, who was closest to Liguri’s door, shouted “Fire!”

Chapter Text

The rain had begun in earnest. Most of nearby Lower Tadfield, brought out by the initial explosion and the wail of the fire sirens, had retreated back indoors. The last half hour was playing back in Crowley's head, trying to find places to file itself away: Hastur slamming both fists futilely on Liguri’s door after trying the key that didn’t work any more, thwarted by the stout new deadbolt. The outward huff of stinking smoke as the brigade knocked the door in. Hastur in actual tears shouting Lizard, mate, you okay? Where are you, you idiot?, being held back by the Brigade vollies as two went in with Scott bottles on their backs, one of them emerging with the semiconscious Liguri in a shoulder carry – gungy jacket pocked with burnt spots, a livid mark on one cheek.

Drusilla seemed to be getting on famously with the youngest of the firefighters, I’m not bleeding, it’s so silly, I was putting away one of those self-defence canisters in my purse when the explosion happened, it’s absolutely ruined these pyjamas. The constable was interviewing the Them, one after another, under the awning of the Post Office. A checkered ambulance idled near the entrance to the flat block, the rhythmic pulse of the light bar glinting in Wensley’s glasses and the Post Office windows.. Heavy fans running off the rescue tender propelled a caustic stench out the windows of Liguri’s flat.

“This wasn’t some kids’ prank gone wrong, now was it?” he asked Adam. “Bonfire night early, or that?”

“We were just here,” said Adam.

“What about you, lad? That lip looks like you’ve been brawlin’. Who hit ye?”

“No one,” said Greasy stoutly. “I just – Adam jumped when I yelled Fire and the back of his head hit me. We stayed to see what we could do to help.”

Adam did jump a little at Greasy’s denial, and eyed him warily.

“You all right, young lady? Here, have my handkerchief. There’s a lady paramedic if you’re hurt.”

“Just scared,” said Pepper.

“Will you keep an eye on ’em, Mister Crowley, in case we’ve more questions? You teach at the school, right?”

He was still unused to answering Yes.

"Pepper," hissed Adam as the constable retreated. "You have to tell 'im what she did."

"No I don't," said Pepper miserably.

"There's laws," said Wensley. "You read in the papers."

"Right, in the papers," said Pepper. "And then it'd be --she says this and I say that and she's famous, and people asking questions and -- anyway it's my fault -- " She dropped to the Post Office steps, curling up around herself.

“Pepper. It is not your fault.” Crowley hunkered beside her on the concrete.

“She’d stop by to talk about ideas," said Pepper. “About changing the culture, about empowerment, the way you'd talk to another adult. I didn’t want that to stop. So I never said I was still in school.” She hitched and sniffled, looking up at Crowley over the constable’s handkerchief with a small,  watery laugh. “And one time she said I'd obviously grown beyond someone as controlling as you" (Crowley's eyes popped), "and I didn’t say anything cos – "

"It's okay."

“She said if I called round we could have a real conversation like we can’t in the library. I -- liked her, and I thought I'd like that. I shouldn’t’ve tried to act older.”

“Hey,” said Crowley “Hey. Not a crime. Look at me? Should’ve seen me nicking packets of fags when I was thirteen, tryin’ to be cool. See, even if you were thirty years old, someone wants a kiss, they should ask. Or at least take No for an answer.” Crowley very particularly met Greasy’s eyes when he glanced up.

“That means you too. The whole lot of you.”

Pepper blew her nose loudly.

“You should talk to your Ma, maybe?” he ventured a little desperately. Pepper shook her head.

“Pepper’s mum’s nice, but she’s a bit cracked,” clarified Adam. “Prol’ly blat it all over the Saturday market.”

“Well. You. Still might want to talk to somebody. There’s people for that. Even online, I think, if – if Tadfield feels too small.”

He caught Adam’s eye, and stretched out his hand, palm down. “Meanwhile, it’s Pepper’s business who else she tells about anything that happened. And when. Got that?”

Adam caught on after a moment – had it been barely two years before? – and laid his hand on top of Crowley’s, Wensley and Brian following.

