Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

January 1862

The estate suited his taste — Crowley had to concede that much, as he surveyed the rear of the building which gave onto the gardens. The sheer scale of it did, however, seem somewhat ostentatious: the executor had listed no fewer than eleven bedrooms, most of which, for the time being, would remain unoccupied — that much was certain.

Anthony J. Crowley removed his hat and craned his neck to better regard the façade.

Lilac clambered along the ancient masonry, its gnarled branches firmly entrenched in the Jacobean columns and window ledges. Come summer, the entire house would be cloaked in cascades of musky-scented blossoms.

The notion pleased Crowley.

A sharp gust of wind pressed his hat once more to his rust-coloured hair and drove his neck deeper into the collar of his shirt. Now, in January, the vast gardens lay fallow, and through the barren branches shone but feebly the wan light of the winter sun.

Crowley squinted behind the tinted lenses of his spectacles and envisioned the gardens in their full splendour: lush green bushes and hedgerows, overflowing flower beds, and well-manicured lawns...

Yes, indeed. Crowley could envision himself residing permanently at Possingworth Manor. At the very least, the outward impression of the estate permitted such a thought — had Crowley been even faintly a religious man, he might have offered a thankful prayer. As it was, he contented himself with a quiet sense of relief upon beholding his new inheritance.

With a shiver, he ascended the few steps to the terrace encircling the house and proceeded to make a circuit around the building until he once more found himself before the main entrance.

Hoping the interior of the house would prove no more displeasing than the exterior, Crowley drew from his coat a heavy ring of keys and, after some searching, located the appropriately labelled key for the entrance doors. At least the executor had been thorough, thought Crowley, as he examined the tag bearing the meticulous handwriting that read, most aptly, “Main Entrance.”

With more strength than one might expect from so spidery a figure in tinted spectacles, the two entrance wings were persuaded to swing inward with a venerable groan and creak.

Crowley stood within a dusky entrance hall, illuminated solely by the shaft of light cast by the open doors. He clicked his tongue upon noting that the interior of the house was only marginally warmer than the bitter cold of the outdoors. The months bereft of staff — and thereby of well-tended hearths — had chilled the house to its very foundations.

He advanced slowly into the house. The curtains were drawn and a stale odour lingered — though who could be surprised, given the long absence of fresh air in this abandoned structure.

Crowley sighed as his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he became aware of the sheer scale of the entrance hall alone. He would no longer manage with merely his housemaid, his valet Dowling, and an old cook who should long since have retired.

An estate such as this demanded an arsenal of servants: housemaids, footmen, valets, a cook, scullery maids, stable boys, gardeners and the like… not to forget a respectable butler and a seasoned housekeeper!

The notion of a house filled with eager domestic staff reminded him of his childhood, and only with effort did Crowley push those memories aside in order to focus upon the matter at hand.

If he were truly to render the estate habitable, he must see to the hiring of personnel without delay. Until then, he would remain at the inn in Lewes where he had taken lodging the previous day. Perhaps the landlady knew of someone seeking employment… The thought of the multitude of interviews he would likely have to conduct soured his mood considerably.

With a jerk, he pulled aside one of the heavy curtains and allowed the feeble winter light to flood the entrance hall. Then he collapsed, with little grace, into one of the venerable armchairs by the window, allowing the house to impress itself upon him. The dark wood panelling certainly had its charm, as did the lofty ceilings. Yet the faded curtains and moth-eaten rugs, not to mention the threadbare upholstery of the furniture, all required replacement.

A few green plants would not go amiss, mused Crowley, and he wondered whether there might be an orangery on the premises. Within the warm air of such an extensively glazed greenhouse, he could cultivate all manner of delicate flora: oleander, hibiscus, lily-of-the-valley, camellias... Perhaps even exotic fruits such as oranges and other citrus varieties he had observed upon his travels. With his considerable prowess in horticulture, he might even succeed in growing pineapples! That would, of course, require the acquisition of modern equipment — precision thermometers, a heated irrigation system...

Crowley’s thoughts drifted with ease into the more complex details of horticulture, and he was obliged to exert some force of will to return his focus to the present. After all, he had not yet even seen the upper floors of his new home, and all his fledgling plans for an orangery would prove quite worthless were there no such structure on the estate at all!

Crowley compelled his unnaturally long limbs to rise from the chair and set off to inspect the upper storey. In the silence of the deserted house, the hard sound of his boot-heels echoed repeatedly through the rooms.

He liked the house, decided Crowley, as he let his gloved hand glide along the smooth wood of the old banister. After more than four decades in London, country life in East Sussex promised a kind of peace and tranquillity hitherto unknown to him.

Perhaps this inheritance from a long-forgotten great-aunt was more a blessing than a curse, he reflected, as he ascended the creaking staircase.

Coats of arms belonging to ancestors unknown lined a generous gallery overlooking the entrance hall. Had they all lived here, he wondered, eking out their lives that he might now become master of Possingworth Manor? His forebears would doubtless turn in their graves, were they to see who now dwelled within these hallowed halls, he thought with a grim smile.

Standing in the centre of the gallery, Crowley found himself obliged to choose a direction — on either side extended numerous doors, behind which presumably lay all those bedrooms.

With a shrug, Crowley turned first to the left and depressed the handle of the first door. A charming room in cheerful yellow greeted him, with picturesque landscapes upon the walls and a view of the gardens.

He stepped slowly into the centre of the room and looked about. Inevitably, he was reminded of the last yellow room in which he had spent time — too much time, as it had soon proved. In his mind’s eye, he saw with dreadful clarity the symmetrical borders of the yellow wallpaper licked by flames, the cheerful hue swiftly blackened and charred. At once, a pain all too familiar shot through one side of his face and he resisted the urge to tear the spectacles from his nose and touch the pale skin, to see whether it were truly healed and bore no trace of blisters.

"Don’t go there, old boy,” Crowley muttered as he stepped back out and closed the door behind him. The pain ebbed away as abruptly as it had come. He would have the room re-papered, he decided.

He made a fresh attempt and crossed the gallery to the right wing of the house. Once more, he depressed the handle of the first door and held his breath.

No yellow greeted him, but rather a dark, faded green. Relieved, Crowley entered the room and let his gaze wander.

From here, too, one could look out upon the gardens and far beyond, to the endless hills of the South Downs. How far off might the sea be? Perhaps on a clear day one might see the chalk cliffs and the blue beyond... The landlady in Lewes had said Possingworth Manor lay not too distant from the coast.

Approval stirred within Crowley and he laid hat and spectacles upon a nearby dresser before examining the rest of the room. The furnishings were dark, the walls covered in a somewhat faded green silk wallpaper, and above the massive fireplace hung an oil painting depicting a biblical scene of the Fall of Man.

A curious choice for a bedchamber, remarked Crowley inwardly and stepped closer.

Unaware of their nakedness, the first man and woman knelt before the Tree of Knowledge, arms outstretched towards its ripe, luscious fruit. Most striking to Crowley was the serpent of the tale: its fat, glistening body coiled around the tree trunk, its venom-dripping fangs bared at Eve’s neck. The image held something almost hypnotic.

A quiet, bitter smile crept across Crowley’s pale face and he turned from the painting to retrieve his hat and spectacles. For the painting alone, this room had become his ideal bedchamber. What could better suit his inclinations than the image of mankind’s first sin?

Crowley examined the other rooms only cursorily, to gain a sense of the house’s condition, before descending once more. On the morrow, he would contact the agent, and the details of renovations and refurbishments could then be discussed more precisely.

He drew his coat tighter about his slender frame and stepped from the house into the drive.

Possingworth Manor.

Anthony J. Crowley glanced back once more before setting out on the road to Lewes. Perhaps a new chapter was precisely what he had needed, without knowing it.

---

From Possingworth Manor to the nearest larger township by the name of Lewes, one walked nearly two hours. Crowley had moved at a brisk pace, yet he had not entirely managed to banish the January chill from his elongated limbs – half-frozen, he arrived at the inn where he had taken up lodging.

“Mr Crowley!” the landlady exclaimed upon seeing the dark-clad figure slip through the door. “Already returned from Possingworth?”

Crowley regarded her from behind his tinted spectacles. Madame Tracey was a woman of approximately fifty years. Mr Tracey, as Crowley had gathered, had made himself permanently scarce by way of an ill-advised fishing trip and a poorly secured rowboat —a turn of events Madame Tracey seemed to regard less as a tragedy and more as a timely stroke of luck. Her reddish-blonde hair she wore twisted into small curls beneath a lace cap, which trembled slightly with each of her movements and lent her a nervous air. She was loud and unashamed, and Crowley had taken to her instantly.

“Send up water for a bath,” he instructed her as he passed. “And a bottle of wine.”

“No supper? I have fresh bread and some cold roast, if you please. You cannot possibly have eaten anything since this morning, sir!”

Crowley murmured his assent and, recalling the matter of staffing, turned back toward her.

“I am hiring,” he said, and to her questioning expression, he added, “I am seeking staff – the usual, for a house of that size. If you know of anyone, do inform me.”

“I daresay I shall find someone suitable for you, Mr Crowley.” Of this Crowley had no doubt; by morning she would undoubtedly present him with a list of no fewer than a dozen names. “And how did you find the estate? Does your new home please you, sir?”

“It is cold,” he replied morosely. “And there is much that must be renewed.”

Madame Tracey snorted. “That I should think! My cousin Moira’s daughter Anne used to assist as housemaid under old Agnes Nutter – God rest her soul – now and again. She said the house was in a sorry state.”

She offered the new master of the house an encouraging, motherly smile. “But I am quite certain that with fresh staff and a few small improvements, Possingworth shall be a fine home for a nice, young gentleman such as yourself! And now go warm yourself, you’re nearly frozen through! I shall have the water brought up at once.”

Crowley nodded, relieved that the conversation had reached its end, and ascended the stairs to his room. As he waited for the water for his bath, seated before the flickering fire in the hearth, he became aware of the sheer absurdity of the past few days.

A great-aunt long forgotten, bearing the sonorous name of Agnes Nutter, had bequeathed unto him – her last surviving relative – her estate in the South Downs. And now he, Anthony J. Crowley, notorious libertine, was relocating his residence from his bourgeois house in London to East Sussex, to abandon his unrestrained and extravagant lifestyle and retire to a life of quiet in the country.

With a laugh that bordered on the hysterical, Crowley brushed the red hair from his face and began peeling off his garments. Despite the fire within the room, his long fingers still trembled from the cold, and it took him several attempts to unfasten his cravat. He would require a new wardrobe, he considered. His clothing was certainly à la mode in London, but by no means suited to the practicalities of country life. Tweed, he thought, respectable tweed and proper boots, suitable for long walks and a solid lifestyle.

He let himself fall onto the bed, slowly unbuttoning first his waistcoat and then his shirt. Perhaps a new beginning might indeed be found here in the South Downs. No one knew him here; no one was privy to his manner of life, and he surely would not volunteer any details unless it became strictly necessary. Was it so far-fetched to settle in these parts as a perhaps somewhat eccentric yet fundamentally respectable gentleman, and lead a quiet existence?

Lying on the bed in the inn at Lewes, Crowley vowed to begin anew and shed the burden he had borne for the past forty-seven years.

Chapter Text

The forenoon progressed with remarkable sluggishness. Following a restless night’s sleep, Crowley had set himself to composing a letter to his valet, Dowling, issuing instructions concerning the upcoming relocation from London to East Sussex. Upon mature deliberation, it had struck him as the most reasonable course of action to sell his residence in the metropolis and dissolve his household there entirely; a clean break was, indubitably, for the best. The few material possessions to which he remained sentimentally attached would need to be conveyed hither, and Crowley had every confidence that Dowling would prove more than capable of overseeing the procedure with due efficiency.

Warlock Dowling, Crowley had concluded scarcely a day after employing the young man, was a clever fellow — a judgment he had seen confirmed repeatedly since. The quiet youth of six and twenty was able, exceedingly intelligent, and — as all good domestics ought to be — possessed of discretion. When his master inquired whether he might imagine exchanging London for life in the country, Dowling had, in his unfailingly polite yet distant manner, remarked that the fresh country air was generally considered to be most beneficial. Concerning Dowling, therefore, Crowley felt no particular anxiety.

The housemaid, however, would without doubt be unwilling to depart the city. She had recently become engaged, and her days in Crowley’s employ had been numbered regardless. In all honesty, Crowley did not imagine he would greatly miss her. The girl was dreadfully fond of gossip — a trait far from harmless for a man of his particular disposition.

His old cook, on the other hand, had served already in his father’s household, and with a quiet smile playing upon his lips, Crowley instructed Dowling in his letter to see the dear old woman generously compensated and awarded a handsome pension. It would hardly be reasonable to expect a matron of near seventy years to endure yet another move in what remained of her lifetime. Crowley had long since offered her retirement, but the obstinate woman had always declined with vehemence.

“Who else is to see to it that you eat properly, Master Anthony?” she would reproach him each time, not without a disapproving glance at his lean limbs, which she had, since his earliest childhood, failed to fatten.

Now, however, the time seemed well and truly come, and Crowley was determined to see her well provided for. A faint note of melancholy stole upon him as his gaze fell upon the lines he had penned regarding the old woman. So few words, and the final person who still linked him to his childhood and rather unimpressive youth was to vanish from his life. He did not think he would be able to bring himself to bid her farewell in person — and yet he knew, inevitably, he would force himself to do just that.

When the letter was at last completed, Crowley leaned back in the chair at his writing desk and closed his eyes briefly. He would be required to journey to London several more times before he might fully settle here in the South Downs. His affairs must be brought into order, and the matter of Aunt Agnes’s inheritance finalised. That would involve visits to the bank, an appointment with the executor, legal formalities, not to mention the extensive renovations required here at Possingworth... The mere thought of all that remained to be accomplished brought on a headache. But — one step at a time, he reminded himself.

One step at a time.

Descending at last to the public room of the inn, he handed the letter to Madame Tracey, who at once ushered him with a firmness born of long experience to a table and — without so much as asking — placed before him a hearty breakfast. Crowley was not in the habit of taking breakfast, and so he sat staring listlessly at the robust fare of potatoes and kippers that now confronted him. He prodded at the fish without enthusiasm while Madame Tracey seized the opportunity to overwhelm him with a list of candidates for his future household:

“I’ve found two charming girls who would do wonderfully as housemaids, and also a young man who might serve as your footman — a truly decent lad,” she enumerated, her hands upon her hips, the little curls framing her face bouncing vigorously with each word.

“Now, a good housekeeper is not so easy to come by, I can tell you that! But — you’re not eating at all…!”

Hastily, Crowley brought a laden fork to his mouth and forced himself to consume the greasy, substantial fare — for the sake of peace, if nothing else.

“But I do believe I’ve found someone: a cousin of my neighbour’s, and his sister-in-law...”

Crowley tuned out the extended account of how his prospective housekeeper had been discovered, and busied himself with a few more bites before pushing his plate aside.

“…and she served as housekeeper to the Newbolts for many years, she will be a true asset to you!” Madame Tracey concluded, and Crowley was relieved to find he had not missed too much of the litany.

“Now we only lack a butler and kitchen staff… Finding a proper butler for such a sizeable estate is no small matter, sir, but I am confident we shall find someone. As for the kitchen, I’ve already spoken to a dear friend who may bring along her niece Mary to serve as scullery maid.”

Crowley, quite unable to retain the parade of names, merely inclined his head with a pained expression.

“Do arrange the interviews, Madame. I expect to return by afternoon. I leave the rest in your capable hands.”

“As you wish, Mr. Crowley.” The woman, well pleased, took up the half-empty plate, and at last Crowley was permitted to rise. He felt, faintly, as though he were once again a child under the governance of his old nanny, who would never allow him to leave the table without a proper meal.

Mounting his horse, Crowley made his way to Possingworth Manor, and during the ride allowed himself to study the surrounding landscape. As yet, all was bare and grey with the lingering frost of winter, but in a few months’ time, the gentle hills would be cloaked in warm green, and sheep would no doubt populate the fields in great numbers.

Crowley smiled slightly as he rode on. Who would have thought that he, of all people, would one day find himself involved in sheep-farming?

The ride, though undeniably cold, lasted mercifully less than an hour. The exercise had kept him moderately warm, yet Crowley found himself questioning the practicality of his fashionable attire as he dismounted and led his horse by the reins to a structure at the garden’s edge, where he tied the animal securely. With one last affectionate pat to his equine companion, he proceeded to search for the estate’s agent, whom he had been told was named Mr. Shadwell.

He soon espied a man upon one of the house’s terraces who seemed very likely to be a 'Shadwell': surely in his late fifties, with sallow hair and an unkempt beard, he leaned against the house wall chewing tobacco with the greatest equanimity, which he then spat with remarkable volume upon noticing the tall, lean man with russet hair approaching. Crowley suppressed the wave of revulsion that rose within him.

“You must be Mr. Shadwell… Mr. Taylor, the executor, no doubt informed you that I am the new landowner — my name is Anthony Crowley.”

“Is that so,” replied the man dryly, and spat once more. His gaze slid sceptically over Crowley’s fine coat, his cravat, and settled at last upon the tinted spectacles.

“You’re the nephew?”

The man’s broad Scots accent rendered the exchange difficult, and his brusque manner did little to ease matters.

“Obviously,” Crowley replied with equal dryness, accepting the hand now offered.

“Shadwell. Come along, then. You’ll be wantin’ a look at the place.”

Crowley inwardly winced at the thought of spending the coming hours in this man's coarse company — but for now, he had little choice.

However — and this soon became evident — Shadwell appeared to know his trade. The ledgers he presented were meticulously kept, tenants paid their dues promptly, and the land was being well managed. The yield of sheep’s wool had apparently improved steadily in recent years. A thorough tour of the estate’s main buildings revealed that Crowley was, in fact, the possessor of several stables and even a charming orangery — a discovery that pleased him especially after his daydreams of the previous afternoon.

He had reason to be satisfied.

Yet the nearly two-hour tour of the house itself revealed many details he had overlooked the day before: the kitchen in the basement required near-total renovation, the servants’ quarters beneath the roof were abominable, and there were clearly leaks in one or two parts of the roof.

Shadwell, seemingly tireless, carefully noted every necessary or requested change.

“A long list, Mr. Crowley,” he declared as they arrived back in the entrance hall, blowing his nose into a ragged handkerchief. Crowley resisted, for what must have been the hundredth time, the urge to grimace.

“Very long list. I can bring a few lads to start on the lighter work. For the kitchen and the rest, we’ll need real tradesmen.”

“I trust you know someone with the proper expertise,” Crowley returned dryly, and Shadwell nodded.

“Aye. I’ll put out feelers. As for the gardens, we’ll want to wait for spring. Then we’ll bring in the right folk.”

“That will not be necessary,” replied Crowley. “I shall see to the gardens myself, when the time comes.”

Shadwell blinked his squinted eyes, cleared his throat, and nodded.

“As you wish. Sure.”

Crowley was quite certain the man barely restrained a grunt of displeasure — and concealed a quiet smile. He would not be robbed of the garden work, whether his eccentricity was noted or not.

“Now, Mr. Shadwell. I daresay you have much to occupy you. Your work thus far has been satisfactory. I trust our cooperation will continue as such. Kindly send me a copy of the list.”

Shadwell nodded.

“Right. I’ll be off, then. Until next time — welcome to Possingworth Manor.”

