Work Text
January, 1862
The estate met his taste, Crowley had to admit, although its sheer size seemed a bit ostentatious: the eleven bedrooms would remain unused for the time being, that much was certain.Anthony J. Crowley took off his hat and tilted his head back to get a better look at the façade. Lilac vines twisted around the old stone, the gnarled branches firmly rooted in the Jacobean columns and window ledges. In summer, the entire house would be covered in cascades of musky blossoms.The thought pleased Crowley.A sharp gust of wind made the lanky man press his hat down onto his rust-colored hair and bury his neck deeper into the collar of his shirt. Now, in January, the vast gardens lay fallow, and through the bare branches, only the pale winter sun shone faintly.Crowley squinted his eyes behind his tinted glasses and imagined the gardens in their full glory: lush green bushes and hedges, overflowing flowerbeds, and well-manicured lawns...Yes, indeed. Crowley could picture himself residing permanently at Possingworth Manor.With a shiver, he climbed the few steps to the garden door and entered the drawing room. He clicked his tongue as he realized the inside of the house was only marginally warmer than the cold winter air outside, the months without staff and, therefore, well-tended fires had cooled the estate to its very foundations.He would need to attend to the staff soon, and in the meantime, he would stay at the inn in Lewes where he had checked in the day before. Perhaps the landlady knew someone who was looking for employment.For an estate of this size, he would need a larger staff than before, Crowley thought. Dowling had settled well into his role as Crowley’s valet, but entrusting the boy with managing a whole manor seemed unwise.He would need a butler, maybe a footman, and certainly one or two housemaids. Not to mention kitchen staff… The thought of the numerous interviews he’d have to conduct darkened Crowley’s mood significantly.He sank into one of the armchairs by the window and let his new home sink in. The dark wood paneling had its charm, as did the high ceilings. But the faded curtains and moth-eaten rugs, along with the worn upholstery, would need replacing.Crowley dreaded the furnishing of the upper floor and the state of the plumbing. The estate manager had admitted the property was not in the best condition. His great-aunt Agnes had hardly renovated anything in the past few decades...Crowley forced himself to lift his unnaturally long limbs from the armchair and made his way upstairs to inspect the upper floor. The sound of his boot heels echoed loudly in the still, deserted house.He liked the house, Crowley decided, as he let his gloved hand glide over the smooth wood of the old stair railing. After more than four decades in London, the rural life in East Sussex promised a form of peace and serenity that had thus far been foreign to him.Perhaps this inheritance from a long-forgotten great-aunt was more of a blessing than a curse, he thought, as he ascended the creaky stairs.Standing in the middle of the gallery, Crowley felt compelled to choose a direction—numerous doors stretched out on both sides, likely containing all the bedrooms.
With a shrug, Crowley turned to the left first and pressed the handle of the first door down.A lovely room in a warm yellow greeted him, picturesque landscape paintings on the walls and a view of the gardens.He slowly stepped into the center of the room and looked around. Inevitably, he was reminded of the last yellow room he had spent time in—far too much time, as it had quickly turned out. The symmetrical borders of the yellow wallpaper were eerily similar to those in his usual room at Lucas' house in Mayfair...“Don’t go there, old boy!” Crowley sighed and closed the door behind him. He would have to redecorate that room.Crowley tried again and crossed the gallery to the right wing of the house. He pressed down the handle of the first door and held his breath slightly.No yellow greeted him, but dark, faded green. Relieved, Crowley entered the room and walked toward the window.From here, he could also see the gardens, and far beyond them, the endless hills of the South Downs. How far was the sea, he wondered? Maybe on clear days, one could see the chalk cliffs and the subsequent blue… The landlady in Lewes had said Possingworth Manor wasn’t that far from the sea.Agreement settled in Crowley, and he placed his hat and glasses on a chest of drawers beside him before taking in the rest of the room. The furniture was dark, the walls covered in somewhat faded green silk wallpaper, and in the middle of the room above the massive fireplace, a painting