“You too,” said Adam to Greasy, who hesitated and then complied. His was very nearly a man’s hand, big and rough. “By our linked hands we swear,”  Wensley intoned, “that what was spoken here will not be revealed.”

“We swear.”

“I swear,” said Greasy.

“Signior Crowley?” called the Maestro. Gabriel’s coat was over their small shoulders, and they weren’t pulling away from the arm that held it there. “They are saying we cannot go back in tonight – I am sorry to impose, but if you and Signior Fell have room – “

“Can do better than that,” said Crowley, making a judgment call on the fly. He fished in his pocket and tossed a keyring. “Nasturtium Cottage’s empty. Bed’s made up though. Drains’re good for the moment, there’s tea in the cupboard.”

“Let me at least drive you,” said Gabriel.

“Sto bene, there is no need – ”

“Someone should take care of you.”

Looking infinitely tired, and pale despite the regular flush of the red domelight, the Maestro nodded.

“Signorina.”

Pepper looked up. At some point Adam had moved next to her, protective but not touching.

“I am sorry.”

“You didn’t do it,” said Pepper.

“Si, but I bring her here. We go so far back – when I came to this country, we were like finger and thumb, she helped me with all the papers  – you cannot believe what all the papers are to stay here, and… I say I would always do anything for her. But something changed. She changed. I am done.”

“You’ll be soaked through,” said Gabriel, who already was. “Come on.”

“Don’t throw anything,” said Crowley as they moved off toward Gabriel's car.

“Look, you daft git, I’m sittin’ in this van till you let ‘em take you to Casualty, an’ if you get out that’s me nicked for trespassin’ on county property, so you’re stayin’ put, right?” Hastur’s voice from inside the checkered van crossed a deeply fetched fusillade of coughs. “ ‘Sides, where’m I gonna go? I’m stickin’ with you, you great booby. Mates, en’t we?”

“I think we’re done here,” said the Constable. “Rob there’s takin’ the lady back to ‘is mum’s soon as they shut down the tender, and building inspector be round first thing – trust you to get this lot straight home, Mr. Crowley? I don’t want ’em roamin’ around the village, we’ve had enough for one evenin’.” He’d clearly not quite bought the head-smack story.

“I, uh, yeah. I’ll bring my car round from the school. Be a little cozy, but we’ll manage.”

It was very cozy, because everyone was damp, Crowley was almost entirely drenched, and everyone bumped elbows as they tried unsuccessfully to dry off with an old beach towel Crowley had fished out of the boot. Greasy and Adam were almost grown men now; they had to scrunch together in the back bench seat to make space for Brian, who squeaked to find Wensley climbing into his lap.

“Pepper gets the front,” said Wensley simply. The windows were already fogging up.

“Seat belts,” said Crowley.

“I can’t get mine round Wensleydale.”

“Right, reckon you’re held in then. Who’s closest?”

“Adam, I think – “

“I’m round Dick Turpin Way, by Mrs. Pulsifer’s – “ this was Greasy.

“Right then, off we go.  Got the – “ Crowley braked guiltily as Aziraphale’s ringtone issued from his pocket. “Angel? Sorry I didn’t call, there’s been a bit of a dust-up – I’ll tell you – “

“Can you come home now? I mean right now?”

“On my way – got this car stuffed full of kids, be there soon’s I drop ’em off – “

“Could you just bring them with you? Straight away? It’s Ship.”

Chapter Text

Ship lay on her side, stretched at full length, sides heaving slowly.  She was clearly not going to move from the bottom of the boiler cupboard.

The kittens were lined up in a squirming row, tiny blind faces pressed into her belly, occasionally squeaking as they jostled each other. They were still damp, ears flat against small round heads.

“I confess I hadn't looked in for hours, once I got her to eat something," said Aziraphale."She didn't seem to want the attention. I'd been here and there all day with the workpeople, and the noise was perfectly deafening right up till they left, and when I came in here to offer her a bit of tuna – well, I simply haven’t ever seen anything like – well – in the end she seemed to know exactly what she was about.”