With that, the peculiar Scotsman vanished, leaving Crowley amused, if visibly wearied, in the entrance hall. He would have to inquire about Shadwell’s reputation with Madame Tracey.

With a sigh, he leaned against the bannister.

Restless weeks lay ahead—full of rubble and noise… Money was of no concern; Crowley came from affluent circumstances, and the inheritance had further swelled his coffers. But the prospect of having to share his new abode with a horde of workmen and labourers in the weeks and months to come was decidedly displeasing to him.

A glance at his pocket watch informed him that it was time to return to Lewes. With some luck, he might already engage a fair portion of new staff today and take up residence at Possingworth in the near future.

He stepped outside slowly and took in the gardens.

He had always harboured an affection for the natural. A garden, it seemed to him, was the interface between nature and culture, in which one shaped and cultivated the natural world according to one’s own discretion.

Perhaps he ought to draw up some plans in preparation for the spring works. Roses appeared a sound choice; no doubt several flowerbeds could be laid out. And the box trees were in desperate need of trimming.

Yesterday, he had discovered the long-awaited orangery, in which he would be able to cultivate several more delicate species. Moreover, to the south of the estate stood a few solid-looking fruit trees. A well-ordered orchard and vegetable garden struck him as a sensible addition.

Crowley proceeded at a leisurely pace toward the wall enclosing his estate in the east, where he had left his horse.
So deep was he lost in thoughts of exotic flora that he did not perceive the approaching footsteps on the gravel path until a voice pulled him from his reverie.

“Good morning.”

Abruptly, Crowley lifted his head and found himself staring into piercing blue eyes that regarded him with polite interest.

Before him stood a gentleman of middle age, white-haired, with neatly trimmed white muttonchops. Of slightly stout build, he was dressed well in a beige frock coat, a mustard-yellow waistcoat, a tartan cravat, grey-brown trousers, and a beige hat with a matching mustard ribbon. His feet were shod in handsome yet practical boots of brown leather. His appearance bespoke orderliness and a sense for detail—albeit paired with a somewhat eccentric fondness for Scottish checks.

Crowley gathered himself, realising that he had been impolitely staring at the stranger.

“Good morning! Pray forgive me, I was lost in thought,” he replied, whereupon the man’s initial reserve seemed to ease gradually.

“Aziraphale Fell,” the man introduced himself, extending the hand he had just freed from a soft, brown glove. “You must be Anthony Crowley.”

Crowley quickly pulled the glove from his fingers, accepted the offered hand, and shook it. The gentleman possessed a surprisingly firm grip.

“Indeed. May I ask…”

Mr. Fell offered a gentle smile while replacing his glove.

“You must pardon my curiosity. I happened upon Shadwell during my morning walk, and he quite willingly informed me that his new master had arrived in the area just yesterday. I have come to make my acquaintance – you see, we are neighbours. I own the estate one mile southward: Eden House.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fell. I was just on my way to my horse, bound for Lewes…”

“Oh, I should not dream of detaining you, Mr. Crowley. I merely wished to offer a friendly word and a welcome.”

Crowley slid his long fingers back into his glove and made an effort to compose his features into a friendly smile. It would not do to alienate one’s nearest neighbour at the very first encounter.

“If you would care to accompany me a little way… unless, of course, you are bound in the opposite direction?”

“With pleasure,” Mr. Fell assured him, and together they walked the gravel path that led to the far end of the estate.

“You are the heir of the late Agnes Nutter, are you not?” Mr. Fell inquired politely.

“Ah, yes, indeed,” Crowley replied, studying his new neighbour’s profile. He possessed a strong jaw and an almost endearingly upturned nose. “She was my great-aunt on my mother’s side.”

“My condolences,” said the other man. “She lived quite reclusively—I did not see her often.”

Crowley nodded in agreement. “I must confess, I have no memory of Aunt Agnes whatsoever. The inheritance came more as a surprise than anything else…” he admitted.

“Well, the unexpected oft comes to pass, as they say,” smiled Mr. Fell. “Then you are not native to the area, if I may ask?”

Crowley forced himself to reply. The likelihood that this man had already heard of his name or his proclivities was practically nil. “I come from London.”

“Ah, a man of the city." He exclaimed exitedly. "I daresay you shall grow fond of country life.”

“I should very much hope so,” said Crowley. “Once the estate is somewhat restored and I have found sufficient staff…”

“If you like, I might make some inquiries whether any locals are in search of a position. That is, if you have no objection, of course.”

“I would be most grateful!” Crowley groaned. “The first interviews are scheduled within a few hours, and I am already running out of patience.”

“I understand entirely, my dear boy. Staffing is a wearisome affair. Where are you staying until Possingworth is ready for occupation?”

Crowley blinked behind his spectacles in mild confusion. 'Dear boy?' As far as he could tell, he and Mr. Fell were of roughly the same age. And yet there was something disarmingly warm in the casual familiarity of those words, as though they shared a long-standing acquaintance that in truth did not exist. Hastily, Crowley replied:

“In Lewes, with Madame Tracey.”

“Ah, good Madame Tracey,” Mr. Fell let a smile drift across his round face. “She is a shameless creature, but her charm makes up for the offence.”

Crowley could not help but chuckle softly at the aptness of the description. He liked that this gentleman was a touch less 'stuffy' than he had first appeared—less stiff, less bound by etiquette than his exterior suggested. As though, from a crack in a painstakingly polished façade, a breath of genuine personality seeped forth.

“Quite so. In fact, she is assisting me with the recruitment. It seems she intends to install an entire battalion at my service.”

“You would do well to heed her advice, Mr. Crowley.”

Together, the two gentlemen reached the wall where Crowley had tied up his horse.

“I shall now leave you to the no doubt excellent judgment of Madame Tracey. But if you would be so kind, do call upon me for dinner tomorrow evening, should it suit you. Perhaps I might offer some useful insights regarding staff and building matters.”

Crowley regarded his new neighbour’s face with the patient scepticism of one long accustomed to reading between the lines. He searched for any sign of hidden agenda, but the gentleman’s countenance revealed naught but open sincerity. After a moment of quiet contemplation, Crowley nodded slowly—more to himself than to the man before him. Trust was not a currency he spent lightly. But something about this Mr. Fell—his unexpected warmth and the subtle irony glimmering beneath his cultivated manner—inclined him to lower his guard.

“Thank you kindly, if it is no inconvenience to you.”

Aziraphale Fell smiled, and Crowley noted that the smile reached his eyes, where tiny lines crinkled at the corners.

“I beg you, it is the beginning of an excellent neighbourly bond. I wish you a pleasant ride, and once more, a heartfelt welcome to East Sussex!”

With a gentle tap to the brim of his hat, the new neighbour turned toward the path leading to his estate, while Crowley mounted his horse.

“Until tomorrow, then!” he called after him, before urging the animal onward in the direction of Lewes.

'Aziraphale', he thought, 'what a peculiar name. And yet, oddly fitting for that interesting, plump gentleman with the disarming blue eyes.'

Chapter Text

Crowley buttoned up his waistcoat and slipped into the formal jacket he had ended up bringing along at Dowling’s insistence. Mentally, he made a note to thank the boy for his foresight. Who would’ve thought he’d be invited to a formal dinner straight away? Certainly not he himself.

As he adjusted his cravat, he let the day replay in his mind.

Today and yesterday he’d had several conversations with potential employees for his household and, even though the whole affair had sorely tried his patience, he was rather pleased with the outcome.

Madame Tracey had done excellent work, and he was now the employer of two maids, a footman, a cook along with a kitchen girl, a stable boy, and even a housekeeper. Not to mention his valet, Dowling.

It seemed absurd to hire such a domestic staff for one single person, but with an estate of this calibre, he evidently had no other choice but to expand.
Now only the butler was missing—but where, in Someone’s name, was one supposed to find a suitable candidate out here in the countryside?

Perhaps a notice in the local paper? Or he could inquire at an agency... Even in London there certainly hadn’t been a wealth of candidates; he himself had been searching for a replacement for good old Robards for months without success! The problem remained, only now it had changed its location.

Crowley looked at himself in the small mirror in his lodging room. A nearly gaunt figure with a pale, narrow face returned his gaze. He had never been particularly fond of his appearance—even as a young man, he’d been painfully aware of how different he looked from his peers. Tall and lanky as he was, with red hair and limbs like spider legs, he had all too often been the target of his classmates’ mockery.

But now, approaching fifty, he liked himself even less. A sharp jaw, a nose far too pointed, and beneath it thin, nearly straight lips. Not to mention his eyes...

Crowley sighed and put on his tinted glasses. At least his clothes sat acceptably—the latest fashion flattering his waist and long legs in a rather decent manner. Not that there would be many occasions out here in the countryside to present himself this way.

His new neighbour, Aziraphale Fell, had at least been polite enough not to ask about the glasses yesterday. But perhaps, in the spirit of this budding neighbourly relationship, he ought to offer an explanation.

“Neighbourly relationship!” Crowley snorted to himself and turned from the mirror to fetch his hat and gloves. “Has it really come to this, that my priorities now include 'neighbourly relationships'?”

But he couldn’t shake the thought that it did, in fact, matter to him not to get off on the wrong foot with Mr. Fell.

The man had seemed friendly yesterday. Kind, and sincerely keen to maintain a good neighbourly rapport. The least he could do was try to integrate himself respectably into the area!

When had he last made a conscious effort to appear respectable and upright? The crowd he’d surrounded himself with in London had always scoffed at so-called respectability, labelling self-declared moralists as narrow-minded and provincial.

But in recent years, Crowley had caught himself longing for a simpler life. Away from the cesspit of London, that loud, reeking, and eternally wakeful city. His lifestyle had begun to feel oddly hollow—almost lonely—even though he was constantly around people.

What was it Fell had said yesterday? 'The unexpected comes often'?

“Thank you, old girl,” Crowley murmured as he turned to go—fully aware that he had just thanked his great-aunt for her timely passing.

As on the previous days, he swore to himself not to squander this chance at a fresh start. And his new life in the rural society of East Sussex would begin with a pleasant dinner at a pleasant neighbour’s.

Crowley descended the stairs, returned Madame Tracey’s cheerful greeting with a vague grunt, and made his way toward the rudimentary cab provided for guests of Madame Tracey’s establishment.

“Eden House,” he instructed the driver and leapt into the gig, which promptly set off.

Crowley shivered. The thin walls of the carriage offered some protection from the biting wind, but the general January cold still seeped into his bones. Hopefully, his host would let him linger by an open fire before dinner began. Otherwise, he’d hardly be able to hold a fork...

It was only just after five o’clock, but already pitch dark, as if it were the middle of the night. Nothing could be seen through the cab window, and aside from the steady sound of the horse’s hooves, Crowley heard not a single noise. How quiet it was here compared to London!

Fell’s servant had delivered a note that morning, inviting him for six o’clock—people in the countryside clearly dined decidedly early, Crowley noted to himself. He usually ate much later, perhaps around eight. He felt no hunger yet—then again, he rarely felt hungry, regardless of the hour.

He wondered what sort of estate 'Eden House' might be and regretted he wouldn’t be able to see it fully by night. But surely there’d be another chance to explore the grounds in daylight.

Aziraphale Fell seemed like someone who appreciated comfort. Well, soon he’d see what sort of house his neighbour kept. Yesterday he’d seemed sharp enough—hopefully he wouldn’t turn out to be an unbearable nuisance as the evening wore on.

The drive passed quickly, and just before six, the carriage rolled into the driveway of Eden House. Crowley leapt from the step and landed on neatly scattered gravel. After paying the driver, he turned toward the estate and tried to make out its outline in the darkness. The lower windows were brightly lit, casting a golden glow onto the red façade and the whitewashed columns by the entrance.

Even in the dark, Eden House looked stately—Crowley had to admit that.

The blue-painted doors opened and a man in middle age—presumably the butler—ushered him in and relieved him of coat, hat, and gloves.

“Ah, Mr. Crowley!” came a voice, and as Crowley turned from the butler, he saw his host hurrying toward him.

“How lovely you could make it!” Fell exclaimed, taking Crowley’s hand with a kind smile on his round face. “Come along, my dear boy. Let’s go to the drawing room while we await dinner.”

And he led his guest through the elegant entrance hall to a door on the right, which opened into a warm, cosy parlour.

“Sit by the fire, Mr. Crowley. You must be chilled to the bone from the ride. The weather really has been particularly merciless this year... Whisky, cognac, or sherry?”

Crowley was sincerely grateful for the offer and sank into an armchair directly by the fire, practically ecstatic at the rush of warmth that enveloped him.

“Whisky, please.”

While his host prepared a glass, Crowley took a moment to observe Aziraphale Fell more closely.

He wasn’t particularly tall—certainly shorter than Crowley himself. Without his hat, white curls clustered densely atop his head, and Crowley doubted they could be tamed even with hot irons.

He couldn’t help but notice the black evening attire was a little tight around the hips—as if from slimmer days.

“Here you are, my dear. Let’s drink to good neighbourship!”

More than happy to join in the toast, Crowley clinked glasses. Mr. Fell sank into the armchair opposite with a contented sigh, crossing one leg over the other.

“How goes the search for staff?” he asked with polite interest.

At the word 'staff', a cloud of annoyance passed over Crowley’s face. He took another sip of whisky, savouring the sharp taste sliding down his throat while trying to formulate a diplomatic reply.

“So that well?” Fell smiled, having immediately caught Crowley’s displeasure with his keen eyes.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” Crowley began, “but the endless conversations of the same content do become a little tiresome. And all those references... Besides, it seems slightly absurd to me to hire an entire horde of staff for one person!”

“I can entirely understand, truly!” Fell agreed with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve lived alone for years and employ a multitude of staff—purely to maintain the house. Don’t tell anyone, but from time to time I feel like part of the furniture!”

“You don’t say!” Crowley grinned. “Madame Tracey is firmly of the opinion that anything less than two maids would be a scandalous oversight for my estate! I’m relieved I’m not alone in my scepticism.”

He took another sip. “And you live alone in this great house? I’d imagined such a home would come with a flock of children and extended family.”

“I have two brothers—Gabriel lives in London and practices law, and Michael lives up north.” A shadow passed over Fell’s kind eyes. “My wife died in childbirth.”

“I beg your pardon,” Crowley said awkwardly, inwardly cringing at his tactlessness. “I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, unsure of what he’d even meant to say. He gripped his glass tighter, scrambling for some appropriate expression of condolence.

“Don’t give it a thought, my dear,” Fell replied, sipping his sherry. A wistful expression passed his lips, but the warm smile remained. “One learns to live with it, in time.”

“You didn’t remarry?” Crowley asked, for lack of better conversation.

His neighbour paused for a while before answering with a sigh:
“My wife and I were very young when we married. We’d known each other since childhood and for both our families and ourselves, marriage seemed the logical step. We were wed for less than a year before she passed.” He ran a hand over his face, and for a moment, Crowley thought he looked older and more worn than before.

“The longer that chapter of my life lies behind me, the more I believe I’m too old and too set in my ways to go through all that again.” He gave Crowley an apologetic look. “Forgive me, Mr. Crowley—what a melancholy topic for such a pleasant evening. Enough about me—Shadwell tells me you’re a confirmed bachelor?”

“Crowley. Just Crowley,” he said, turning the glass between his long fingers. His counterpart’s eyes followed the motion. “Mr. Crowley always reminds me of my father. And yes, I’ve never had any inclination toward marriage.”

“Then Crowley it is,” Fell nodded, still watching Crowley’s fingers circle the glass. “Who knows—perhaps one of the local young ladies might catch your eye?”

“I sincerely doubt it!” Crowley barked a laugh, and his neighbour snapped out of his concentration with a start. “We must be of a similar age, Mr. Fell, and just like you, I can do without the turbulence of marriage!”

“I’ll remind you of that, if need be, my dear!” Fell replied with a wink. “But come, dinner must be ready by now, and you must tell me what you make of good old Shadwell. Can you make out a word of what he says?”

“You have no idea how grateful I am that you apparently understand him just as little as I do!” Crowley said with relief as his host led him to the dining room.

“Oh, I believe the only person who fully understands him is Madame Tracey.” Fell replied and gestured for his guest to sit opposite him across the table.

The table had been laid so that the two men sat across from one another halfway down its length, rather than at opposite ends.

“And between us,” Fell added with a conspiratorial wink, “our dear Shadwell really puts in the effort when Madame Tracey’s around…”

Crowley grinned openly at the thought that Shadwell likely wouldn’t dare spit his chewing tobacco under her watchful eye.

Discreetly, the staff poured wine, and Mr. Fell launched into an enthusiastic tale about the excellent vintage he sourced from a small winery in Alsace. And indeed, after his first sip, Crowley had to admit the wine was superb.

“I’m not sure I’ve had a better Gewürztraminer even in London,” he remarked in surprise.

Amused, he watched how his host positively glowed at the compliment.

“Isn’t it marvellous?” Fell replied proudly. “You must forgive my enthusiasm—good wine and good food are my greatest weaknesses. But just wait for the soup, my dear boy. I promise I’m not exaggerating when I say I employ the best cook in all of Sussex—truly, he’s God’s gift to the gastric juices!”

Crowley chuckled as the soup was served, and though he wasn’t the least bit hungry, he had to admit it smelled divine.

“Soupe au céleri-rave—celeriac soup!” Fell explained happily. His accent was truly dreadful—but oddly endearing, Crowley thought.

He took another sip of the excellent wine, only to immediately regret it:

Mr. Fell had just taken his first spoonful of soup and closed his eyes in delight before letting out an unrestrained sound of bliss. Crowley nearly choked on his wine, struggling not to spray the fine tablecloth with the vintage.

Concerned by his guest’s choking coughs, Fell opened his eyes and set down his spoon—completely innocent of the fact that he had sounded like a man in the throes of carnal ecstasy.

“Crowley, my dear boy! Do you need water—are you alright?”

“No trouble!” Crowley rasped, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. “I merely swallowed the wrong way.”

“Here, let me pour you a glass of water, at least.”

Gratefully, Crowley took a sip of the water Fell had poured so attentively and tried desperately to dispel the mental image of Parisian brothels the sound had just conjured up.

“Wouldn’t want you expiring at my table!” Fell smiled, setting the carafe down.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” Crowley croaked hoarsely.

Reassured that his guest was well again, Fell turned back to his soup, and Crowley followed suit.

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, though Crowley couldn’t help but observe his neighbour as he ate. Mr. Fell enjoyed his food so fully and unreservedly that each reaction to a new bite of the delicacies served had a nearly hypnotic effect on Crowley. Against his better judgment, he studied every expression, every sound Fell made—and afterward, he couldn’t have named a single dish he’d eaten. His focus had lain squarely on the odd, roundish man before him with the piercing blue eyes and charming smile.

The conversation flowed as easily and pleasantly as the wine, and Crowley could scarcely recall the last time he’d felt so entertained. The candles in the candelabra flickered gently, casting a golden glow over the round face opposite him, alight with passion for some obscure topic. Ancient Greek epics? The advantages of various bread types in the French Provence? Toy poodles?

Much later, in the carriage on his way back to Madame Tracey’s inn, he no longer remembered exactly what they’d talked about—or rather, he did remember, but it no longer mattered.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Crowley hadn’t felt the urge to get up and leave.

Chapter Text

The next morning broke cold and harsh. The fire in the stove had burnt down during the night, and the temperature in Crowley’s room had accordingly dropped significantly.