of a biblical scene depicting the fall of man dominated.An odd choice for a bedroom, Crowley remarked to himself as he stepped closer. Unaware of their nakedness, the first man and the first woman knelt before the Tree of Knowledge, arms outstretched toward the ripe, tempting fruits. The most striking aspect to Crowley was the serpent of the story: its thick, shiny body coiled around the tree trunk, its venom-dripping fangs bared at Eve’s neck. The sight was almost hypnotic.A faint, bitter smile crept across Crowley’s pale face as he turned away from the painting to retrieve his hat and glasses. Because of the picture alone, this was his ideal room. What could be more fitting for his lifestyle than the depiction of humanity’s first sin?He inspected the other rooms only superficially to get a sense of the state of the house before heading downstairs again. Tomorrow, he would contact the estate manager, and then more precise details about renovations could be sorted out.He pulled his coat tighter around his thin frame and stepped out of the estate into the driveway.Possingworth Manor.Anthony J. Crowley glanced back once more before heading back on his way to Lewes. Perhaps a new chapter was exactly what he needed, without realizing it. OoOoOoOoO From Possingworth Manor to the next larger town, Lewes, was nearly a two-hour walk. Crowley had been walking briskly, but he couldn’t quite shake the January cold from his long limbs—half-frozen, he arrived at the inn where he had checked in.“Mr. Crowley!” the landlady called as she saw the dark-clad figure slip through the door. “Back already from Possingworth?”Crowley eyed her behind his glasses. Madame Tracey was a woman of about fifty. Mr. Tracey had been absent for some years, as far as he had heard. Her reddish-blonde hair was pinned under a lace cap and twisted into small curls that trembled with every movement, giving her a nervous look. She was loud and unabashed, and Crowley had taken a liking to her right away.“Have water brought up for a bath!” he ordered his landlady as he passed by. “And a bottle of wine.”“No dinner? I’ve got fresh bread and some cold roast if you fancy. You haven’t eaten since this morning, surely, sir!”Crowley mumbled his agreement and, remembering the staff issue, turned back toward her.“I’m hiring,” he said, and at her questioning look, he added, “I’m looking for staff, the usual for a house of this size. If you know anyone, let me know.”“I’m sure I can think of someone suitable for you, Mr. Crowley.” Crowley was certain that tomorrow morning, she would have a list of at least a dozen names ready for him. “How did you find the estate? Do you like your new home, sir?”“It’s cold,” he explained grumpily. “And it needs a lot of work.”Madame Tracey snorted. “That’s for sure! My cousin Moira, whose daughter Anne helped out as a housemaid under old Agnes Nutter—God rest her soul—said the place is in a sorry state.”She gave the new housemaster an encouraging, maternal smile. “But I’m sure with new staff and a few little improvements, Possingworth will be a fitting home for such a nice, young gentleman like yourself! But now, go warm up, you’re frozen through! I’ll have the water brought up right away.”Crowley nodded, relieved that the conversation was over, and went upstairs to his room. While he waited for the water for his bath in front of the flickering fire, he became aware of the sheer absurdity of the last few days.A long-forgotten great-aunt named Agnes Nutter had left him, the next surviving relative, her estate in the South Downs. And now, Anthony J. Crowley—notorious libertine—was moving his residence from his bourgeois house in London to East Sussex to leave his indulgent, extravagant life behind and settle down in the countryside.With an almost hysterical laugh, Crowley pushed his red hair out of his face and began peeling off his clothes.Despite the fire in the room, his long fingers still trembled from the cold, and he needed several attempts to remove his cravat. He would need to refit his wardrobe, he thought. His clothes were fashionable and à la mode in London, but not necessarily practical for country life.He collapsed onto the bed, slowly undoing his waistcoat and then his shirt.Maybe a new start could be had here in the South Downs. No one here knew him, no one knew about his lifestyle, and he certainly wouldn’t reveal any details unless absolutely necessary.Was it so far-fetched to settle here in the area as perhaps an eccentric but fundamentally respectable gentleman, living out his life quietly?On the bed in the inn in Lewes, Crowley swore to start anew and shed all the baggage he had been carrying for 47 years.