Mother Shipton opened her one good eye and fixed him with an owlish glare, as if to say she damned well did know what she was about.

“Look,” said Brian, “this one’s got white paws.”

“And there’s a ginger one. Like you, Mr. Crowley.” This was Pepper.

“Look how little their claws are,” said Wensley. “You can see when they push her stomach. That’s to make the milk come, I read about it.”

“Read about everything, don’t you?” said Greasy. They had almost forgotten he was there.

“Ought we to call the vet?”

“ Looks like everyone’s okay," said Crowley. "If we ring in the morning, there's that one we looked up in Didcot. You know, the one that comes out with a van.”

“This one’s havin’ a bit’ve trouble,” said Greasy, and reached for the grey kitten closest to Ship’s own colour. Ship hissed softly, but his touch was gentle. “Just gettin’ pushed away. C’mere, little guy. Up here.” He nudged the kitten’s face toward a soft bulge under the thick fluff, slowly withdrew his hand as it latched on.

“It’s like handlin’ fish,” he said. “Gotta scoop ’em out sometimes to clean, y’know. You think of it like pickin’ up a soap bubble.”

“You going to keep ’em?” said Brian.

“Dear, I don’t see how we could possibly. I mean, until someone can find homes for them, of course. I suppose there’s Cats Protection or – “

“I want the ginger one,” said Pepper.

“Thought you didn’t believe in imprisoning animals for entertainment.” But Greasy’s tone was playful, not mocking.

“It would be companionship,” said Pepper.

“I don’t think Dog would mind one,” said Adam. “He licked Mrs. Detwiler’s new puppy all over.”

“Our dog doesn’t like me,” said Brian. “He pretends I’m not there. Maybe a cat would notice.”

“We can’t have any of Mr. Fell’s kittens just given away,” pronounced Adam. “It would be like – well, like breaking up the Them. See, it’s like karma or something. There’s one for each of us. And one for you,” he said to Greasy with unexpected magnanimity.

“Bet that little gray one would like watchin’ the fish tank,” said Greasy. “Like those Cat Telly things on YouTube.”

“I’ll ask my Mum,” said Wensley. “She always stops to pet cats.”

“There, then that’s sorted.”

“We can have the game parties over at Wozzer’s,” said Greasy.  “So we don't scare ‘im.”

“They have to get shots’n that. Maybe from my Christmas money.”

“We’ll look after it,” said Aziraphale. “And – well, the other matter, so Tadfield isn’t overrun with kittens. I’m afraid we’ve been remiss about it. The vet did advise it once we’d fed her up, but I assumed she was beyond it, honestly.”

Ship opened her eye halfway again: are you gone yet?

“You lot need to be getting home,” said Crowley.

“I want the one with the mittens,” said Brian.

Give my head peace, said Mother Shipton through the semaphore of a paw over the eye.

“Come on, all of you. Out to the car.”

“‘The Johnson boy’s not so bad when he’s not posturing for his minions. If that’s the word we want.”

“Wanted to show me the fishtank. Not ‘s’if the evening hasn’t been wet enough. And Pepper wanted Adam to stop for a bit. Couldn’t see the harm, her Ma’s home – Ta, angel – fff, that’s hot – “

“It’s just some of that ready-made tikka masala from Waitrose. I thought you could use warming up.”

“Always turnin’ up drenched on your doorstep, me.”

“You looked almost as drowned as that first night. I do remember hoping even then that it wouldn’t be the last.”

“Seduced with your inline boiler.”

“Tart. Well, no one shall hear from me why we’re down one diva -- I gather we are?”

“Got her marching orders.”

“That she didn't know Miss Moonchild’s age reassures me somewhat. That she didn't seem especially contrite upon learning it does not. If only I’d had the first idea  – “

“You didn't hang around sketchy pickup spots in London. I’d've prol’ly whiffed something. But I was trying to give Pepper some space.”

“I suppose it’s so easy to think someone like Miss Moonchild can look after herself, takes charge of things so handily, you know. I expect it’s come of having a mother like that. Sweet, but scatterbrained. I believe she went in for some of that Findhorn business before moving here, spiritual cabbages and so on.“

“Pep might want to talk to you. You’re – well – comforting, angel.”