He thought wistfully of his house in London and the ever well-stocked stoves and fireplaces that reliably kept his home warm. Sometimes Crowley wondered whether he had accidentally been born cold-blooded – like a lizard or a snake.

Without a certain degree of warmth, he simply wasn’t functional, and it was precisely this lack of cozy warmth that he noticed in that moment in his stiff limbs and the cold draft that blew unpleasantly around his ears. With pure willpower, he forced himself to rise from the still-night-warm sheets and get dressed.

Today was Sunday and Crowley’s last day he intended to remain in the area. On Monday, he would return to London to set his affairs in order. With Madame Tracey and his newly hired household staff, it had been arranged that the house should be made livable in his absence, and Shadwell had been tasked with overseeing the necessary basic repairs and errands.

In four weeks, Crowley thought, everything in London should be taken care of, and he would be in a position to move here to Possingworth.

Sullenly, he buttoned up his elegant dark Spencer jacket and brushed a bit of dust from the lapel. The only matter that still had to be dealt with today was the visit to his future parish church, and he dreaded it.

Crowley’s relationship with the Almighty had always been somewhat tense, which was why his visits to Sunday service were a rare and irregular affair. But when Aziraphale Fell had bid him farewell the previous evening with the friendly remark that he looked forward to introducing him to some parish members after the service, Crowley had had no choice but to nod and thank him.

Resigned, Crowley thought of all the curious glances his extravagant clothing – and especially his tinted glasses – would draw. At least he would have Mr. Fell at his side, he told himself, and the thought, strangely enough, cheered him up a little.

It might well have been a self-fulfilling prophecy, but as expected, Crowley found the service to be a gloomy and surreal affair: the church of the parish of St. Agatha, built from plain cobblestones, was pleasant to look at; not particularly large, but sufficient for the surrounding villages. Already upon entering the building, Crowley felt ill at ease and hesitated for a fraction of a second before crossing the threshold and entering the nave.

Inside, the church was bright, much brighter than he had expected. In summer, Crowley imagined, plenty of sunlight must surely fall through the stained-glass windows and illuminate the high, spacious room brightly. Now, in winter, only dirty grey light filtered through the windows and gave the entire church interior a gloomy and cheerless atmosphere.

Quickly, Crowley let his eyes wander behind his sunglasses over the dark wooden pews until his gaze settled on the desired target: Aziraphale Fell was sitting in the third pew from the front on the right side of the nave, deeply engrossed in his hymnal.

Crowley ignored the curious glances of the rest of the parishioners as best he could and purposefully made his way to Fell, who turned at the loudly echoing sound of Crowley’s boots on the hard stone floor.

The good-natured, gentle smile the other man gave him upon his arrival sent a quiet pang to Crowley’s heart, and he firmly reminded himself that emotions like this were more than sinful in a house of God.

"I thought you'd skip the service," Aziraphale whispered softly as Crowley sank inelegantly onto the pew beside him.

"To miss the chance of being stared at? Never!" Crowley retorted, unable to completely banish the bitterness from his tone, which earned him a concerned glance from Fell. But before another word could be said, the service began and the congregation rose to sing.

Crowley was surprised at himself by how deeply the religious ritual was still ingrained in him. Even though he avoided church in London, he hadn’t forgotten the flow of a service over all those years. He stood when it was time to stand and sat when appropriate. The communal prayers he spoke along with a startling ease he hadn’t expected of himself.

He struggled to concentrate on the pastor’s words, but only managed sporadically. The content of the sermon seemed banal and unconvincing; just a few minutes after leaving the church later, he would have forgotten the entire message of the long sermon.

Instead, his gaze wandered from the bleak images of Christ’s Passion on the wall, over the rather laughable robe of the clergyman, to his seatmate, who drew his attention:

Aziraphale Fell did not, like Crowley – and certainly several other parishioners – appear to be waiting for the service’s longed-for end. While Crowley had to make an effort like an impatient child not to fiddle with his jacket lapel or squirm on the hard, uncomfortable wooden bench, Fell sat completely still beside him. His hands were folded in his lap, his gaze fixed on the cross behind the pulpit, and an expression of sincere devotion rested on his open, kindly face.

Crowley wasn’t sure whether Fell was actually listening to the sermon. The monotonous drone of the colourless pastor certainly didn’t encourage focused attention, and yet his neighbour seemed in complete rapture, as though he could feel the nearness of God physically.

'That’s what pious devotion should look like', Crowley thought, as he observed Fell’s expression from the corner of his eye behind the tinted lenses. Even in his singing voice during the hymns, his reverence was audible:

“Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven;
To his feet thy tribute bring.
Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,
Who like me his praise should sing?”

'As if every word speaks directly from his heart', Crowley told himself, and for a moment he was filled with a hot envy for the faith that the man beside him placed in the unfathomable will of the Lord.

Would he, one distant day, be granted the same grace that would surely be bestowed upon Aziraphale Fell? Was forgiveness possible for someone like him?

Crowley’s hands clutched his prayer book tighter until his knuckles stood out white. He recalled a Bible verse from his childhood, and a chill ran down his spine as the words crossed his mind:

'Your iniquities have separated you from your God; your sins have hidden his face from you so that he will not hear. For your hands are stained with blood, your fingers with guilt; your lips speak falsely, your tongue mutters wicked things.'

As a child, he had never understood the verses, but now a grim clarity dawned: he himself had turned away from the Lord’s goodness, and now the way back was forever barred!

The hopelessness that spread within Crowley at this realization was nearly unbearable, and he was thankful he was allowed to sit again at that moment – otherwise he might have collapsed.

If Fell had noticed his restlessness, he said nothing of it.

After the service, Mr. Fell kept his word and introduced him to the pastor and a few parishioners. Father Tyler welcomed Crowley into the congregation with a few well-meaning, barely comprehensible words before an older, resolute lady commandeered him for the annual church bazaar.

Aziraphale Fell made a visible effort to include his new neighbor in the conversations in the churchyard, with varying degrees of success. Here and there, Crowley received well-meant recommendations for local tradesmen, a few condolences regarding his Aunt Agnes, and even an invitation to tea from Mrs. Tyler, the pastor’s wife.

She was a colorless creature—small, with a sickly complexion. Crowley thanked her for the invitation, and while he appreciated the social significance of the gesture, he was not exactly looking forward to it.

But mostly, he encountered the anticipated skepticism. The fashionable, sharply cut clothing, the red hair, and of course the tinted glasses—Crowley was well aware that he stirred suspicion and distrust among the churchgoers. All the more grateful was he for the warmhearted advocacy of his neighbor, Mr. Fell.

“Give them time, my dear,” Fell implored as the two men made their way toward Eden House, where Fell had invited Crowley for tea.

“You’re new and exciting to the people here, Crowley. In the countryside, people take a little while to warm up to newcomers. But you’ll see how quickly you’ll become an integral part of our little community!”

Crowley made an indeterminate sound, presumably meant to express disbelief.

“These things just take time, Crowley. Just have a bit of patience.”

Crowley snorted.

“You’re too naïve! Do you think I don’t know how I come across to the upright congregation of St. Agatha’s? The sudden inheritance, the clothing eccentric for rural life, the dark glasses… Come now, do not take me for a fool!”

He didn’t know why he was being so sharp with the only man willing to extend him a hand. But the many scrutinizing and judgmental glances had worn on him and eroded his patience. Mr. Fell, however, seemed unfazed by Crowley’s outburst and merely offered him a small, indulgent smile:

“Oh Crowley, you may call me naïve, but I refuse to see anything but the best in people. And I’m quite convinced that in time, they’ll approach you more openly. I, for one, will do my best to help.”

The anger and disappointment ebbed in Crowley, and he let out a weary sigh.

“You’re a better man than I, Mr. Fell. Please forgive my harsh words… London, you must know, is not a gentle city, and I’m used to a certain level of skepticism directed at me. In fact, you’re the first person in a long time who doesn’t seem the least bit interested in the mystery of my glasses. You haven’t asked me about them, not once…”

Aziraphale Fell cast a thoughtful glance at his neighbor before sighing and admitting:

“I must confess, I am curious. But why you wear those glasses is your business, and I shall refrain from asking—at least I have that much decency.”

Crowley stopped and looked around. The path toward Eden House was lined with tall fir trees, softening the gloomy winter light filtering through the evergreen branches.

He couldn’t quite explain it—perhaps it was his companion’s generosity—but Crowley suddenly felt a strong urge to lift the veil on the mystery of his glasses.

He nodded, more to himself than to Fell, and with a swift motion removed the spectacles.

A quiet sound of surprise escaped Mr. Fell as his blue eyes met Crowley’s, unfiltered.

Crowley was all too aware of how his eyes looked. A white film veiled the right eye, making the whole eyeball appear milky. The skin around it was scarred and still reddened, even after all these years.

The left eye was perfectly clear, but the pupil within the golden-brown iris was not round—it was slit-shaped, almost like a serpent’s.

For a few seconds, Crowley held his companion’s gaze, then a wave of vulnerability washed over him—now that the usual barrier of tinted glass was gone, he felt terribly exposed. When was the last time anyone but his valet Dowling had seen him without them? Too long, it seemed…

“A fire, some years ago. At a friend’s house,” Crowley offered by way of explanation, eyes dropping to his boots on the frozen ground. He dreaded the look of revulsion that was surely now etched into Fell’s face upon seeing the disfigurement.

“It was at night… I was asleep and didn’t realize the fire had broken out—someone said it was a tipped candle in the servants’ quarters. I just barely made it out, but a few nasty burn scars remain. And the eyes, of course—not exactly a pretty sight, I know.”

A gloved hand rested on his arm, and Crowley looked up in surprise. Deep compassion was written across his neighbor’s face, with not a trace of disgust.

“How dreadful, my dear. But how fortunate that you didn’t lose your life in the fire. May I ask—your right eye, is it blind?”

Crowley shook his head. “No, no. Not entirely. I can still make out light and dark, vague shapes. But the left eye is mostly intact. Bright light hurts—hence the glasses.”

“Of course, I understand,” Mr. Fell nodded and withdrew his hand. “But you are mistaken, my dear. Your wounds are signs of His providence, and we can only thank Him that He spared your life when so many others lose theirs.”

Crowley was at a loss for words. Gratitude for this man’s sincere compassion overwhelmed him, and he didn’t know how to express it. Eventually, he gave a small nod, to which Mr. Fell offered a gentle smile.

“I thank you for trusting me with such a painful story. But now come along, Crowley. Put your glasses back on and let’s continue our walk. I’m always a bit peckish after the service, and if I’m not mistaken, there are some truly wonderful scones waiting today.”

Crowley did as instructed, and together they continued on in silence. From time to time, he glanced sideways at the man walking beside him, hands clasped behind his back and lost in thought.

In his heart, Crowley was still overwhelmed by Mr. Fell’s reaction and didn’t quite know how to process it. He had expected disgust, the usual look of pity he’d grown accustomed to since the fire. He had always felt like a cripple—branded both literally and figuratively! Yet all the man beside him had shown was genuine compassion and concern—and Crowley was surprised at how deeply it touched him.

After a while, they reached Eden House, and Crowley took in the estate by daylight.

He hadn’t been able to grasp its grand scale the previous night, but now he marveled at the pristine façade, the tree-lined drive, and the symmetrically laid out gardens. Eden House indeed had something divine, even heavenly about it.

“Why exactly ‘Eden House’?” Crowley broke the companionable silence as they crossed the gravel driveway.

“Oh, my family is very devout…” Mr. Fell replied. “Hence our names—Gabriel, Michael, Aziraphale—somewhat unusual, but I suppose meant to give us a guardian angel. My father named the house; I assume the place seemed like paradise on earth to him. Truth be told, I can’t disagree…”

“I can quite see why!” Crowley agreed wholeheartedly, and Mr. Fell smiled proudly before ushering him toward the doors.

“I must say, I feel extremely comfortable here. How could I not! Let’s head to the library—Ah, good day, Young!” Mr. Fell greeted his butler as they passed through the entrance hall and removed their coats. “Please bring us some tea, and a few of Mrs. Potter’s excellent scones—I have a bit of a sweet tooth…”

Crowley followed his neighbor into the library and sank into the chair assigned to him. The room was truly impressive, and Crowley felt obliged to express his admiration.

“Oh, thank you very much, my boy. I must admit, I’m rather proud of my collection. Books are my passion, you see. You’re welcome to borrow anything at any time!”

Crowley wasn’t much of a reader, but with his neighbor’s enthusiasm, declining the kind offer seemed unthinkable, and he voiced his thanks.

“By the way, I meant to give you the name and references of a butler,” Mr. Fell said, taking a folded note from his writing desk and handing it to Crowley before sitting opposite and crossing his legs. “The name came to me earlier today while talking with my valet. This gentleman was in service at an estate not far from here for several years, but the owners recently passed away, and the household was dissolved. He might suit you—the references are certainly excellent!”

Once again, Crowley was overwhelmed with gratitude as he slipped the note into his pocket.

“You don’t know what a burden you’ve just lifted from me! I can’t thank you enough… I’ll have Shadwell arrange an interview—I'm heading back to London tomorrow to settle my affairs. But I should be back in a few weeks, for good.”

A hesitant expression crossed Fell’s round face before he offered:

“I don’t wish to impose, Crowley. I’m sure Shadwell is the right man for many tasks, but I’m not convinced hiring a qualified butler is one of them. If you like—but only if you do—I could summon the man here and sort out the details?”

Crowley could hardly believe it—did this man know no bounds to his selfless kindness and helpfulness?

“Mr. Fell, I can’t tell you how endlessly grateful I would be! You’re truly an angel in a time of need! If you would take on this matter, I’d be deeply in your debt!”

“Oh, nonsense!” Mr. Fell replied, blushing faintly at Crowley’s praise. “I’m happy to be of some small help. And I daresay we’ll get on quite well, my dear. Why not lend a hand where one can?”

At that moment, the butler arrived with a heavily laden tea tray, and while Mr. Fell enthusiastically indulged in the treats, Crowley leaned back in his chair and smiled quietly at this unexpected angel in his new life.

‘Eden House’ indeed.

Chapter Text

“Be careful, for Someone’s sake!” Crowley burst out, inwardly writhing at the carelessness of the men. A grand piano was not a billiard table!

Three men, faces red, were struggling to wrestle the piano through the doors of Possingworth Manor, doing their best to avoid both the tormented expression of the master of the house and, more pressingly, the sharp remarks of the butler. The detached legs of the elegant instrument had already been brought into the music room, and now the main body itself was following—provided it survived the crude odyssey unscathed, Crowley thought grimly, audibly grinding his teeth.

“Do bear in mind,” interjected Shax at that moment, “you are personally liable for any damage you cause through negligence!”

Crowley, pressed as flat as possible against the wall of the music room to stay out of the way, had never been more grateful for his new butler. Grumbling, the three men straightened their backs and made a slightly more earnest effort to keep the solid rosewood body level and navigate it through the doorway.

Crowley had initially been skeptical of Herbert Shax. Since his arrival at Possingworth the previous afternoon—this time for good—he’d done his best to keep out of the man’s path.

Shax had been hired by Mr. Fell and therefore was, presumably, deemed competent. That alone was enough for Crowley to cling to as he exchanged his first words with the imposing man: tall, as tall as Crowley at least—and Crowley didn’t consider himself a small man. His dark hair was parted with razor-sharp precision, and a mighty, impressive moustache adorned his upper lip. Shax had a habit, Crowley quickly noted, of looking down his Romanesque nose at whomever he was addressing, just like Julius Caesar might have surveyed his senators—or so Crowley imagined.

The butler was, quite evidently, an insufferable snob, and Crowley had the distinct feeling he did not fully meet the man’s standards.

Since then, he’d tried to keep interactions with the somewhat intimidating figure to a necessary minimum and hoped he’d grow used to him in time.

But he had to admit: Shax certainly knew how to keep the staff in line…

The estate was incomparable to the condition in which Crowley had found it just over four weeks ago. The kitchen had been renewed, the servants’ quarters rendered presentable, and the roof patched. The dreadful curtains and carpets had vanished, and a tolerable replacement was expected to arrive from London within days. Naturally, a few new wallpapers and other additions were still needed, but that could wait.

Crowley preferred a simple but tasteful style, and in time, Possingworth would reflect that. But things couldn’t all be done at once—such matters took time.

At least, under the stern oversight of Shax and the capable housekeeper, the whole house had undergone a thorough cleaning. In fact, everything now gleamed with wax and polish, and Crowley felt reluctant to lay a hand on the glossy banister for fear of leaving an inappropriate fingerprint.

At last, the grand piano had been fully brought into the music room, and Crowley exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Gratefully, he sank onto a conveniently placed chaise, which invited him most temptingly.

The men were already beginning to reattach the piano’s legs—under Shax’s scrutinizing gaze—and the young footman Newton brought in the matching bench from outside.

Newton Pulsifer—or Newt, as the other servants called him, except Shax and the housekeeper—was a shy young man with round blue eyes and a head full of brown curls. He was occasionally a little clumsy, but Crowley rather liked him, the boy being slightly younger than his valet Dowling.

“Where to, sir?” one of the men interrupted his thoughts, and when Crowley looked up, the piano stood in all its glory in the middle of the room, while everyone looked at him.

“I… by the window over there,” Crowley managed, and with a nod from the three movers, the instrument was pushed into place.

Shax examined the visible handprints on the smooth wood with disapproval.

“The furniture polish, Pulsifer!” he barked, making the footman visibly flinch. “Ask Anna, she’ll give you the bottle.”

Newton scurried off, and Crowley, amused, noted the faint blush on the young man’s face at the mention of the pretty maid.

His amusement turned to alarm as the butler addressed him.

“Dowling has already arranged the entire music library in the appropriate shelves, sir. If you wish, I shall immediately summon the piano tuner.”

Crowley could not shake the feeling that Shax was merely informing him and not so much asking for permission. From his vantage point on the chaise, the butler seemed to look down on him even more than necessary.

“Very good, Shax,” Crowley muttered. On a sudden thought, he added, “And please have Cook come upstairs—I’ve a few remarks about the menu for the coming days.”

With a condescending “Very well, sir,” Shax withdrew, and Crowley relaxed his lanky frame. Truly, the man had a strange power over him, Crowley thought as he turned his gaze toward his piano.

He felt somewhat at home at Possingworth, if only through the sheer presence of his beloved instrument. His piano playing was one of the few things in his life he was genuinely proud of. At his mother’s insistence, he had taken lessons from an early age. His father had only grudgingly agreed to his wife’s request, but even the man’s disapproval had done little to dampen Crowley’s enthusiasm.

Music had opened a new world to the quiet boy he had once been, and he developed an almost pathological longing when he hadn’t played for a while. He had spent countless hours of freely fantasyzing and composing little melodies on his mother’s pianoforte. Later, at university, he had studied seriously: composition, music theory, figured bass, and counterpoint… His untamed imagination had been given form through study, producing a few charming pieces. Even now, Crowley still wrote the occasional virtuosic miniature or song when he found the time.

He had just risen, intent on sitting at the piano and playing a little, when Mrs. Bridges, the cook, was announced.

She was the very picture of a capable cook—rosy-cheeked and round. Crowley was reminded of his old cook in London and wondered if all English cooks bore such a resemblance and whether it was some kind of professional requirement.