“Let me take that – and Gabriel seems to have made it up with the Maestro?”

“They threw one of those Routemaster teapots at him.”

“Oh, then it’s certain.”

Crowley hugged the thick robe around him. “He had a ring… now there’s a thought.”

“What, dear?”

“Gave ’em the key to the cottage for the night. S’pose they could afford it together?”

“What, and be your tenants?”

“Been thinkin’. Can’t just keep lettin’ it stand empty. And they’d let me keep the garden.”

“Speaking of which. I have something to show you.”

The newly hung double doors leading off the kitchen were almost all glass panel, an etched design of ferns and palms.  As they opened, a soft twinkle blinked into being, as if they were stepping into a field of stars.

Crowley’s eyes adjusted slowly as he crossed onto the flagstones, warm against his bare feet from underfloor coils. The graceful arc of a lemon dracaena formed one side of a little entry, a potted olive the other. The mosaic table he’d chosen stood near the exit door into the back garden, the silhouette of a bottleneck protruding from the shape of a pail atop it.

Red and purple mandevillas jostled each other beside tiered benches of potted succulents; baskets of staghorn fern and tradescantia hung from eyebolts in the frame of the glazed roof, a domed oculus refracting the first rays of a moon that slanted through dispersing clouds, a few days past full. Water chuckled over irregular rocks in a small fountain, sending a clean scent far back in his head, and fairy lights threaded through all the leaves and blooms, turning the petals to stained glass.

“It took a bit of arguing to get everyone to deliver on the same day,” said Aziraphale, “but, you know, I’ve directed that orchestra when needs must. You learn how to bring an ensemble together.”

“You – it’s – “

“Just as you drew the plan, dear. At least the last time I saw it. I hope I haven't presumed too greatly. I’m sure you’ll decide you want something here instead of there, or think of something to add.”

“It’s perfect.”

“We can always ask Adam and maybe the Johnson boy to help move heavy things. I’m afraid the one thing that was backordered is that double Sevilla chaise. I made do.” The thick duvet from the bedroom was spread on the open space in the centre of the room, heaped with cushions, just beneath the orange tree in its huge blue stoneware pot. “It’s not the same thing at all, but I thought you might want to stretch out and enjoy the view of the sky. Check if it’s the right placement.”

Crowley turned to slip arms around the thick shoulders, press against him with a cheek damp with more than just the trickle from his still-wet hair.

“Open that bottle and let’s see.”

“Just lie back. It’ll take that – here, we’ll put them in the moss here under the orange, I used my best flutes.”

“ ‘M your best flute.”

“Is that an invitation to play?”

“Waitin’ for a better offer?”

“None such exists. Mm, you still taste of curry a bit. Or maybe that’s just you.”

“Spicy redheads. Known for it.”

“Your feet are still cold – let’s cover them with my jacket – I do have you at a disadvantage, don’t I? You’ve just got this towelling thing on.”

“Powerless to stop you having your way.”

“I do believe that could be considered a sign of interest. Oh my, look at this – almost certainly.”

“Sssssss! Good, angel – “

“You certainly are. No, I‘ll leave these on for now – this is all for you, dear. We’re in your space. For the moment, I am yours to command. If you fancy.”

A sharp little indrawn breath. “Then keep doing that.”

“As you wish. Goodness, it’s amazing how vigourously things grow in a controlled climate like this, Just budge up a little – there.”

“God, if you – I won’t last long.”

“I shan’t go too fast then. We can have a – mm – lie-in tomorrow. No school. There, see, judicious pacing. It’s all about tempo, and the spaces between the notes.”

“Ngk.”

“M-mph – andante sostenuto seems about right – “

“God, you’re a bastard. I love you.”

Aziraphale answered with a hand squeeze, being occupied with an undulating grupetto and a long glissando.  "I trust I haven't lost my embouchure," he said presently, lifting his head. "I've been sadly neglecting this. Mmm."