“Mrs. Bridges,” Crowley began, “a gentleman is coming for tea today, one with a refined palate. I want to make sure we serve him something worthy.”

Mrs. Bridges gave her employer a good-natured smile and leafed through her menu notes.

“Of course, sir. Mr. Fell is known around here for his love of fine food. I thought I’d prepare a few smoked salmon sandwiches and some delicate almond madeleines. Would that be agreeable, sir?”

Crowley smiled quietly—Aziraphale Fell’s weakness for haute cuisine had apparently made the rounds.

“Madeleines, hm?” he mused. “Something French… I’m sure he’ll enjoy that. A good idea, Mrs. Bridges!”

The older woman chuckled in satisfaction.

“Will Mr. Fell be staying for dinner, sir?”

The question made Crowley feel awkward. He had invited his neighbour for tea, mainly to thank him for his efforts during his absence—was it appropriate to immediately hold him for dinner as well? He should probably offer, but would that be presumptuous? What if Fell already had other plans?

Mrs. Bridges came to his aid in his confusion:

“What if I prepare something nice, sir, and if Mr. Fell stays on, we’ll be ready. I’ve a few things in store that the gentleman would surely enjoy!”

Relieved, Crowley nodded and sent the cook on her way. He couldn’t say exactly why, but Mr. Fell’s visit had him feeling ever so slightly on edge. Possingworth still didn’t fully reflect his tastes, and it certainly paled in grandeur next to Eden House, but he wanted his new household to make a good impression on his neighbour. Why Fell’s opinion mattered so much, Crowley wasn’t sure. Perhaps because the man had been so kind to him, had shown such warmth in the brief time they’d known each other? Perhaps because Aziraphale Fell seemed to him the most selfless man on earth? Crowley didn’t know—and decided not to try and find out.

The wish to sit at the piano, which had just stirred in him, would not come to fruition. No sooner had Mrs. Bridges left the music room than Shax announced a tenant who wished to introduce himself to his new landlord.

Crowley, who until now had been a committed Londoner and had no experience whatsoever in sheep farming, felt rather foolish as he listened to eager explanations of wool prices, mating cycles, and breeding ages, nodding now and then to feign interest.

Though Shadwell had assured him that his tenants were all hardworking farmers who tended their land well and always managed, even in lean times, Crowley couldn’t help thinking it might be useful to actually understand a bit about sheep farming.

What on earth was this 'lactation' the man had been passionately talking about for the past five minutes?

Perhaps Fell could offer some insights? And surely Shadwell would eventually teach him something useful as well. Both Fell and Madame Tracey—who had a fondness for the eccentric Scotsman—had assured him that Shadwell knew what he was talking about.

Crowley dismissed the tenant with a cordial handshake and a few politely forced words, only to be intercepted by the housekeeper who needed to go over a few household purchases.

Before he knew it, it was past three o’clock, and Crowley barely had time to hastily respond to a letter before Shax announced a guest and led Aziraphale Fell—wearing his usual kind smile on his round face—into the drawing room.

Only upon seeing the man in person did Crowley realize how much he’d missed Aziraphale Fell during his weeks-long absence, and the thought knocked the breath from his lungs for just a moment. His neighbour seemed oblivious to his inner turmoil and approached with delight.

“Crowley, my dear!” he exclaimed, shaking his hand warmly. “How lovely to hear you’ve moved here for good. And what a magnificent house! I’ve seen very little of it until now—your Aunt Agnes wasn’t fond of visits—but Possingworth is truly impressive!”

Crowley was almost embarrassed by how pleased the compliment made him and tried to respond with neutral modesty:

“It still needs furnishing—a few things are due from London in the next days—but without the dreadful curtains, it’s already bearable. May I show you around?”

His neighbour nodded eagerly, and together the two men walked through the drawing room and morning room, the dining hall, across the entrance hall, and finally into the music room and adjoining library.

“Oh Crowley,” sighed Fell, and the sad tone in his voice made Crowley glance at him in alarm. “Your library is terribly understocked!”

And indeed, Crowley had to admit the sparsely filled shelves looked rather dreary.

“It’s a bit… bleak,” he confessed. “Aunt Agnes wasn’t much of a reader, and I’m ashamed to say, neither am I!”

“My dear fellow!” Fell exclaimed in dismay. “There’s no such thing as a bad reader—you’ve simply never found the right books. Let me bring you a small selection, and you’ll see: soon your library will be brimming!”

How could Crowley refuse such a kind offer?

“If it brings you joy, I won’t stop you,” he replied with a faint smile, and the spark of delight that lit up his neighbour’s face made it entirely worth it. “Besides, most of what’s here seems to be occult literature for reasons beyond me… A little variety certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

“Ah, Agnes Nutter was an avid enthusiast of the occult and animism,” Fell confided with a conspiratorial wink. “Rumour has it she had quite the opinion of her own prophetic abilities.”

Crowley let out a short laugh. “So long as she doesn’t decide to haunt this house as a departed spirit…”

“I wouldn’t be surprised…” Fell smiled.

“Come, let’s head back to the drawing room. I’ve had tea brought up,” Crowley said, waving him away from the odd bookshelves. He’d have to get rid of these books...

Faced with the sumptuous tea buffet, Aziraphale Fell could barely contain himself and clapped his hands in delight.

“Goodness, what a splendid spread!” he declared, beaming at Crowley. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble on my account, my dear.”

“Nonsense,” Crowley mumbled, brushing the praise aside awkwardly as they sat across from each other. “I just wanted to give the new cook a chance to show her skill. I’m not much of a picky eater.”

“Is that so?” his neighbour asked with a sly smile. “Well, either way, it’s terribly kind of you to treat me to such delights! Are those fresh madeleines?”

“Baked by my cook especially for your well-known palate,” Crowley replied, smiling at such enthusiasm as he poured Fell a cup of tea. “I wanted to thank you with something nice—for hiring Shax.”

“Simply scrumptious!” Aziraphale Fell sighed after eating a madeleine, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

“I had no idea my hedonistic reputation preceded me so far!” he added, blushing slightly. “And as for Shax…”

He glanced around briefly before whispering to Crowley:

“He struck me as exceedingly competent, but I fear the man is an insufferable snob! When he took my hat, I asked how he was settling into the new household, and he actually replied: ‘As well as can be expected.’ Can you imagine?”

Crowley grinned unabashedly. “Thank Someone! I thought I was the problem! I’ve been trying to avoid him since yesterday, and still he always catches me with that scolding glare… Seems it’s just his natural state!”

Mr. Fell nearly spluttered into his tea and hastily returned the cup to its saucer, chuckling softly.

“They say the best domestics are even greater snobs than their masters,” he offered, and Crowley smirked.

“Then Shax must be the best butler in the world!”

“Enough, Crowley,” Fell laughed aloud, and Crowley noticed with amusement how two charming dimples appeared on his round cheeks. “The poor man might hear us…”

“All right,” Crowley relented good-naturedly. “Then onto another matter that’s troubled me since midday. After speaking with one of my tenants, I feel the need to know: what exactly is ‘lactation’, and what does it have to do with sheep? Please, enlighten me, if only out of mercy for my poor tenants!”

“Ah, lactation… An important process!” Fell explained, carefully placing his half-eaten finger sandwich on the plate and taking a sip of tea. “Let us begin with the desired efficiency of milk production…”

---

“…And that is why the breeding objective to be pursued must be chosen in accordance with local demand.”

With a satisfied sigh, Aziraphale Fell leaned back and took another sip of tea, while Crowley desperately tried to process his neighbour's detailed lecture on sheep breeding. Perhaps he should have taken notes, he thought. His confusion must have been written all over his face, for Mr. Fell chuckled good-naturedly and leaned forward to pat Crowley’s knee in reassurance.

“Don’t worry about it, Crowley! Every beginning is difficult, but after a while, you’ll understand what your tenants are talking about. Perhaps we should take a walk to one of my flocks sometime, and I can explain the whole matter a bit more practically!”

“I would very much appreciate that,” Crowley muttered. “Honestly, I only understood half of what you explained to me. I don’t see how you know so much about it!”

“Oh, it is not that complicated. With a bit of practice, we’ll have you turned into a gifted estate owner in no time!” Mr. Fell waved it off modestly. “And don’t forget, I grew up here. It was always clear that as the eldest son I would take over the estate, and I was raised from the beginning with the workings of agriculture. I know nothing else!”

“Did you never consider doing something else?” Crowley asked curiously. “Aside from managing your land, I mean.”

Aziraphale Fell looked pensive, his fingers playing unconsciously with a button on his waistcoat.

“You know, Crowley,” he began, “in retrospect, I think I might have preferred to pursue something else. As a young man, like so many others, I had a penchant for poetry and the finer things in life. Sometimes I think I would have liked to study literature and philosophy instead of law, as was expected by my family.”

He sighed and leaned forward to pick up his teacup, his gaze drifting into the distance as he spoke.

“Who knows, perhaps I really would have started to write and publish books. But I surely lack the necessary God-given talent. And someone had to continue the estate – as the eldest of three sons, both the right and the duty fell to me…”

After a small sip of tea, his gaze returned to Crowley and he offered him a smile. Crowley was rather unpleasantly affected by how immediately he could see it was forced.

“We all have to fit into the roles we’ve been given, don’t we, Crowley? And in the end, my brothers and I adapted to the expectations that surrounded us: Gabriel was always meant to practise law, and he is very successful in what he does. As a young man, he was even part of the Royal Commission on the Criminal Law and is now a respected professor of jurisprudence at London University. His wife is the daughter of a colleague, and they have been blessed with four sons and two daughters. For Michael, my youngest brother, the clerical path was intended, and he seems quite content in his calling as canon of St. Chad’s Roman Catholic Cathedral, as far as I know.”

“And you? Are you content?” asked Crowley, and immediately regretted the personal question. What had possibly moved him to pry into his neighbour’s private life?

“I believe so,” Fell replied, to Crowley’s great surprise, after a few moments, and added by way of explanation:

“Perhaps I would have taken a different path than the one my father had laid out for me. But it was not to be, and I must admit I find farming agreeable. I spend a lot of time in the fresh air, can enjoy the wonderful nature around me, and I have capable people at my side who, with me, share in the profit of this God-given land and its bounty. There are worse fates, my dear.”

Crowley nodded, though he wasn’t entirely convinced by Aziraphale Fell’s statement. The man seemed to be trying to convince himself more than Crowley of his contented life—but in the end, it was none of his business.

“But I must confess, I do feel somewhat lonely from time to time,” Fell added almost sheepishly, as if he had noticed Crowley’s doubt. “My family is scattered and we rarely see one another. I myself no longer have a wife or children, as you know. I have my books, and they are always a wonderful pastime, but from time to time I do regret not having cultivated more acquaintances—and even fewer friendships.”

“You have me, if you’d like,” Crowley blurted out without thinking.

“I mean,” he hastily corrected himself, as blood rushed to his face, “you can count on me as a neighbour, and also as a friend, if you’d be amenable to that.”

The expression on Mr. Fell’s round face could best be described as a mix of touched and surprised, and once again Crowley found himself charmed by the other man’s dimples.

“Oh Crowley, my dear!” he said warmly. “You are already such an interesting and delightful neighbour, and I would be truly honoured to count you among my few friends!”

“That is settled then,” Crowley mumbled, inwardly cringing at his own awkwardness. As if someone like Aziraphale Fell—upright landowner and prosperous sheep breeder from a good and godly family—would ever want anything to do with him if he only knew of his inclinations. And yet, Crowley felt almost elated to be able to call the round, wonderful man before him a friend.

“Now really, my dear; I am honoured by your kind words—there’s no need to look so embarrassed!” chided Mr. Fell, who must have read the discomfort on Crowley’s face.

“Heavens, how the time has flown!” he then exclaimed after a glance at his golden pocket watch. “I’ve already overstayed your hospitality, but the company was simply too enticing,” he added with a smile. “I really ought to be off—it’s nearly dinner time.”

“Please do stay!” Crowley responded, remembering the earlier conversation with Mrs. Bridges. “My cook has already planned for two, and I would be delighted by your company, Mr. Fell! We haven’t yet talked nearly enough about sheep…”

“Aziraphale, please. Among friends, such formalities are no longer necessary,” he smiled. “And I think we’ve certainly talked enough about sheep! But if you’re sure I wouldn’t be imposing…”

“No imposition at all, Aziraphale,” Crowley replied quickly, almost stumbling over the unusual name. How swiftly he had come to appreciate this man’s company, and how unwilling he was to part with it again.

“Well then, I won’t say no,” declared Aziraphale cheerfully, slipping his pocket watch back into his waistcoat.

“Sherry?” asked Crowley, rising and heading toward the bar as his guest sank back into the armchair.

“Yes, please, my dear boy.”

Together, sipping their drinks, Crowley and Aziraphale spent several minutes in companionable silence, until dinner was announced and Crowley led his neighbour to the dining room. On the threshold, Aziraphale held him back with a concerned expression.

“Crowley, I’m not properly dressed. I hope you don’t take offence…”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and pointed Aziraphale to the seat opposite him at the table.

“I beg you, didn’t you just say that among friends, such formalities are no longer necessary?”

“Being properly dressed is not a formality, my dear—it is a way of life!” Aziraphale replied primly, but sat down in the indicated place as Crowley followed, grinning.

“Exceptions prove the rule,” he said dryly and gave Aziraphale a wink. “Or shall I explain to Cook that you scorn her food?”

“Heavens no!” cried Aziraphale in alarm, though there was an amused twinkle in his eyes. “Let’s not go that far, my dear.”

“Didn’t think so!” Crowley grinned, just as the first course was served.

The conversation flowed easily during the soup, but at the main course, Aziraphale returned to an earlier topic.

“And what about you, Crowley?” he asked, briefly closing his eyes in delight. Mrs. Bridges had outdone herself with the 'salamis de palombes'. “Really, an excellent dish… that hint of Armagnac—divine!”

“What about me?” Crowley replied, recognising Mrs. Bridges’ undeniable culinary genius, though he derived far greater pleasure from Aziraphale’s delight than from the food itself.

“Are you content with the path your life has taken? Or rather, do you think you can be content here in this new chapter of your life?”

The question veered into dangerous territory, at least in Crowley’s understanding. And yet, he wanted to answer Aziraphale as honestly as possible.

“I wasn’t as dutiful a son as you were,” Crowley began and took a large sip of the excellent wine.

“No siblings, so all the expectations fell on me. I did my best to disappoint every single one,” he added with a grin.

“You don’t mean that, Crowley!” cried Aziraphale, putting down his fork to look at him incredulously. “I’m sure your parents are very proud of you!”

“I rather think not. I’m not exactly model company,” Crowley replied dryly and took another sip of wine. “My mother passed away early, and my father and I always had a—ah, strained relationship, one might say. I was at Oxford, meant to become a doctor. But after some time, I realised I wasn’t really inclined…”

“You dropped out of your studies?” Aziraphale asked with a sympathetic look.

“I fell in with the wrong crowd,” Crowley said hesitantly. “The years after, I led a rather… indulgent life. My father passed away; we hadn’t seen each other in several years, and I decided to travel. Later, I took over a few of his businesses, made some investments—in recent years I lived quite comfortably in London, but a lasting occupation eluded me.”

Crowley wished he’d kept his glasses on. But somewhere during Aziraphale’s explanation about sheep earlier in the afternoon, he had taken them off and they now lay in the drawing room.

“Only here did I realise how unsettled my lifestyle had been. You could say I hope to find a more straightforward path in my new life here, a steady occupation, if you will.”

“Let’s drink to that!” replied Aziraphale, raising his glass. “To detours in life and new friendships!”

“Cheers to that!”

A tremendous roll of thunder filled the moment, and the night outside the windows flared silver with fierce lightning.

“Goodness!” Aziraphale exclaimed, visibly startled. “What a storm! Just listen to the rain, Crowley, it’s pouring!”

At that moment, Shax and Newton entered to serve dessert.

“Shax, pray tell, what’s going on out there?” Crowley asked his butler, as the plates and cutlery were cleared and Newton served the crêpes with orange filets.

“A strong thunderstorm, sir,” Shax explained dryly, pouring more wine for the two men at the table. “The roads appear to be flooded, as far as I can tell.”

“What bad luck!” Aziraphale said in dismay. “Crowley, I’m afraid I must once again impose upon your hospitality: it seems I won’t be able to make my way back to Eden House with the roads flooded.”

“Indeed not!” replied Crowley with a frown. “You’ll have to stay the night! Shax, please prepare one of the guest rooms for Mr. Fell.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Oh, I am truly sorry, Crowley!” said Aziraphale, pushing his crêpes about. “I loathe to burden you with my company for so long…”

“Nonsense! You are more than welcome. I won’t let you set out in this weather!”

As if on cue, another roll of thunder interrupted their conversation, and Aziraphale flinched.

“I have no choice, I’m afraid! But I do feel bad for troubling you so.”

“Please, don’t give it a second thought!” Crowley reassured him, and Aziraphale looked at him across the table with a troubled expression. “Come now, we can’t let Mrs. Bridges’ fabulous work go to waste!”

“I must say,” sighed Aziraphale contentedly, now visibly soothed, “you really have struck gold with your cook!”

“Mrs. Tracey apparently has a good eye for staff,” Crowley laughed, and the conversation flowed pleasantly again. From time to time, thunder and lightning interrupted them, and Crowley noticed that Aziraphale was visibly uneasy. Did he fear storms like a small child? Crowley wondered, amused. At the next loud thunder, Aziraphale dropped his fork, which clattered onto the plate.

“I’m terribly sorry, I always get a bit scatterbrained during storms and tempests,” Aziraphale said, pale and nervous. “You see, as a boy I was caught in a storm and slipped on the way home, swept into a river. I still remember vividly how a farmer pulled me out, soaked and half-drowned! It feels as if it happened only yesterday, though I’m now over fifty.” He shuddered and flinched again at the next clap of thunder.

Crowley was filled with shame, having been inwardly amused at Aziraphale’s skittishness. But now that he knew the man had nearly met an early end in such a storm, he searched feverishly for a distraction.

“My pianoforte arrived today,” he exclaimed, as the idea struck him. “Do you like music?”

“Oh, passionately. Though I’m completely untalented myself. You can play?”

“But of course! Come, Aziraphale. Let us end the evening with a little music.”

Together they left the half-eaten crêpes and Crowley gently shepherded the still somewhat jittery Aziraphale into the music room. The thunder had softened by now, but the fair-haired man still seemed shaken.

“Any preferences?” Crowley asked, settling on the bench in front of the grand piano and lifting the lid. “Mind you, the tuner isn’t coming until tomorrow…”

“Play whatever you like,” Aziraphale replied, reclining on the chaise he had sunk into. He was still a little pale.

Crowley paused a moment, letting his long fingers hover above the keys before striking the first chords. A gentle melody filled the room, light as water, seeping into every corner.

Aziraphale watched transfixed as Crowley sat at the piano, losing himself in the increasingly lively phrases.

Crowley was a lanky, angular man who normally went through life with hunched shoulders, as if reluctant to take up space. But here at the piano, his limbs relaxed and a quiet strength flowed through every muscle, his whole body swaying to the music. His uncovered eyes stared into the distance, taking no note of his surroundings—entirely absorbed in the music.