“Like that again – fuck – “

“In good time. One must make space for all the variations. Lift a little here, please --”

“Sssss – !“

“You know the fingering can make or break a performance.”

“Not helpin’ me hold back – “

“We’ll just sustain a fermata then. Remember your breath control. Oh – you’re lovely in the moonlight. If you could only see it from this angle, glinting off that pretty ring. We must pay attention to the almanac.”

“That like sayin’ the times tables to keep from – god, angel, can’t – “

“Then don’t." He bent his head again. "Tutti.”

andante, slow, sostenuto, sustained. A tempo marking.
grupetto, an ornamental figure interpolated between notes of a main melody.
glissando, a quick run up or down the scale, played with a single stroke, as on a piano or harp.
fermata, a long-held note interrupting the prevailing rhythm of a piece of music.
tutti, to  be played by the entire ensemble; all together now.

“Are you awake?” said Aziraphale shortly.

“Hnh. Anything left in that bottle?’

“Fortunately for your throat, yes. I must say I do enjoy directing a performance of the Anthony Chorale.”

“Ah. Nice.’d’I say I love you?”

“I believe you mentioned it in passing. I never tire of hearing it, though. By the by, I almost forgot something.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“No, I mean – all the excitement put it out of my head. There’s an envelope over there on the table. Have a look in the morning. You see, I exacted a price from Gabriel for all that relationship counseling – the questioning about our legalities, and so forth.”

“Price?”

“I made him drive me down to that solicitor you found for me. In that envelope are documents which waive our pre-nup, to the extent of assigning this cottage to the two of us in common. It requires only our signatures, in front of a notary. If you are comfortable with that. But this room is yours, no matter what, and after today I shan’t enter it without your leave.”

“Nope,” said Crowley. ”Won’t do.”

“My dear?”

“Unless you let me do the same thing with Nasturtium Cottage. Might be lookin’ at income from that, angel, even with the damages from throwin’ things.”

“Goodness. The thought of being Gabriel’s landlord.”

“Just speculatin’. It looked promising.”

“We’ll see what the morning brings. Shall we adjourn to the bedroom? These flagstones are inarguably a bit hard. And we should look in on Ship.”

“Lead the way,” said Crowley.

The Fledermaus overture had the audience swaying in their seats; the Holst made the school hall resonate like a pipe organ, and the Brahms was a triumph that brought the friends of the Friends Of Music to their feet, stamping and clapping. When Zingarelli, after taking a deep bow, turned back to signal that the orchestra rise, R. P. Tyler gave a final flourish on the triangle, beaming as if he’d personally played every note.

Then Tracy Potts, floating in a haze of pale, gauzy, sparkling blue, preceded the formidable, tailcoated figure of Wilhelmina Bowles-Smythe onto the stage, and Zingarelli abandoned the podium for an electronic keyboard set to harpsichord tones, ushering in the duet rendered in English on all their programs:

Let me behold you
Let me rejoice in you,
Let me enfold you,
Let me bind you.

No more pain,
No more death,
Oh my life, my treasure.

I am yours, you are mine,
My idol, my hope, my love,
Yes, yes, yes, yes,
Yes, my only good,
Yes, my heart, my life, yes.

The dissonances, voices striking true as bells a minor second apart, resolved sweetly as they left pain and fear behind, o mia vita, o mio tesoro. Wilhelmina’s hair was fair and short, and she raised a hand as if to cup Tracy’s cheek when she sang my idol, my love, for a moment transformed into a young emperor dazzled by the beauty of his new empress, and Tracy’s hennaed hair became the crown of Asia and Africa, the powdered cheek that wouldn’t see sixty again blooming not with rouge but a bridal blush. “Och, Jezebel,” Shadwell uttered in a choked whisper..

Crowley slid a glance toward Aziraphale to find him gazing back. I am yours, you are mine.

Tracy’s knees might not have been what they were, but as the hall erupted she dropped into a curtsy that pooled her glittering blue train over the stage, so that she seemed to inhabit a cloudless sky. Wilhelmina Bowles-Smythe bent from the hips in a deep bow that tightened her hired evening trousers over sturdy playing-field thighs, and sent roses rushing to her porcelain English cheeks as she straightened, eyes wide, amazed and moist.