The first movement shifted from major to minor in the second, rising to a brilliant, virtuosic crescendo in the third. Light, infinitely light and effortless, Crowley’s fingers danced across the keys—so fast that Aziraphale had trouble following them. Without hesitation, Crowley flowed from the final tremolo of the third movement into the sweet languor of the fourth. Aziraphale almost regretted the sudden plunge from the tender, slow melody into the nearly unstoppable cascade of minor chords that followed, chaining together and fading into silence. And how bittersweet the cycle ended with the sixth movement, heavy and resonating with such gravitas around Aziraphale that he could almost taste it.

Crowley’s brows were drawn together, and a painful line rested about his lips as his fingers danced over the keys.

Whatever had hurt him so deeply, he poured every fibre of his being into the music—and Aziraphale felt as though, with the final trembling note, a piece of Anthony J. Crowley himself faded into silence.

He let his fingers rest on the last chord as it died away, and Aziraphale found himself unable to utter a single word.

“Songs without words,” Crowley said quietly after a while—and even though he hadn’t spoken loudly, his words rang out enormously in the silence.

“It has been a long time since I’ve heard something so moving,” Aziraphale whispered. “I cannot say how much I enjoyed your playing, Crowley.”

Crowley lifted his scorched eyes from the keys, met Aziraphale’s piercing blue irises, and in that moment, he realized he was lost.

A weight settled on his heart, his chest filled with sorrow, and he knew he was doomed for eternity to content himself with the mere friendship of the man before him—even if it would destroy him.

After a few seconds, Aziraphale lowered his gaze and looked down at his hands, folded in his lap.

“I think I shall go to bed, Crowley,” he said quietly and rose from the chaise. “Perhaps you could play a little more tomorrow?”

“Whatever you wish,” Crowley replied and followed the other man with his gaze as he left the music room in search of his guestroom for the night.

It felt to him as though a part of himself had left the room with him, and he gently but firmly closed the lid of the grand piano.

Chapter Text

Even before Aziraphale came down for breakfast the next morning, Crowley was once again seated at his grand piano, idly tinkering on the keys.

The night had been restless. The realization that his pitiful heart had been lost to Aziraphale Fell had struck him with indescribable force. Never before, not in his entire 47 years of life, had he felt such certainty!

Sure, desire and a longing for intimacy were not unfamiliar to him, even if in recent years — since the fire — he had committed himself with iron resolve to celibacy. But this unstoppable feeling of wanting to devote oneself entirely to a single person, of making them the center of one’s very existence, this feeling was completely new to him and shook him to his core.

After Aziraphale had bid him goodnight, he had sat for an indeterminate amount of time on the chair before the closed lid of the piano, unable to muster the will to get up and go upstairs himself.

Only after what felt like an eternity had he pulled himself together and retreated to his room, where Dowling was already waiting to prepare him for the night.

Normally, Crowley had no reservations about exchanging a friendly word with the young valet—Dowling was a pleasant man, somewhat more reserved than his master, but nonetheless a fine fellow.

But the previous evening, Crowley had remained silent and absent in thought, and Dowling, attentive as ever, had swiftly undressed his master and withdrawn without a word. Crowley was grateful that Dowling had, over time, adjusted to his more melancholic moods—he had been in no state for idle chatter last night.

Thoughtfully, Crowley looked down at the black-and-white keys and let a chord ring out. He thought back to when he had first met Aziraphale Fell in January: When he had seen the stocky man in his old-fashioned, slightly odd attire on his estate for the first time, he never would have imagined how effortlessly this man would dig his way into his heart.

But how could it have been otherwise? Never before had Crowley met someone with such kindness of heart, such complete selflessness, and yet there was that mischievous twinkle in Aziraphale’s blue eyes that, alongside all his almost laughably virtuous qualities, made him just interesting enough for Crowley.

Crowley sighed and struck a new chord—this time in minor.

Had he not sworn to make a fresh start here? He had left his entire life behind in London and had been firmly convinced he could, if not deny, then at least politely ignore his inclination.

"In the end, you can’t run from yourself, old boy," he murmured to himself.

Still, it was almost funny — he was 47 years old and in love for the first time in his life. And to top it off, with a pious, old-fashioned widower who considered Crowley a dear friend and would surely be more than repulsed if he ever learned of Crowley’s romantic affection for him.

"My life—a Greek tragicomedy…" Crowley sighed and thought of the open-hearted and nearly dazed look Aziraphale had given him when Crowley, shyly after his playing, had let his eyes wander to his neighbor.

The composition had been Crowley’s own, one of his favorites. Without much thought, in the pure intention to entertain and distract Aziraphale, he had begun to play, and his fingers had wandered into the familiar phrases almost of their own accord. It had been easy to lose himself in the beloved chords, and barely had he started playing when the piece was already over.

He hadn’t expected Aziraphale to be as enchanted by the sounds as he himself had been, and yet the latter had returned his gaze with such honest admiration and wonder that Crowley’s heart twisted at the mere memory of those blue eyes.

With effort, Crowley forced himself to banish the thought of how much this man threw him off balance. Instead, he focused on his fingers and let the wonderful music of Robert Schumann give his mind room to breathe. The marvelous Davidsbündlertänze filled the room with life, and Crowley was so absorbed in the boisterous, exuberant melodies that he did not hear the soft footsteps approaching the music room.

Only when the last of the dances faded and he looked up did he see Aziraphale leaning at the door.

"How wonderful to be greeted by such cheerful sounds in the morning!" he exclaimed beaming, with sincere enthusiasm ringing in his voice.

Crowley was surprised that, despite wearing the same clothes as the day before, Aziraphale once again stood before him impeccable and immaculate. Perhaps Dowling had, with foresight, taken the garments left behind the previous evening in order to return them washed and pressed this morning? That kind of quiet competence would be just like him...

"Truly, Crowley," Aziraphale meanwhile continued and took a few steps toward him from the doorway. "You really have an incomparable talent! I can’t recall the last time I heard such an excellent musician!"

"You’re exaggerating wildly..." Crowley waved him off, blushing, and stood up from his chair at the piano.

The enthusiastic praise from his counterpart embarrassed him, and he reached for his glasses, which he had placed on a small table near the piano, and put them on.

"Oh no, don’t hide your light under a bushel, my dear fellow!" Aziraphale scolded him. "Such art takes hard work and diligence, not to mention the talent itself—and after all that effort, you mustn’t sell yourself short!"

"As you wish," Crowley smiled and gestured for his neighbor to follow him into the dining room. "I’m glad I could distract you a little from the storm last night."

"Oh, that was really most kind of you!" Light pink flushed his round cheeks. "I’m always a bit ashamed of how easily I frighten—it really is rather silly to be afraid of a thunderstorm when one is safe and dry indoors—but you played such wonderful pieces last night! You simply must tell me who composed those 'Songs Without Words', my dear."

Crowley turned and was at a loss for an answer, but fortunately the breakfast in the dining room proved a sufficient distraction.

However, hardly had both men sat down at the table, plates well filled and strong tea steaming, when Aziraphale asked again:

"Now do tell me—what was it that so utterly enchanted me yesterday? Such a delightful cycle, and especially that last piece touched me deeply: You say it’s a song cycle… the final song must have been an ode to sorrow and melancholy—truly, incredibly moving!"

"You’re not exactly wrong…" Crowley murmured and avoided looking him in the eye, focusing instead on his toast. "I wrote the songs myself, after the fire… you know. I must admit, there was a fair amount of frustration and melancholy involved."

"You wrote those songs yourself?" Aziraphale’s blue eyes widened and the teacup, halfway to his mouth, froze mid-air. "Crowley, you talented man! What a gift, to be able to draw such enchanting melodies from the depths of your heart—and in such a difficult time for you!"

Not that he sought validation, but Crowley felt a wave of relief wash over him that someone other than himself appreciated his songs.

He had written the six pieces after his burns had healed, more poorly than well. He could see only very vaguely, had spent his days drifting between boredom, frustration, and self-pity—until he discovered that clear vision wasn’t strictly necessary for playing the piano. The familiar feeling of the keys beneath his fingers gave him a way to channel his restlessness, and he poured it into the song cycle he had played the previous night.

"I’m honored that you shared these personal pieces with me, dear boy."

"Think nothing of it…" Crowley murmured and received a tolerant smile from Aziraphale, who must already have noticed his habit of brushing off praise.

"You do know I’ll now ask you to play for me at every opportunity?" Aziraphale asked mischievously.

"What are friends for?" Crowley replied with a forced grin, his heart twisting painfully inside.

"Exactly! And out of this very friendship, you must accompany me to Eden House after breakfast; I’ve got a few books on sheep farming in the library. They should give you a proper overview… I very much hope the paths are walkable again after the storm yesterday..."

And Crowley was only too glad to listen to Aziraphale’s cheerful chatter as he told him about sheep stuck in the mud—unaware that, since the previous night, Crowley’s heart now belonged to him.

- - - 

Crowley was in a foul mood.

With a disgusting squelch, his boot came free from the slippery mud and he stumbled forward, always trailing behind the portly figure of Aziraphale.

Strangely enough, his neighbour seemed to have no difficulty with the rain-soaked fields. Nimbly, he avoided the muddier patches and stepped with his sturdy boots only on the relatively secure spots that brought him closer to Eden House with dry feet.

Every now and then, Aziraphale cast a good-natured glance over his shoulder to make sure Crowley was still following. However, Crowley fancied he detected a mischievous glint in those regular looks – surely in reference to Crowley’s urban ineptitude when it came to dressing appropriately for rural weather or hitting the mark with regard to muddy holes.

'Bastard!' he thought to himself as Aziraphale turned once more to him with a look of amused pity, while he tried to shake off the worst of the muck from his ruined boots. But he couldn’t help grinning at Aziraphale’s amusement. He was prissy, and utterly unashamed of it!

“Come now, Crowley! It’s not far to Eden House, and then I can lend you a pair of my boots. Really, my dear, you are quite evidently dressed all wrong for these latitudes…”

“We can’t all wear tartan…” Crowley muttered under his breath, though he was more amused by the jab than anything else.

“At the very least, you now have the certainty that your tenants and their flocks came through last night’s storm unscathed,” Aziraphale explained, while Crowley hurried to catch up.

All morning, Aziraphale had accompanied Crowley on a round through both their most important tenants’ lands, to ensure no major damage had been caused by the storm.

Crowley had to admit he was grateful for his neighbour’s support: Aziraphale not only knew all of his own tenants by name, but also Crowley’s. He listened attentively when they reported damage or the like, offered advice or recommendations here and there, and occasionally jotted down details into a tiny, leather-bound notebook that he pulled, to Crowley’s surprise and delight, from one of his waistcoat pockets.

The tenants, in turn – sturdy farmers of varying ages, with dialects nearly as incomprehensible as Shadwell’s – seemed to hold Aziraphale in high regard. Crowley noticed that they all treated him politely, and even seemed more favourably disposed towards himself once Aziraphale introduced him with warm words as the new landowner.

“It won’t do to abandon the farmers or not take their concerns seriously,” Aziraphale explained to him as they walked between two farms, “when a farmer sees that his landlord neglects him and leaves him to fend for himself, he won’t lift a finger more than he has to. These families are our responsibility, my dear – they rely on us just as much as we rely on them.”

And that responsibility, Aziraphale took very seriously – that much Crowley had gathered, watching with growing respect as his neighbour inspected a leaking roof, examined the hooves of a limping sheep, praised the dry cake of a young farmer’s wife with a friendly smile, or with laughter in his round face tossed back a ball to two muddy boys.

Between the visits, Aziraphale kept Crowley informed of the many individual concerns of the tenants and their livestock. Without seeming pompous or condescending, he instructed Crowley in his new duties as landowner, and Crowley could only marvel at how earnest and sincere Aziraphale was in managing his estate.

“This region should count itself lucky to have you looking after it, Aziraphale,” Crowley had told his neighbour in amazement, to which the latter had blushed slightly and waved it off, saying:

“I do my best – but the business of a farmer is no witchcraft, you will see. Experience and a bit of guidance, that is all you need.”

But now, as Crowley trudged grumpily through the mud, it seemed to him that above all else, resilience and sturdy footwear were the essential qualities of a farmer.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the two men reached Eden House, and Crowley was thoroughly relieved.

“Let’s go through the gardens – you can take your boots off on the terrace, Crowley. Mrs Young, my housekeeper, would murder me if I let you into the house with those filthy boots.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale, glad to be promised dry feet at last. With some effort, he peeled off the boots, while his neighbour watched him sceptically.

“You know, I think this pair is beyond saving,” Aziraphale declared, eyeing the sad remains of the once fashionable footwear.

“I’m afraid so,” Crowley muttered darkly.

“Ah, Young,” Aziraphale greeted the butler, who just then came through the French doors leading to the terrace. “Mr Crowley has had a bit of unfortunate luck with his footwear on the storm-ruined paths – would you mind disposing of these sad remains and finding a pair of my boots he might borrow?”

Young, a capable and kind-hearted man without much finesse but with an honest soul, eyed Crowley’s feet in their wet and dirty socks sceptically.

“I fear your boots won’t fit Mr Crowley, sir. But if I may be so bold – my son Adam should be about the same size.”

“Wonderful!” cried Aziraphale and beamed at Crowley. “That’ll do for now – you can take the carriage back to Possingworth later. No, no, I insist! Once it gets dark, you really ought not to be walking through the slippery fields. And we’ll arrange an appointment with one of the local cobblers so you can get something proper.”

Crowley nodded and merely sighed. He knew when he was beaten.

Young went off to fetch his son’s boots, and Crowley fervently hoped the borrowed shoes would be at least halfway acceptable. Aziraphale looked at him, quite pleased.

“I believe it’s time for a good cup of tea, don’t you agree, my dear?”

“Please!” Crowley grumbled, his socked feet freezing on the bitterly cold stone of the terrace. He pulled his coat tighter around him, shivering.

At that moment, a young man in a footman’s uniform came out onto the terrace. Crowley estimated him to be about Dowling’s age, with thick, dark-blond curls on his head and large blue eyes. In his hands, he carried a pair of brown boots, some socks, and a linen cloth.

“Ah, Adam!” Aziraphale greeted the young man with a good-natured smile. “You come just in time!”

“Father said you’d need some boots, sir? I brought socks and a drying cloth as well…”

“Quite right. Thank you for lending Mister Crowley your boots, my boy. You’ll have them back this evening.”

“No trouble at all, Mister Fell,” replied the young man and handed Crowley the items, upon which the latter began drying his poor cold feet and dressing them again.

In the meantime, Aziraphale turned back to Adam, giving Crowley and his battered feet a little privacy.

“How did you like the last book I gave you, Adam?”

The young man’s eyes lit up.

“Brilliant, Mr Fell! It was ever so exciting, I could hardly put it down! Mother already scolded me for it…”

“Well, if you liked The Count of Monte Cristo that much, then I must give you some more books by Alexandre Dumas. Perhaps The Three Musketeers?”

“Always happy to, Mister Fell,” said the young man, a boyish grin flashing across his open, honest face. “So long as I don’t have to read Caesar again…”

“Out with you, you ungrateful rascal!” laughed Aziraphale good-naturedly, tugging the young man lightly by the ear before he, giggling, gathered up Crowley’s ruined shoes and socks along with the used cloth and hurried back into the house.

Crowley rose from the low wall where he had sat to change his shoes and gave Aziraphale a quizzical look, one brow raised.

“Do you make all your footmen read Caesar in their spare time?”

“Good heavens, no!” chuckled Aziraphale, ushering Crowley toward the door. “That was Adam Young, the son of the butler and the housekeeper. Ever since he was a little boy, he’s had his nose in every book he could get his hands on. I wanted to encourage him a little, so I’ve given him a bit of tutoring here and there…”

“In Latin?!?” Crowley asked incredulously as they entered the house and made their way into Aziraphale’s library. “What’s the lad supposed to do with that?”

“It never hurts to know a bit of Latin!” Aziraphale replied primly. “But if you must know, my dear, I intend to train him as a bookkeeper. He already helps me with a great deal of the paperwork; the correspondence, much of the business affairs… In fact, I’ve been thinking of officially making him my secretary soon. He doesn’t have to stay here forever, of course – perhaps in a few years he’ll want to work in an office in the city or something of the kind… But here, at least, he’ll have received a solid education with which he can make something of himself. Who knows, maybe he’ll even want to attend university?”

He settled into one of the comfortable chairs in the library and cast Crowley a slightly embarrassed glance before looking down at his folded hands in his lap. Crowley slumped into the armchair opposite, his long limbs seemingly thrown across it in a way that defied anatomy.

“As you know, I no longer have a son of my own, Crowley,” Aziraphale continued. “And I’m terribly fond of Adam – he’s such a bright young man! I suppose I just want to give him all the advantages and privileges my own boy would once have had.”

Crowley’s heart broke for the man before him, who was opening a path for a humble servant’s boy that he would never have been granted otherwise. Where, indeed, had one ever seen a better man than Aziraphale Fell?

“I’m sure he’s very grateful to you,” Crowley murmured awkwardly.

“Oh yes, he’s a dear boy – even if he doesn’t particularly appreciate Caesar’s Bellum Gallicum. But I must admit, I’m not terribly fond of it either. There are more exciting books, don’t you think?”

“You’re the expert,” Crowley replied.

“Well, then I shall declare it a fact,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “And as for books – I’ll have you converted yet! I meant to provide you with some literature on animal husbandry, just a moment…”

And as Crowley groaned and leaned his head back against the chair, Aziraphale’s eyes were already wandering along the seemingly endless shelves in search of the right titles to bore Crowley relentlessly. 

Chapter Text

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, putting down the book he had just been reading.

In the few weeks Crowley had already been living at Possingworth Manor, the initially rather pitiful and – curiously – exclusively occult-focused library had steadily grown: not only had Crowley, with increasing enthusiasm, acquired more and more books on the various breeding methods of pineapple plants and other exotic flora, but Aziraphale too had taken to bringing along a few volumes of his own choosing whenever he visited Possingworth.

At first, he had brought Crowley just a few general books on animal husbandry and agriculture and insisted that Crowley keep them.

But then he had begun to bring things here and there that he thought his neighbor might enjoy: a lexicon of rose species, the latest edition of Mr. Trollope’s popular novel Orley Farm, a treatise on Ceylon tea, and much more.

Crowley by no means read everything Aziraphale brought, but he couldn’t bring himself to reject these good-natured gestures of friendship. So he silently sorted the new additions onto the shelves of his library and observed how it slowly but steadily filled over the weeks.

And after all: the person who frequented his library most was Aziraphale himself!

Between the two neighbors, an exceedingly regular and warm rapport had developed – they saw each other often and gladly – and most evenings ended with both men sitting in front of the fireplace, Aziraphale with a book and Crowley usually with his correspondence or silently with a glass of whiskey in hand.

Whether at Eden House or Possingworth Manor, more than half the week passed in each other’s company.

And so the two men were once again sitting together at this very moment, as Aziraphale laid down his book and looked at Crowley over his slightly absurd reading glasses with their round, gold-rimmed lenses.

“Crowley, I have just realised something tremendous!”

“And that is?” replied Crowley, who had just been adjusting his pocket watch and now looked up from his work.

Lately, he had taken to removing his tinted glasses while at home, so Aziraphale was now looking directly into Crowley’s fire-damaged eyes – a sight to which he had grown almost instantly accustomed.