Sophia Stackpole, at front row center, was the first to rise.

“Mrs. Young has outdone herself with the tarts.”

“You say that every time.”

“It’s like evolution, dear. Always improving.”

“Explain modern chamber music then.”

“Some things are ineffable. Goodness, our London journalist is cutting quite a swathe through the Beneficial Society’s offerings. We’ll put some flesh on that fashionable London figure.”

“Hasn’t worked on me.”

“I’ll speak to Pepper.”

“Think she’s occupied.” Crowley nodded toward where Pepper’s beaded braids could be seen tilted close to the blond curls of Wilhelmina Bowles-Smythe, almost as pale as Aziraphale’s own.

Aziraphale smiled. “Shall we be?”

“I don’t think anyone will notice if we slip out.”

The voices faded as the lobby door fell shut behind them and they twined hands without glance or thought. Si, mio ben, si, mio cor, mia vita, si.

Chapter Text

The headline was the smallest print at the bottom of the cover of Opera, which Deirdre Young had dropped off earlier in the day, pausing briefly to admire the conservatory (“I’d stop longer, but it’s started to snow again – Arthur always worries”). Passing The Torch: Mentoring Young Singers opened with a double-paged spread taken from below the Tadfield Secondary stage, leaving room for only a column of print: Mrs. Potts and Ms. Bowles-Smythe with hands joined, holding opulent bouquets of enormous peach-coloured asters (Tracy) and white gladioli (Wilhelmina) in their crooked elbows. The photo was taken at a slight angle, so that Tracy appeared to be leading her protégé up an incline.

Sophia Stackpole led with the serendipity of the famous travesti's having been abruptly called away on family business, and went on at some length on the overleaf about the young talent secreted all over England, and Where They Are Now and the Gifts They Gave Us And Continue To Ensure For Future Generations.

“We must find a few more copies and set them aside for the young people,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure Miss Moonchild at the very least will want one.”

“Prol’ly found it already,” said Crowley. “They left for London yesterday. Warlock’s having them over New Year’s, and they’re meeting up with Wil. She was going down to see about an audition. Something Trace set up.”

“It does help to know someone with connections in the business.”

They carefully didn’t mention Drusilla Gonville. The Maestro had made a day trip to Birmingham a week or so after the concert, and it was unclear what had happened, but Drusilla had resigned from her post coaching younger singers at the Birmingham Opera, and was rumoured to be going abroad.

“Their first snow,” remarked Crowley. The ginger kitten and the grey one sat alert on the deep sill of Aziraphale’s front window, occasionally tottering up onto their hind legs, stumpy pencil-tails aloft, to watch the fat flakes spiral down onto the shrubbery. “Hey, sport. What’d you do if you caught one?”

“Be quite appalled at the cold and wet, I imagine, and run complaining to Mother.”

Ship had finally accepted a lavish cat bed, formally presented on Christmas morning,  in lieu of the boiler cupboard, and was nestled in it with the other three kittens. They had started on a tinned kitten diet, but tended to return for comfort food.

“I think we can let them go when the young people come back,” said Aziraphale.

“Gonna miss ’em.”

“We can always pay a call.”

“That reminds me. The broccoli’ll be better for the snow falling on it, ought to telephone and see if they’ll mind us coming by tomorrow.”

“Does it feel odd asking to visit your own cottage?”

“Our own cottage.”

“It takes some getting used to. Not a bother?”

“Nah. Means Gabriel has to struggle with the drains.”

“Any damage so far?”

“Been pretty peaceable. They didn’t even throw the ring when he went back to the flats and found it. S’pose we’ll have to work up some wedding music.”

“You know Gabriel. He’ll want Wagner.”

“Remember rightly, that marriage didn’t come out so well either. Groom rode off on a swan, wannit?”

“Yes, but Tadfield reclaims everything.”

Crowley joined him on the squashy couch, watching the sun set fire to the underside of the slaty snow-clouds.

“Yeah,” he said. “It does.”