“It has just occurred to me that I have not the faintest notion as to what your professional undertakings actually are! I mean, I know that you have invested here and there and maintain a good deal of correspondence in that regard – you have told me as much. But you have often mentioned that, as a young man, you took over your late father’s affairs: what precisely these entailed, however, you have never told me!”

“Truly not?” Crowley shook his head. “I could have sworn I’d mentioned it to you.”

“Not that I’m aware of!” Aziraphale replied, a nearly pouting expression settling on his round face, which made Crowley smile slightly.

“Then I must apologise for the oversight. Well then, brace yourself for the truth: I oversaw a branch of colonial goods imports on behalf of the British East India Company – primarily the import of silks from China and India.”

“Crowley, how thrilling! How could you have kept that from me!” Aziraphale exclaimed, his blue eyes shining with excitement.

“Well, I haven’t been in service for some years now. Most of my duties these days involve extended bookkeeping of my investments... and the management of Possingworth, as of late,” Crowley murmured and took another sip of his excellent whiskey, which had arrived just last week by special order.

“Now your refined clothing makes sense to me, my dear boy! I noticed from the beginning the exquisite fabrics you wear. You must have developed such an elegant taste during your many journeys for the Company!”

“You flatter me outrageously,” Crowley muttered, embarrassed, though secretly flattered that his extravagant sense of dress had not only been noticed by Aziraphale but had also met with approval. “I suppose a preference for fine cloth is hard to avoid when one’s spent so long dealing with them.”

“Oh, I quite believe you,” Aziraphale nodded with a smile. “But one must also be able to wear such things with confidence – and you most certainly do, my dear.”

Crowley blushed slightly at the compliment and quickly took another sip from his glass.

“There’s nothing to it – you could do the same.”

“Me? Oh heavens, Crowley!” Aziraphale cried out. “Goodness, I’m the last person anyone would accuse of refined sartorial taste. I always have my tailor make the same things, and I value practicality and comfort far above whatever happens to be en vogue at the moment. Not that I’d even know what is currently en vogue among the fashion-conscious...” he added with a slightly cynical smile. “I fear I’m a bit too old-fashioned and complacent for that – unlike you.”

Crowley didn’t like the way Aziraphale spoke so disparagingly of himself.

Crowley’s feelings for his neighbor might make him a terribly biased judge, but from a cloth-merchant’s perspective, Aziraphale’s appearance wasn’t half bad: his taste was simple but elegant, and the quality of his clothing was very decent.

Nothing extraordinary, but certainly very decent. Crowley wrestled with himself over how best to convey this opinion without sounding too much like a lovesick youth.

“I may not be the greatest admirer of tartan,” he began cautiously, and a smile crept onto his face as he saw Aziraphale thrust his chin forward in defiance. “But I think you dress excellently. Certainly far more appropriately for this latitude than I do!” he added dryly.

“As I said,” Aziraphale sighed. “Practicality and comfort over style.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Crowley muttered, avoiding his companion’s gaze. “But if you really wanted, I could order a few bolts of fabric from my tailor in London...”

“Oh, you needn’t go to such trouble on my account!”

“No, no, I understand. It was a foolish idea... You don’t need... ” Internally, Crowley scolded himself; what had gotten into him?

Would he be quoting Longfellow next and sending bouquets of delicate blossoms?

“Well, if it really wouldn’t be too much trouble for you,” Aziraphale interrupted his hasty assurances, a little shyly, “perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to dress a bit more extravagantly. So far I’ve lacked the proper expertise, but if you’d be willing to advise me?”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open.

“You mean, I should––?”

“Only if you don’t mind, of course!” Aziraphale quickly added, faint red patches on his cheeks.

“No, I’d be honoured!” Crowley exclaimed quickly. “I’ll write to my tailor first thing in the morning!”

“That would be simply delightful of you!” Aziraphale said cheerfully, while Crowley’s heart swelled.

The thought that a silky fabric, one that had once slid through his fingers, might soon rest against Aziraphale’s skin made him shiver almost involuntarily.

“What a wonderful profession, Crowley! That you kept it from me for so long! You must have had countless adventures. Surely you travelled a great deal?”

With some effort, Crowley pulled his thoughts back to his time in service to the Crown.

“Yes, quite a bit. That was one of the few advantages of being employed by the East India Company. I got around a bit... India, China, Russia–– I’ve probably spent more time abroad than in England altogether. After the fire, though, I rather lost the spirit for travel and settled more or less permanently in London.”

He tried not to sound too bitter and was at least half-satisfied with the result.

“I understand,” Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. “Still, you must have seen such exciting things, Crowley. I admit, I’m a bit jealous! I’ve never left Europe!”

“I believe Asia might suit you. Years ago, when our ship was in the harbour at Hong Kong...”

And Crowley launched into a tale about one of his pompous superiors from the East India Company, who had gotten it into his head to make an appearance in China with a certain grandeur and had therefore grown himself a voluminous moustache.

After a misunderstanding involving a rich mandarin’s lap-monkey and a bottle of indigo dye, the superior had found himself with a deep-blue moustache and a deeply wounded pride.

While Crowley spoke and gesticulated wildly, he seemed strangely unguarded, and Aziraphale caught a glimpse of the Anthony J. Crowley he must have been before the fire and his disfigurement. Aziraphale could vividly picture young Crowley in his mind’s eye:

A dashing young man in extravagant attire, perhaps a bit more colourful than the noble, dark fabrics that made up his scandalously tight-fitting clothing these days.

A man with a piercing gaze and a slightly mocking smile, which always gave the impression that he knew something the rest of the world didn’t even dare to ask.

He had surely always been the sort of man who commanded attention in any room—not because he sought it, but because he inevitably seized it through a mix of arrogance, intelligence, and provocative strangeness.

And Aziraphale was not wrong: after abandoning his studies and following his father’s death, Crowley had thrown himself into travel, disgusted and constrained by the conventions of prudish, moralising England.

Taking up his father’s post at the British East India Company suited him quite well, even if he detested the connection to his father that his name carried.

He had been restless, driven, and never truly at home—an existential nomad, as he liked to call himself.

In refined circles, he had been considered dazzling, occasionally brilliant, but more often impertinent and blunt.

Only over time had his rough edges begun to smooth. After the fire, he had come to terms with himself and his nature—there was a hint of bitterness to him, yes, but he approached himself with growing self-irony.

Yet these darker corners of Crowley’s past remained hidden from Aziraphale, who eagerly followed the absurd story.

Aziraphale was an excellent listener: he nodded when appropriate, gasped in all the right places, or laughed with relief and provided Crowley with an ideal audience for his anecdotes.

“I only meant to nod politely, but suddenly I carried a goat and was engaged to the daughter of the village chief!” Crowley concluded his adventure with a wide grin and watched with satisfaction as Aziraphale wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes.

“No, really, Crowley. However did you get out of that unfortunate situation?”

“Oh, it was easier than you'd think.” Crowley waved it off and took another sip of his whisky. “I had the interpreter tell the village chief that I had not wished to marry his daughter but was rather keen on marrying the goat—and was chased out of the village in shame and disgrace!”

“Crowley! You foul fiend!” cried Aziraphale, clutching his sides in pain from laughter. “You’ve been hiding this adventurous side of you! What a life you’ve led! This quiet country life among us provincials must seem dreadfully dreary to you!”

Crowley looked down into his steadily emptying glass, and a faintly bitter expression touched his lips as he replied softly to Aziraphale:

“My tales of travel may sound marvellous and entertaining, but what was once exciting and thrilling becomes wearying in the long run: I’d scarcely been in England since I was twenty-five until the dreadful fire at my friend’s estate; never staying in one place longer than a few weeks, never any leisure, no steady company—that quickly leads to a light and superficial life without real purpose.”

“It sounds as though you were running a bit from yourself, my dear,” Aziraphale remarked, a knowing look on his round face.

“Perhaps... No, quite certainly!” Crowley admitted. “The inheritance from Aunt Agnes has become something I truly needed: perhaps this is my chance to settle down. After going half-blind I resigned from service. These past years I’ve withdrawn quite a bit from business and tried to grow a little more... domestic. But you know how London is—one doesn’t lead a quiet, peaceful life there...”

“I understand, you don’t need to justify yourself to me, my dear boy.”

A wish stirred in Crowley, a desire to lay bare his whole self before Aziraphale; to convince him that he was not at all some respectable gentleman with a few eccentricities—far from it!

And yet, if he wanted to remain here at Possingworth in the company of this wonderful man, he could never reveal the whole truth about his lifestyle and inclinations.

“No, you don’t understand—I am... I’m not exactly what one would call a respectable and decent man to be around. My life until a few years ago was—well...”

Crowley hesitated, searching for the right words, until he forced out through clenched teeth: “you certainly wouldn’t have approved of the way I lived back then.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer at once. His face showed no strong expression that might have given Crowley any clue as to what he was thinking.

In fact, the silence following Crowley’s confession stretched on so long that it sent chills down his spine.

But then Aziraphale removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and looked Crowley straight in the eyes.

“My dear boy, perhaps you’re right and you and I would not have been friends in the past. I may not be particularly worldly, Crowley, but I do try to hold an honest view of life: you don’t seem altogether content with the life you used to lead—and I’d prefer not to hear more than cheerful anecdotes from it—but if you’ve come here to the South Downs to begin a new life, who am I to reproach you for it? ‘Judge not, and you shall not be judged. Condemn not, and you shall not be condemned. Forgive, and you shall be forgiven.’ All that matters to me is the man sitting before me now, whom I’ve come to appreciate very much these past weeks and months.”

To Crowley, it felt as though the ground had been pulled from beneath his feet.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your trust,” he finally managed to say in a hoarse voice.

“You are yourself, Crowley. That alone is enough for me,” Aziraphale replied with a knowing smile, then put his spectacles back on and turned again to his book.

Chapter Text

“Ah, here you are hiding, my dear!” Aziraphale exclaimed and carefully pushed aside a large fern with his hand. “I might have guessed you were loitering in your orangery again. How are your protégés? Are you frightening them once more with baseless threats?”

“My seedlings need a firm hand!” Crowley hissed through his teeth and wiped his earth-stained hands on his smock. “And nothing about my threats is baseless!” he added, casting a warning glance at a delicate hibiscus blossom.

“Really, Crowley!” Aziraphale chuckled and stepped closer to his neighbour, who awkwardly freed himself from his smock and tossed it carelessly over the shelf with surplus flowerpots. “One could think you held a personal grudge against your beautiful cultivations!”

“I beg you not to call my expertise into question.”

“I would never even think of such a thing!” Aziraphale replied with an innocent smile and gently stroked the large, fleshy leaf of an imposing succulent. “However strange it may appear from the outside that you speak with such sternness to your plants, the results speak for themselves! Your orangery is second to none, my dear!”

Crowley blushed at the compliment and tried in vain to appear nonchalant.

“A mere hobby, nothing more,” he muttered and put his tinted glasses back on. “You come at the right moment, I was just about to return to the house for some lunch. May I invite you?”

“Thank you, Crowley, most kind. But I am on my way to one of my tenants and only wished to briefly ask for your support.”

“I am glad to help you wherever I can. Let us walk a bit of the way together.”

Together Aziraphale and Crowley left the orangery and stepped outside. After the damp warmth of the greenhouse, the fresh spring air struck the two men as icy cold, and each of them, independently, pulled their coats more tightly around themselves. They walked a stretch towards the house while Aziraphale laid out his concern:

“This morning I received a visit from the village schoolmaster, Barnabas Brown; I am sure you have met him at church. A capable teacher, though a little pedantic... He and his sister Margaret instruct the local children, Maggie taking the youngest, her brother Barnabas the older pupils. In any case, it seems the old school building is in dire condition—the roof is leaking and the walls are close to collapsing… Of course I promised him my aid; I regard a little financial support for this purpose as my Christian duty! I wished to ask if you too might contribute a little? I would say it would not only be a good deed for the children but also gain you some esteem in this area.”

Crowley had to suppress a smile as Aziraphale laid out the matter. Pompous as the name Barnabas Brown sounded, the man knew precisely whom to ask for help with the schoolhouse: naturally Aziraphale Fell would give generous assistance and even prompt his friends and neighbours to do likewise. Mr. Brown had just secured for himself, his sister, and their pupils a brand-new schoolhouse...

It touched Crowley that Aziraphale, beyond his usual generosity, was also thinking of Crowley’s standing. That man he truly could refuse nothing, least of all such a selfless favour!

“Of course, how could I possibly say no to such a thing!”

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale beamed and looked at Crowley with such a happy expression that it made his heart contract. “I shall have Adam issue a generous donation in both our names.”

“And I shall instruct Dowling to hand Adam a few pound notes,” Crowley agreed. “How is Adam doing as your new secretary?”

Aziraphale had officially made Adam his secretary the previous week, as he had long intended, and from what Crowley had gathered, Adam was overjoyed in his new position.

“Oh, he is an extraordinarily diligent boy!” In Aziraphale’s voice one could hear his pride in his protégé, and not for the first time Crowley regretted that his dear friend had not been granted the joy of calling a brood of children his own. “Not that much has changed for him. Essentially, he performs the same tasks he has already carried out for some time, but now he is relieved of most of his former duties as footman and no longer wears livery. His father and mother are mighty proud of him, and he himself is more than content, I daresay!”

“Not to mention, one can see your pride in the boy as well...” Crowley remarked with a sidelong glance at Aziraphale, before they reached the terrace of Possingworth Manor.

“You know how dear the boy is to me,” Aziraphale said softly, a small furrow digging itself into the bridge of his nose. “I rejoice that he is making something decent of himself, and I wish to help him wherever I can...”

“I know, you need not justify yourself to me, Aziraphale!”

“It is only that I sometimes think I might be going a little too far! Adam has parents who love him dearly—he does not need someone else watching over him, least of all an ageing, sentimental fool such as myself!”

“If you ask me, that ageing, sentimental fool is exactly what Adam needs in his life,” Crowley threw in, slightly embarrassed. “Without your helping hand, he would tread in his father’s footsteps and spend his whole life as a servant! He can count himself lucky that you have taken him under your wing. And clever as the boy is, he knows his good fortune full well!”

“You are really too kind, Crowley.”

“Not worth mentioning. We all can use more than one father figure—I speak from experience!”

A note of bitterness had crept into Crowley’s voice, and a knowing look spread across Aziraphale’s face as they together mounted the terrace steps.

“Well said, my dear! One day you must tell me more about the paternal models of your youth, and we shall see whether I cannot add one or two examples of my own. At least you have quieted my conscience concerning Adam. I am as well disposed toward him as if he were my own, and if you say my fatherly counsel and aid are not misplaced...”

“I assure you, the very opposite is the case!” Crowley soothed his neighbour.

“Oh Crowley, at times you know me better than I know myself, though we made each other’s acquaintance only a few months ago. But I will not keep you any longer, my dear, I must be off in any case. Duty calls!”

And with that amiable smile, which struck Crowley every time like a heavy sledgehammer in the pit of his stomach, Aziraphale took his leave and left him standing alone at the terrace door of Possingworth.

Only then did Crowley notice in surprise that the door stood open. Annoyed, he stepped through, displeased at the draught of cold air sweeping into the warmly heated room beyond, when he bumped into someone.

Looking up, through his tinted glasses he saw none other than Adam Young before him.

On the young man’s face, not clad in livery but in simple yet tasteful clothing, was written sheer bewilderment.

He must have overheard the conversation, Crowley thought to himself, suppressing the broad grin that threatened to break out on his face.

“Eavesdropping are we...” he intoned, and to his satisfaction saw deep embarrassment spread in a flush across Adam’s face.

“Mr. Crowley, sir!” Adam began. “Mr. Fell had forgotten his notebook at Eden House and I was just about to bring it to him, Mr. Dowling let me in...”

“And you thought you might listen to a private conversation?” Crowley asked mercilessly.

“I heard nothing I did not already know!” the young man declared, thrusting his chin forward defiantly.

“Oh, no?”

“Mr. Crowley, how many sons of servants do you know whose master personally instructs them in Latin and the rudiments of law?” Adam asked with a crooked grin, and Crowley could not help but return it.

“So you know how much Mr. Fell cares for you, boy?”

“Last year I had to enter some things into the Fells’ family register. I was not particularly surprised to find that Mrs. Fell had died in childbed the same year I was born...”

Crowley knew how foolish and contemptible this feeling was, but whenever someone mentioned the poor Mrs. Fell who had died so young, he felt hopeless jealousy. Of course he understood rationally that the young woman’s death in childbed was a tragedy, and yet he could not help but loathe her, for she had been able to hold Aziraphale in her arms—be it for only a short time—while such a fate was denied him!

“Is that so?” he returned to the conversation.

“Sir, I am deeply attached to my parents. But sometimes I think I am somewhat alien to them. If I find in Mr. Fell someone who is nearer to me, and he in me the son he lost, then where is the harm? Does it not serve everyone rightly?”

“You are a clever lad, Adam,” Crowley said amused. “Never forget how much good Mr. Fell has done you, and you could turn out something decent!”

Not for the first time Crowley noticed the strange gift of empathy the young man before him possessed.

“I do my best, sir!”

“That I should think. Since you are here, you might as well make yourself useful. Mr. Fell has told you of the donation to the schoolmaster?”

“The renovation of the old schoolhouse?”

“Indeed. Mr. Fell has persuaded me to join in this charitable endeavour. If I give you a few pound notes, will you deliver them together with Mr. Fell’s donation to this Bernard Brown?”

“Barnabas, sir. Barnabas and Margaret Brown,” Adam corrected politely.

“Barnabas, what a ridiculous name!” Crowley growled, noting with satisfaction Adam’s broad smile at the name.

“You will find the name well suits the man.”

“Personal experience from school days, Adam?”

“Indeed, sir. Maggie Brown is all right, but Mr. Brown is hard to endure in the long run.”

“Best not let Aziraphale hear that!” Crowley advised, but Adam only laughed.

“Mr. Fell does not think much of Mr. Brown since they quarrelled about Virgil. He makes an effort to conceal it, but secretly he cannot abide the man!”

“Ha, that I like to hear!” Crowley exclaimed, once again delighted that Aziraphale, behind his righteous façade, could at times be wonderfully spiteful.

“Come, Adam. Let us rescue this Mr. Brown’s schoolhouse—come with me into my study!” And obediently Adam hurried after Crowley, out of the chilly spring draught.

---

Crowley handed hat and gloves to Adam’s father, the butler, as he entered Eden House and strode straight toward the library. He brushed aside Young’s offer to announce him to Aziraphale with a careless wave of his hand: he spent almost as much time in this house as in his own, the social formalities had relaxed some time ago, and even the staff in both Possingworth and Eden House were accustomed to regarding both Crowley and Aziraphale as part of their respective households.

After his conversation with young Adam that afternoon, Crowley had spent the day dealing with tedious correspondence, and he longed for Aziraphale’s company. Knowing he was always welcome and that, if necessary—just as Aziraphale had a guest room ready in his own house—one of the many guest rooms was constantly at his disposal, he had ridden over to the neighboring estate after dinner, intending to while away the evening with Aziraphale.

But when he opened the door to the library, the scene before him was not what he had expected:

Crowley generally understood Aziraphale as a cheerful soul, an incorrigible optimist who went through the world with one of his brilliant smiles on his lips. All the more striking, then, was to see his friend in a state that was clearly out of the ordinary.

Aziraphale sat in his velvet house jacket in his customary armchair by the fire, an untouched glass of sherry on the small table beside him and a book in hand. His reading glasses rested on his nose—glasses for which Crowley had teased him more than once. Yet even from his position at the door, Crowley could see that Aziraphale’s eyes were red and his face streaked with tears.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked softly, stepping closer hesitantly.

“Crowley, I wasn’t expecting you!” he exclaimed, quickly closing the book in his lap. Hastily, he tore the glasses from his nose, pulled a handkerchief from his house jacket, and rubbed at his face.

“Come in, come in! How about a whiskey?” he asked with a forced cheerfulness.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began again, as his friend clumsily rose from the armchair and approached the sideboard. “If this is a bad time, of course I can go...”

“No, please...” Aziraphale, still with his back to Crowley, paused in his movements among the decanters. “I... I would prefer company, if you don’t mind,” he added almost in a whisper.

“Of course, naturally,” Crowley said. Aziraphale still had his back to him, and suddenly he noticed his shoulders trembling slightly. Uncertain, Crowley stepped toward him and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. At the light touch, the blond man inhaled sharply and let his hands drop, his head bowed forward.

What had happened? Crowley’s thoughts raced, yet he could make no sense of the scene. His neighbor had seemed perfectly normal that afternoon—his usual cheerful self!

Several tense minutes passed, during which Crowley awkwardly left his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, until finally his friend spoke:

“It’s exactly twenty-two years... I only realized it this afternoon when we were talking about Adam. He is exactly the same age, you see.” His voice sounded fragile, and the shoulder under Crowley’s hand still trembled. “I often think about how it would have been if not... Surely children would have followed—two, three, perhaps more.”

Slowly, Crowley understood and tightened his grip on his friend’s shoulder as Aziraphale reached for his handkerchief again.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Aziraphale,” he said quietly.

A hand gripped his on Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezed.

“It’s cruel to lose a child, especially one you never knew,” he whimpered, clutching Crowley’s hand as if he might otherwise drown. “I imagine what sort of man he would have become. He would long since have ceased to be a child, not even a youth! My boy would now be a man of twenty-two, like Adam... Crowley, I...”

He was overcome by violent sobs and leaned back against Crowley’s chest, grief making him unable to stand upright.

“I try to find meaning, to console myself with the thought that it was the Almighty’s providence, that there are so many children who have not even been baptized—but how heavy must this trial weigh upon me, to lose both wife and son?”

Rage surged through Crowley as he wrapped Aziraphale in his arms, holding him steady while violent shudders shook him. Yes, what divine power could inflict such suffering on a faithful man? Crowley felt confirmed that this God could only be the vengeful, cruel, and punishing God of the Old Testament. Yet he held back his own views, knowing his friend would not share them.

“I don’t know, I can offer no comfort!” Crowley whispered desperately, tightening his hold around Aziraphale, who gratefully shifted his weight onto him.

Crowley did not know how long they remained that way. Minutes, hours, days? But eventually, Aziraphale’s tears subsided, and his body was no longer shaken by grief. Gently, he released himself from Crowley’s embrace and leaned on the sideboard with his hands, breathing deeply.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he said softly.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Crowley murmured, offering him his own handkerchief from the side, which Aziraphale gratefully took to dry his face before turning to him.

“But I want to,” he said with a pained smile. “Imagine, it was a book that unsettled me. Well, rather, a poem.”

He walked to his armchair and picked up the book he had been holding until a moment ago. Crowley followed his every move, as if fearing Aziraphale might collapse at any second.

“Here—‘Early Death,’” he read, handing the book—open to the correct page—to Crowley, who took it uncertainly. “How powerful and mighty poetry is, bringing one closer to something so long ago. The memory feels fresh again, as if it were yesterday...”

Crowley read while Aziraphale returned to the sideboard, pouring two generous glasses of whiskey—and Crowley’s heart broke at the words.

Early Death

How fair to die in childhood’s tender days,

The bud that fades ere it has fully bloomed,

The heart that falters, never worn by ways,

And nothing lost that never was consumed.

The dream departs before harsh dawn betrays,

Before sweet visions suffer cruel decay,

The lips fall silent ere they lose their praise,

The eyes grow dim ere tears can cloud their way.

To heaven soars the soul, still pure and bright,

No dreadful death disturbs its gentle flight.

An angel bends and, loving, stoops to keep—

And from its lips he kisses it to sleep.

Albert Traeger, 1857

“Here—I know I need it,” Aziraphale said, his voice still hoarse from tears, handing Crowley the glass, closing the book, and setting it back in the armchair.

“Thank you.” He watched the man’s hands tremble as he took a deep sip. “You know I have no children and am not married; I dare not judge how deep the pain must be to lose both child and wife,” Crowley explained. “But I can see how much it still affects you all these years, and I wish I could take the suffering away.”

“Your sympathy means a great deal to me, my dear,” said Aziraphale, head bowed. “Please forgive me for letting myself go so.”

“Don’t,” Crowley replied, more forcefully than he intended. “You must not apologize, not for that...”

Aziraphale stared at him, eyes red-rimmed, wide and uncertain.

“You mourn—for your wife and son—what is a friend for, if not to understand such emotions?”

Slowly, Aziraphale raised his right hand, while holding his glass firmly with the other, and laid it on Crowley’s arm.

“Of course—I cannot thank you enough, my dear, dear Crowley.”

It took every ounce of Crowley’s self-control not to lean into the touch. His limbs still remembered how he had once held Aziraphale in his arms, both heads together, while the other was shaken by convulsive sobs.

Later, as he sat on the edge of the bed in his customary guest room at Eden House, Crowley could still smell Aziraphale’s Eau de Toilette lingering in the air.

Chapter Text

“A letter has arrived for you, Sir,” said Dowling one day, holding out a large envelope to Crowley.

“Just put it with the rest of the correspondence on my desk in the library, Dowling,” Crowley instructed his valet without even looking up from his drawings.

March had given way to April, and at last Crowley allowed himself to make more detailed plans for his garden: the past weeks and months he had spent at Possingworth had been too cold or too damp to occupy himself more thoroughly with a redesign of the grounds surrounding the estate.

Certainly, under his instruction the stable boys had removed the leaves and dead plant matter, cut back perennials, and loosened the beds. But now in April, since the worst of the frost was past, Crowley could finally begin to plant perennials, various shrubs, fruit trees and berry bushes. Not to mention various vegetables.

With an enthusiasm that astonished his entire household, Crowley drew one sketch after another. First, he had gone with Mrs. Bridges, his cook, into the designated fruit and vegetable garden, and the capable matron had listed for him exactly what would need to be planted for the daily kitchen needs. With the greatest care Crowley then worked out a plan for the kitchen gardens: he drew in a generous field for potatoes, beets, and tubers of all sorts, beside which the beds for vegetables such as spinach, chard, etc. were to lie. Along one of the garden walls the perennials and shrubs would be trained up, and a fine little herb garden in monastic style promised abundant, fragrant yields for culinary flights. A number of wonderful fruit trees already stood around Possingworth, and Crowley only needed to add one or two more kinds that would, in the long run, bring rich harvests.

After the kitchen gardens, he turned to the roses. In recent years, under the late Aunt Agnes, the old rosebushes had been much neglected, Crowley noted expertly. Together with one of the lads, he had cut the bushes back radically so that they would bloom splendidly again this summer. Between the roses Crowley now planned to plant lavender bushes, which in full bloom would smell wonderfully.

And so it went on; Crowley covered sheet after sheet of paper with sketches of individual garden sections, lists of orders, calculations of tulip bulb prices and much more. His desk was strewn with various reference books on botany, garden aesthetics and horticulture, and even Dowling no longer dared to disturb this installation on the writing table.

At the very moment when Dowling was about to hand Crowley the letter, Crowley was sitting over his notes with a catalogue from a local grower of conifers, brooding over the various properties of spruces, cypresses, and firs.

“I venture to say that this letter has been expected by you with some urgency, Sir,” insisted the young valet, still holding out the thick, large envelope to his master.

With a raised eyebrow Crowley at last looked up from his reading and took the letter. But no sooner had he recognized the seal than he impatiently broke the wax and tossed the envelope aside.

“It has arrived! Dowling, it has finally come!”

“Indeed, Sir.” A faint smile played about the thin lips of the valet as he looked with satisfaction at his master, who eagerly leafed through the brochure that had appeared.

“You did well to bring me the letter directly!”

“I endeavour to give satisfaction, Sir,” declared Dowling, leaving the delighted Crowley to the study of his long-awaited brochure.

The document Crowley held in his hands was less a catalogue for the lover of purchasable flora than rather an announcement pamphlet. In large, splendid letters stood elegantly on the title page:

THE LONDON INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION Of INDUSTRY AND ART
Opening May 1st, 1862

How long had Crowley waited for this final announcement!

As a former officer in the service of Her Majesty the Queen, it had been only natural for Crowley to join the Royal Horticultural Society. On his travels he had diligently collected the most exotic seedlings and seeds and had them safely shipped to England, to the great delight of his colleagues in the society. He might not have been the most enthusiastic visitor of the assemblies and the accompanying lectures, but the catalogues and reports of the Horticultural Society he devoured regularly. For even though Crowley was firmly convinced that a strict hand worked wonders with his plants, he was also aware that a certain expertise could only be attained through reading and diligent study.

Now that it was established that the new world exhibition was to be held at the edge of the grounds of the Royal Horticultural Society in South Kensington, Crowley grew increasingly exited. The technical achievements and the art that were to be exhibited interested him little. But the presentation of exotic plants from all over the world—those he had been impatiently awaiting for months (indeed, some of them had only been brought to England through his contacts with the East India Company!). Especially now, since foreign exhibitors and the colonies were represented more strongly than ever.

With excitement he had followed the construction of the enormous exhibition building, which had after all cost a full 300,000 pounds sterling! The two domes crowning the building had taken the famous dome of St. Peter’s as their model and were the lagest domes ever built. A truly gigantic enterprise, not without appropriate criticism even from its own ranks!

And how annoyed had Crowley been when, last December, Prince Albert had died, and the entire exhibition was called into question.

“The man is dead and buried, he will not be brought back to life if the exhibition is cancelled!” he had grumbled at the end of last year, while Dowling undressed him one evening still in his old house in London.

“I suppose it is a national gesture of mourning,” replied his valet half-heartedly, which did not really placate Crowley—quite the contrary.

“A gesture of mourning? A damned expensive gesture, is all I can say! Prince Albert himself would have been appalled at the waste. As president of the Royal Society of Arts responsible for this event, Prince Albert would not have cared a whit whether the exhibition contradicted the proper spirit of mourning… Why not hold the exhibition in his memory?”

Dowling, slightly amused, could not help but agree with his master.

Thankfully, however, Crowley was not alone in his opinion. The exhibition now seemed indeed able to open on schedule on May 1st. And Crowley was personally invited!

At once his thoughts flew to Aziraphale. Would this exhibition interest him? Most certainly!

Quickly Crowley rolled up the brochure and slipped it into his pocket. He would go over to Aziraphale and invite him to travel with him to London for the opening. While Crowley would acquire new species for his garden and greenhouse, perhaps Aziraphale could take some pleasure in the technical innovations on display. They would also take Adam along; it would do the boy good to come to London. All the more on such a unique occasion!

“Dowling, come along! We are dragging Aziraphale and Adam to London!” cried Crowley at the top of his lungs, whereupon the butler Shax handed him hat and cane with disapproval, and Dowling suppressed one of his faint smiles with difficulty while following his master.

“Sir, may I ask where you intend to stay? Now that the old house is no longer at your disposal?”

Crowley halted in mid-stride and looked in surprise at his valet.

“You are right, I had quite forgotten that the house is sold!”

“May I suggest perhaps reserving rooms in advance? On such an occasion it may prove difficult to find suitable lodgings in London.”

“You really think of everything, Dowling! Send a telegram to Brown’s Hotel; on such a journey it is worth being generous! A suite, preferably.”

“As you wish, Sir,” replied Dowling, radiating his usual quiet competence. “I would suggest that Mr. Young and I share one of the larger servants’ rooms, unless you desire a separate room for Mr. Fell’s secretary?”

“I think it will be difficult enough as it is to find rooms. We shall be glad if we can get into Brown’s at all! If you and young Adam have no objection…”

“Not in the least,” assured Dowling—not that Crowley had ever doubted it.

Between Adam Young and Warlock Dowling an unusual friendship had developed, since Adam had more often accompanied Mr. Fell as secretary to Possingworth. At first Adam had been visibly confused to be addressed by Dowling in his usual distant manner as “Sir” and “Mr. Young.” Adam had insisted on persuading the somewhat older valet to call him simply Adam, but after Dowling had informed him of his new status as secretary and the accompanying change of address, he gave up. In time, however, he grew accustomed to it, and now one could see “Young and Dowling” poring over accounting notes together or taking friendly walks in the gardens of Possingworth or Eden House.

Crowley was secretly glad that his quiet valet had found some companionship. Dowling had always been a rather withdrawn young man, and it pleased him genuinely that he had now found someone of his own age who drew him out a little. Aziraphale shared Crowley’s view and was positively brimming with delight over the new friendship. If the two now valued each other’s company on travels such as this—well, thought Crowley, all the better.

“Be so good as to keep an eye on Adam,” he said, as they continued on their way together. “I mean, he has been in London once or twice already, but he is not necessarily equipped for the rough life of the big city…”

“I shall do my utmost,” assured Dowling seriously. “Mr. Young’s character is of too great an openness and trustfulness for a city like London. I could not reconcile it with my conscience if anything were to befall him on account of this disposition.”

“Good man! Now, as for the trunks: leave our sturdier pieces here. It will be a blessing to go for at least a few days without wearing tweed. The blue coat, I should think. And do not spare the evening dress…”

While Crowley continued giving his valet instructions for his wardrobe (even if he would never admit it, Crowley was terribly vain), the two had already reached Eden House in the meantime.

As on several occasions before, Crowley was surprised at how picturesque and in fact paradisiacal the estate lay before him. Amidst hedges and flowerbeds slowly awakening in spring, the first sunlight shone on the red brick and the stately columns at the entrance.

The butler Young opened the blue-lacquered doors and politely invited the two men inside. Young had given up announcing Crowley to the master of the house and only took their hats and coats, upon which Crowley already marched toward the library, Dowling trailing him at a few steps’ distance.

“Crowley!”

How accustomed Crowley had become to Aziraphale’s round face lighting up with joy as soon as he became aware of him, as if Crowley were his dearest friend on earth! Aziraphale rose from his desk, at which he had just been sitting over some papers, took the charming spectacles from his nose and came toward the two men.

“And you have brought Dowling with you, a wonderful surprise! In fact, Adam asked me about you only this morning, my dear. If I remember rightly it was about a settlement with Shadwell, perhaps you had better ask him yourself…”

He patted Dowling kindly on the arm and Dowling gave him one of his rare smiles before disappearing with a respectful nod in the direction of Adam’s study.

“Aziraphale, look at this!” began Crowley, pulling the brochure clumsily from his coat pocket before thrusting it, crumpled, into his friend’s hands.

“What have you there, my dear?” asked Aziraphale and set the delicate gold-rimmed spectacles back on his nose. With some effort he smoothed the creased pages and spread them flat on a sideboard beside him.

“Oh Crowley! The exhibition! You have finally received the announcement of the opening! My dear fellow, you have been plaguing my ears with this for weeks already…”

“It is a unique occasion after all!” Crowley defended himself sheepishly and dropped into his customary armchair, his long legs bent so impossibly it looked almost painful.

“Well, then let us see… the 1st of May – an excellent date for such an important day!”

Attentively Aziraphale studied the brochure, and Crowley delightedly followed each of his movements; from the furrowed brows, the little wrinkles around the eyes sparkling with interest, to the pursed mouth.

“Oh, four different exhibition sections, you had already mentioned that: 'products of mining and smelting works, of agriculture, chemical substances from the plant and animal kingdom processed into manufactured goods'. How interesting! Then 'machines and carriages, objects of land and naval architecture, instruments for war (weapons and the like) and peace (surgical and musical precision instruments, clocks and so forth)' … Well, I know a country must be able to defend itself, but whether one must advertise such tools as weapons so openly…”

Crowley could hardly suppress a grin while watching Aziraphale and soaking up his enthusiasm like a sponge.

“Oh Crowley, this is of special significance to us both: 'cotton, linen, silk, wool, leather in all stages of processing. Paper and books, furniture, metal, glass and pottery goods'. What an enormous labor it must be to set up all these many different things! And then the last group: 'objects of the modern fine arts such as architecture, painting, sculpture and engravings'. How wonderful, a fantastic array of all the achievements of our splendid civilization!”

“Would you like to visit the exhibition?” Crowley asked slyly.

“My dear, what a question!” Aziraphale replied, his eyes still fixed on the brochure. “Of course I would, but the opening ceremony is for invited guests…”

“Of which I am one!” cried Crowley triumphantly and jumped from his armchair. “Let us go to London, Aziraphale! We will take Adam, the boy should not miss such an opportunity, and Dowling, so that he can keep an eye on Adam. We will go to the opening of the exhibition and may stroll to our heart’s content among the wonders of this world! What do you say?”

“Crowley, I am speechless, you want me with you?” Pure astonishment was written on Aziraphale’s round face.

“Of course you, who else?” explained Crowley and grasped the beaming Aziraphale by both upper arms. “You, Adam, Dowling and I will go to London and see the exhibition!”

“My dear Crowley, I really do not know what to say! This will be an adventure – I truly had not expected this!”

“I have already instructed Dowling to book us into a hotel. I do hope we still get something – the whole city will be full of sightseers…”

“That reminds me; my dear, perhaps we need not stay at a hotel at all – my brother Gabriel lives with his family in London. I am sure he will not refuse his brother and his dear friend to lodge for a few days with him.”

“Do you think so? I would not like to intrude upon your family. And with Adam and Dowling on top of that!”

“But of course, I will write to Gabriel at once! I am fairly sure that he and his family will also be present at the exhibition, Gabriel is no unknown man in certain circles, as you surely know.”

Crowley was indeed well aware of that. When earlier that year he had first made Aziraphale’s acquaintance, the name Fell had struck him as strangely familiar.

As soon as he was back in London, in order to settle his affairs for the move, he had discreetly inquired after the Fell family. And what he had learned had not exactly pleased him: Gabriel Fell was indeed a well-known man, and Crowley had heard quite a bit about him, though not necessarily all flattering. The successful lawyer and professor of law was – without Aziraphale being aware of it – also known in London for his bigotry, his religious fanaticism and his uncompromising views. A dangerous mindset for a man of the law, Crowley thought, and so he was all the more reluctant to lodge of all places in this man’s home. Yet all this he could not possibly explain to Aziraphale without gravely hurting him, and so Crowley resigned himself to his disagreeable fate.

“Well, if you insist and your brother has no objections…”

“Oh, certainly not, my dear. We see each other so rarely, I am glad to see him again at last. My goodness Crowley, how exciting all this is!”

“I thought you might want to accompany me,” Crowley admitted with a crooked smile.

“You are really too kind, my good fellow! But how could I not be curious about this exhibition, since you have told me so much about it and sung its praises! Come, come – let us go into the drawing room, it is nearly time for tea,” explained Aziraphale and led Crowley by the arm out of the library, the brochure for the exhibition in his other hand. “You must tell me again in detail which plants you collected when and from where on your travels, and sent to your fellows of the Horticultural Society. Will we be able to see some of the specimens, what do you think?”

Crowley was only too willing to give information; after all, there was nothing he would deny the man.

Chapter Text

Crowley tilted his head back as far as his hat would allow and regarded the façade of the house before him through his tinted lenses.

Three weeks had now passed since he had suggested to Aziraphale that they go together to the exhibition in London. Aziraphale had immediately written to his brother, and Gabriel had promptly replied: his eldest brother, his friend and neighbor, as well as the valet Dowling and the secretary Adam, were most welcome to him and his family.

Aziraphale had read the letter aloud to him with great enthusiasm, and what was Crowley to do but comply and put on a good face for a bad situation? There was no logical reason to refuse such a polite invitation, and Crowley could not explain the truth to Aziraphale: that he would of his own accord not set foot in the house of a man who had built his career upon a reputation of mercilessness and bigotry.

And so the four of them now stood before the house on Eaton Place in Belgravia, where Gabriel Fell lived with his wife and their four sons and two daughters. Aziraphale handed the cab driver a few coins, while Adam and Dowling took care of unloading the luggage. Crowley, meanwhile, as he stood there on the pavement before number 165 Eaton Place, could not rid himself of a dawning feeling of unease. Even the façade of the pretty townhouse radiated, in his perception, an aura of forced righteousness, and nothing displeased Crowley more than the compulsive British semblance of law and order.

“Come along, Crowley, my brother is expecting us!” called Aziraphale and stepped toward the doorbell.

Crowley could not help but notice how his friend’s gloved hand hesitated for a moment before pulling the bell. Almost as if Aziraphale had to steel himself inwardly to face the inevitable. But surely Crowley was only imagining this faint reluctance, and before he could dwell on it any longer, the door opened.

An elderly man opened it, and Aziraphale greeted him with one of his usual smiles, which Crowley, however, recognized without doubt as forced.

“Ah, Glossop! It is a pleasure to see you again. You are well, I hope?”

“I am in the best of health, sir,” the butler replied dryly and directed the four visitors into the house.

“My brother is expecting us. Would you show my secretary and Mr. Crowley’s valet where they may settle in? And our luggage is still on the pavement.”

“Very good, sir. Mr. Fell and the rest of the family await your arrival in the drawing room.”

A footman in uniform motioned Adam and Dowling to follow him, while the butler led Crowley and Aziraphale through a dreary entrance hall into the drawing room. With growing discomfort Crowley looked around.

The drawing room was doubtlessly expensively furnished, yet to Crowley the décor seemed strangely colorless. A tall man in a grey coat stood at the window, four young men of varying ages sat around a table, and on a sofa a woman and two young girls were seated side by side. They all rose as the butler ushered the two men into the room.

“Ah, Aziraphale!” exclaimed the man at the window, his voice loud and penetrating. To Crowley, his broad smile showed too many teeth and did not reach the eyes, which, like Aziraphale’s, were steel blue. However, they lacked the warmth of the latter’s, and the sight made Crowley uneasy.

“Gabriel, how good to see you again, brother!” Aziraphale greeted his brother with a handshake before turning to Crowley.

“Gabriel, may I introduce my neighbor and dear friend Anthony J. Crowley: Crowley, my middle brother Gabriel Fell.”

The man’s gaze lingered a second too long on Crowley’s tinted glasses before he extended his hand and, to Crowley’s mind, squeezed far too hard as he said:

“Mr. Crowley, my brother has written much about you. Allow me to welcome you to my humble home!”

“Thank you for having us, Mr. Fell,” Crowley managed, inwardly proud that he did not let his near-instant dislike of Aziraphale’s brother show. For a brief moment he considered asserting his preference for just Crowley, but decided against it. He already felt uncomfortable enough; what difference did the form of address make in the end?

“Welcome to Eaton Place. My wife Deborah,” Gabriel introduced his colorless wife, to whose proffered cheek Aziraphale had just pressed a kiss, “and my children. Isaac, my eldest, has just begun his studies in jurisprudence; Jonah and Jeremiah are finishing their schooling this year; my youngest son John, and my two daughters, Mariah and Muriel.”

Crowley looked into the motionless pale faces of an overly polite brood whose childhood had ended too soon. Only the youngest daughter, a girl of perhaps ten years, regarded Crowley with open curiosity. When her gaze lingered on his glasses, he sighed inwardly and decided to take the safe path of non-confrontation:

“You must excuse me for keeping my glasses on indoors, but a fire accident left my eyes sensitive to light, you understand…”

“Oh, of course, poor devil!” exclaimed Gabriel, and Crowley forced himself not to grimace. “But please, sit down, sit down! Aziraphale has written that you, too, will be attending the opening of the Great Exhibition?”

“Indeed, Crowley was so kind as to invite me to accompany him,” Aziraphale explained quickly, and together the two neighbors followed their host’s invitation and seated themselves on the sofa opposite the ladies of the house. Crowley noticed with surprise that Aziraphale’s back remained perfectly straight; usually his friend preferred to sink comfortably into upholstered furniture.

“A truly momentous event we are attending,” boomed Gabriel into the silence of the room. “We shall show the entire world the rightful supremacy of the British Empire, gentlemen!”

Aziraphale smiled awkwardly. With every passing second, Crowley found the man more disagreeable and wondered which of the two the youngest brother (Michael?) resembled more—Gabriel or Aziraphale. He very much hoped for the latter; Gabriel indeed lived up to his ambiguous reputation, as Crowley grimly noted.

“You are certainly invited through the university, brother?” asked Aziraphale, and Gabriel gladly seized the opportunity to speak about his favorite subject: himself.

“Of course, the faculty has naturally been invited. And were I not attending under that title, I should be present as a member of the Royal Commission on the Criminal Law.”

The manner in which this man presented himself and his importance left a sour taste in Crowley’s mouth, and once again he was grateful that there would at least be different seating ranks at the opening ceremony, so that he and Aziraphale would not have to sit with this pompous man. A whole day in the company of Gabriel Fell struck Crowley as the greatest punishment of the nine circles of Hell. Had the great Dante met Gabriel, he would have agreed without hesitation!

“It will surely be an exciting day,” Aziraphale said, making an effort to keep the conversation alive.

“Papa says if we are good, we may visit the exhibition too,” piped up the voice of Muriel, the youngest daughter.

“I am sure you will be able to join your parents a little later,” Aziraphale gave her a friendly smile, which the girl beamed back. Gabriel, however, was not pleased.

“Muriel, were you asked for your opinion?”

“No, Papa,” the girl replied quietly.

“Indeed, no one asked for your comment. Children are to be silent when adults are speaking! Deborah, I think it is time for the children to go upstairs.”

At his command Mrs. Fell and the children rose wordlessly to leave the room. Hastily Aziraphale jumped up from the sofa, and Crowley followed suit.

“You are right, brother. Crowley and I should also freshen up a bit before dinner; it has indeed been a long journey… We should go to our rooms as well, shouldn’t we, Crowley?”

Crowley nodded, while Gabriel replied magnanimously:

“Of course, of course. One does not grow younger, eh, Aziraphale? Be that as it may, dinner is precisely at seven o’clock. The green room for you, Aziraphale, and the front guest room for Mr. Crowley. Be so kind as to show him the way, brother.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale out of the drawing room and up a staircase to the first floor. They stopped before one of the first doors.

“Your room, Crowley. I am sure you will be comfortable. Mine is right next door, should you need anything. The gong for changing will sound at six o’clock, the second gong for dinner five minutes before seven. Do take some rest, my dear.”

And with these words and another forced smile, Aziraphale disappeared into his room. Crowley followed suit and opened the door to his own, only to groan inwardly: the wallpaper of the room was sun yellow!

“Sir?” came Dowling’s voice from further back in the adjoining dressing room.

“Nothing, nothing,” Crowley replied hastily, but when Dowling entered the room to assist his master in undressing, his expression was not convinced.

“Is there something that displeases you, sir?”

“Too much!” burst Crowley out. “This room, this house, the mute brood of children and the lifeless wife, and most of all that self-absorbed archangel Gabriel!”

“Mr. Fell the elder and his brother are indeed of rather different character,” came Dowling’s diplomatic reply as he helped him out of his waistcoat.

“I should not speak so openly against the man while we enjoy his hospitality,” sighed Crowley in defeat and tried his best to take no notice of the yellow wallpaper. His efforts, however, did not escape Dowling’s sharp eyes.

“Would you prefer another room, sir? I am sure the elder Mr. Fell would agree to a change.”

For a brief moment Crowley stared at Dowling in surprise, whose face, however, betrayed no expression whatsoever.

“No, no. It is time to face the demons,” he said at last, avoiding Dowling’s gaze. Then he added quietly, “Thank you, Dowling.”

The valet had the decency, at that moment, to carefully lay Crowley’s clothes aside, giving him a chance to collect himself. Crowley’s thanks he acknowledged with a crisp nod.

“Are you and Adam at least decently accommodated?” Crowley asked after a while, as he peeled off his stockings.

“Mr. Young has been given a smaller room on the same floor, and I have been assigned a comfortable room in the servants’ wing, sir.”

“Do you have to share?”

“No, sir. I have a room to myself.”

“At least something,” growled Crowley.

“Mr. Fell the younger places great importance on the well-being of his family and his servants, both physically and spiritually. I have prepared a bath for you before dinner, sir. If you would follow me.”

“Spiritually, how?” asked Crowley skeptically as he followed Dowling into the bathroom in nothing but his robe.

“There is a crucifix hanging in every room, sir.”

“Oh, splendid,” sighed Crowley again, this time even deeper than before.

“Indeed, sir. If you should need me, I shall lay out your evening attire at once, sir.”

For the third time sighing, Crowley sank into the delightfully hot bath and was thankful that at least the tiles in the bathroom were not yellow as well.

Four days.

No more and no less until he could return home together with Aziraphale to the South Downs. Until then, he would have to endure this dreary house on Eaton Place. And the few minutes he had already spent in Gabriel’s company had made it perfectly clear that he would have to keep himself under strict control during the coming four days—if only for Aziraphale’s sake. The mere sight of that man made Crowley uneasy, not to mention the dreadfully jovial tone in which he was wont to speak.

The wife seemed to him more like a functional piece of furniture, entirely without character. The same applied to the children, all of whom were the spitting image of their father. The three eldest sons already wore the same arrogance upon their young faces as Gabriel. With the others it was doubtless only a matter of time before they too became pale copies of their parents. Except the youngest, thought Crowley. What was the child’s name again—Muriel? But whatever free spirit the girl still possessed would soon be driven out of her completely, of that he was certain.

A model family belonging to a true model citizen, thought Crowley bitterly, and forced himself to banish Gabriel and his brood from his thoughts—at least until dinner.

As he soaked, he reflected on how little he had missed the great city. Strange, he told himself; now that he was here, no trace of wistfulness overcame him. He realized he was happier in the countryside, surrounded by sheep and hills. And Aziraphale, of course!

Far too quickly the bathwater cooled as he mused, and Crowley was forced to leave the tub and don his evening clothes.

Placing his glasses on his nose, he left his room at the sound of the last gong and encountered Aziraphale in the hallway, who apparently was about to go downstairs as well.

“Ah, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, nervously adjusting his cravat, which Crowley recognized at once. The fine silk fabric he himself had chosen, long before he had ever seen Possingworth Manor or Aziraphale. The silk came from the province of Guangdong in southern China and was one of the last bolts Crowley had brought back from his travels for his personal use.

When Aziraphale had spoken a few weeks ago of his wish to dress a little more extravagantly, it had been a matter of the heart for Crowley to give him one or two lengths from his private stock. He noted with satisfaction how elegant Aziraphale looked in the fabric, and how the decadently blue silk brought out the warmth in his blue eyes.

“What do you think, does my cravat sit well?”

Cautiously, Crowley adjusted the elegant knot and the silver pin that fastened it. He could see the pulse fluttering quickly and excitedly at Aziraphale’s throat and turned his eyes away only with effort.

“Excellent.”

“Thank you, my dear. It may be a touch vain, but I should like to appear a little more sophisticated before my brother than I usually do. Your wonderful silk is just the right means for it!”

Together they went downstairs into the dining room. Crowley was relieved to find that the greater part of the children had already dined and that only he, Aziraphale, Gabriel, his wife, and the eldest son Isaac would be dining together.

Crowley took his assigned seat opposite Aziraphale, whose back was once again perfectly straight. To Crowley’s right sat Mrs. Fell, to his left the son Isaac. Gabriel sat beside his brother, and Crowley could see how his gaze lingered on the extravagant fabric around Aziraphale’s neck.

“Perhaps your brother would like to say grace today, dear?”

It was the first time Crowley had heard Mrs. Fell speak. Her voice was thin and tuneless and matched her dreary appearance perfectly.

“A splendid idea, Deborah. Aziraphale, if you would be so kind?”

Hastily but unwillingly Crowley folded his hands, while Aziraphale obediently bowed his head and intoned:

“Agimus tibi gratias, omnipotent Deus, pro universis beneficiis tuis, qui vivis et regnas in saecula saeculorum.”

He prays in Latin, thought Crowley, astonished. Who still prays in Latin these days, he wondered, while Aziraphale continued:

“Fidelium animae, per misericordiam Dei, requiescant in pace. Amen.”

“Amen!” echoed the rest of the table before their heads lifted again.

“Your Latin sounds as effortless as ever, brother,” praised Gabriel as the food was served. “You must know, Mr. Crowley, that even our youngest brother Michael always envied Aziraphale his flawless Latin—though he himself is a member of the clergy.”

“You are too kind, brother.”

“No, indeed! You were always the most studious of us three. It is only a pity that your talents down there in the countryside cannot truly come to fruition.”

“I am very happy in our father’s house, Gabriel,” remarked Aziraphale, and Crowley noticed the harsh line around his mouth. This debate seemed not to be the first held at table.

“Yes, of course, but you must admit as well, Mr. Crowley, that there is little opportunity in the South Downs to demonstrate one’s intellectual strengths!”

“It seems to me,” began Crowley carefully, summoning all his meagre diplomatic skill, “that with all his talents, Aziraphale is by far the most capable landlord one could wish for as tenant or neighbor.”

Aziraphale cast him a grateful glance, and a mocking smile played about Gabriel’s lips.

“A generous compliment, Mr. Crowley. Aziraphale wrote me that you yourself have only recently taken up the management of an estate?”

“I have, through inheritance, become the proprietor of Possingworth Manor.”

“Ah, good old Agnes Nutter,” said Gabriel, smiling and showing his white teeth. “She lived very reclusively, withdrew much from the community. It is said she grew a little peculiar toward the end of her life.”

“I did not know her personally,” admitted Crowley.

“You are not from the area?”

“Crowley only moved to Possingworth from London a few months ago,” answered Aziraphale for him, as Crowley took a much-needed sip of his wine.

“A fellow Londoner! What was your occupation before, good man?”

“I was in the service of the Crown for the East India Company, chiefly responsible for the import of fine textiles.”

“The silk for this cravat is from Crowley, brother. From China, as he told me,” Aziraphale said proudly, pointing to his silk neckcloth, which his brother regarded with disdain. But to Crowley’s surprise, Mrs. Fell spoke again.

“A wonderful fabric, Aziraphale. One hears so many marvellous things about the silk weavers of that distant land.”

“But in fact Chinese silk is declining in value,” said Gabriel disparagingly, and Mrs. Fell quickly lowered her eyes to her plate again. Crowley resisted the strong urge to roll his eyes. “It is the silk imported from India that is currently sought after on the market! Only a few days ago I heard a truly fascinating anecdote from the Earl of Ellenborough,” began Gabriel, turning to Crowley, “we dine together now and then at the same club. He told me, on his return from…”

Crowley stopped listening.

He disliked how Gabriel constantly tried to push himself into the center of the conversation. He disliked how arrogantly and subtly insulting he spoke to him. And most of all he disliked how condescendingly he treated Aziraphale.

He also noticed how differently Aziraphale behaved in his brother’s presence. The conspicuously straight back, the way he nervously played with the hem of his waistcoat, constantly adjusted his cravat, and above all, how he repeatedly tried to appease his brother.

Gabriel was a boor, Crowley decided inwardly as he cut at his piece of meat with biting anger. And the next few days he would spend keeping that boor of a brother as far away from Aziraphale as possible!

The rest of the dinner passed uneventfully, except that Crowley truly exerted himself to ignore Gabriel’s subtle jabs at both him and Aziraphale: Gabriel continued to dominate the conversation, Mrs. Fell said next to nothing, and the eldest son Isaac remained obstinately silent. Crowley replied curtly when addressed and otherwise observed Aziraphale, who sat at the table nervous and agitated, making every effort to keep the conversation light and pleasant. Crowley thought grimly to himself that there had been public executions with a more relaxed atmosphere!

At last the dessert was cleared away, and everyone rose—Crowley was so relieved he would have willingly endured another grace.

“I think I shall go to bed early, Gabriel,” said Aziraphale with a strained smile. “We have travelled so long today, and there is much to do tomorrow. I fear I always postpone terribly many tasks at home that would require a journey to London, and once I am here, I cannot save myself from appointments and errands. I wish everyone a good night!”

And with that Aziraphale disappeared upstairs into his room, leaving Crowley alone with the rest of the Fell family.

“Aziraphale wrote to my husband that you are a talented pianist, Mr. Crowley.”

“Your brother-in-law overstates my abilities, Mrs. Fell,” murmured Crowley, uncomfortably touched, and wondered inwardly how much Aziraphale had truly written about him to his brother.

“Perhaps you would like to make use of our grand piano in the drawing room,” declared Gabriel generously. “I still have a few letters to write, but perhaps you, Deborah, and Isaac are in the mood for some light entertainment? Go on, Mr. Crowley, no false modesty!”

Gabriel disappeared into his study while Crowley went with Mrs. Fell and the silent Isaac into the drawing room.

“Have you any wishes?” he asked the dreary woman courteously as he seated himself at the piano.

“Nothing too loud or wild,” she replied softly and sat down on a chaise. Her son took a seat beside her.

Crowley considered briefly and then began to play Mendelssohn’s Barcarolle, one of his favorite pieces.

Gently the lovely melody rippled through the room, and for a moment Crowley imagined Aziraphale hearing the music through the walls of his room. Perhaps the gondola song would lull him to sleep?
When the piece ended, he slipped into two similar works by Mendelssohn, likewise soft and swaying through the room, and for at least a few minutes the tension in Eaton House seemed to ease somewhat.

“Thank you, Mr. Crowley. My brother-in-law did not exaggerate,” Mrs. Fell thanked him barely audibly when he had finished.

“My sister Muriel has a musical talent. I am sure she would greatly benefit from playing a duet with a true connoisseur of his art,” said Isaac for the first time. Crowley was not surprised that he had already adopted his father’s tone and secretly pitied the young man.

“I would be delighted to accompany little Muriel. And now, if you will excuse me. As Aziraphale has already said, it has been a long day.”

With a graceful little bow to Mrs. Fell and a brief nod toward Isaac, Crowley left the room, glad to leave behind the oppressive atmosphere of the Fell family—at least for this day.

When he reached the first floor, he paused for a brief moment in the corridor outside Aziraphale’s door. His hand was already raised to knock when he changed his mind and drew his fingers back again.

What was there, after all, that he could possibly say to him?