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The morning passed slowly. Crowley had written to his valet Dowling earlier, instructing him to prepare for the upcoming move from London to East Sussex and to get the remaining staff ready. Crowley assumed Dowling wouldn't mind relocating to the countryside, while the chambermaid Laura and the elderly cook Mrs. Bridges were likely less thrilled about the move. Laura had a young man she had become engaged to the previous summer, and Mrs. Bridges was too old to adjust to such a change. She had threatened retirement more than once, so being let go was rather in her interest. He hoped, in in the end, everyone would be content.Crowley knew he would have to make several more trips to London before settling here in the South Downs. His affairs needed to be taken care of, and his inheritance from Aunt Agnes finalized. But one step at a time, he told himself. One step at a time.He had handed Madame Tracey the letter in the morning, and in return, she had inundated him with a list of potential candidates for his household."I've found two lovely girls who would make excellent housemaids. And also a young man who can start with you as a footman," she listed. "Mrs. Todd worked as housekeeper for the Newbolts for many years; she’s a real asset for you! Now, we just need to find a butler and kitchen staff... Finding a butler for such a large estate isn't easy, Sir, but I'm sure we'll find someone for you. And I've already asked Mrs. Cradock as cook, who could bring her niece Mary along as a kitchen maid."Crowley didn’t have the energy to keep track of all the names and gave Madame Tracey a weary nod."Just arrange the interviews, Madame. I should be back by the afternoon. I'll leave the rest to you.""As you wish, Mr. Crowley." and she left him with a cheery wave.On horseback, Crowley set off for his estate manager, Mr. Shadwell, whom he had learned about from the executor.Mr. Shadwell turned out to be an older man with pale hair and an unkempt beard. His broad Scottish accent made conversation difficult for Crowley, and the estate manager's brash demeanor didn’t help the situation.He seemed somewhat skeptical of his new employer, and more than once, Crowley noticed the man’s gaze lingering on his tinted glasses or drifting to his fine cravat and frock coat. But he appeared to know his profession.Crowley had Shadwell show him the estate records, which the manager had kept in order after Aunt Agnes’s death. The tenants all paid regularly, and the land was well-managed. In fact, the wool yield had steadily improved in recent years.Crowley was satisfied."I reckon we should take a tour of the house, don't ye think?" Shadwell announced. "We should see what still needs doing. It's an old house, after all."Crowley nodded resignedly, and together they entered room after room of the estate. The whole tour lasted more than two hours, as Crowley noted when he checked his pocket watch. Shadwell seemed tireless, meticulously taking notes on any necessary or desired changes for the new owner."A long list, Mr. Crowley," Shadwell observed, blowing his nose into a ragged handkerchief. Crowley resisted the urge to make a face. "A long list! I can bring a few lads to start with the lighter tasks. For the kitchen and the other matters, we'll need someone who knows his trade, ye ken.""I'm sure you know someone with the right expertise," Crowley replied dryly, and Shadwell nodded."Right. I'll ask around. As for the gardens, we should wait a few months until spring. Then we can get the right people."“That won’t be necessary,” Crowley replied. “I’ll take care of the gardens myself when the time comes.”Shadwell blinked with his squinted eyes before clearing his throat and nodding."Right. If ye say so."Crowley was sure that Shadwell was struggling to hide his displeasure, and he suppressed a quiet smile. He wouldn’t let anyone else take care of the gardening, whether they thought it eccentric or not."Now, Mr. Shadwell, I'm sure you have plenty of other tasks to attend to. You’ve done satisfactory work so far and I’m sure we’ll work well together moving forward. Please send me a copy of that list."Shadwell nodded."Right. I'll be on me way then. Until next time, Sir. Welcome to Possingworth Manor."And with that, the strange Scot disappeared, leaving Crowley lightly amused but visibly tired in the foyer. He’d have to ask Madame Tracey about Shadwell.As for the newly revised list, Crowley had to admit that Shadwell was right. The estate needed more work than he had noticed on his first walk-through. Almost the entire kitchen in the basement had to be replaced, the servants' quarters under the roof were dreadful, and the roof itself was leaking in one or two places.Money wasn’t an issue; Crowley came from a wealthy background, and the inheritance had added quite a bit to his fortune. But the prospect of sharing his new home with a horde of workers over the coming weeks and months did not sit well with him.He sighed and leaned against the banister.A glance at his watch told him it was time to return to Lewes. With some luck, he could hire a few new staff members today and move into Possingworth in the near future.He put on his gloves, his hat and pulled the frock tighter around him. Oh, how he longed for those warm summer months...Slowly, he made his way outside and looked at the gardens. He had always had a fondness for nature. A garden, it seemed to him, was the intersection between nature and culture, where one shaped and nurtured nature according to one’s will.Perhaps he should start making plans, so he’d be ready for the work in spring. Roses seemed like a solid choice, and he was sure some flowerbeds could be raised. The boxwood bushes definitely needed trimming.Yesterday, he’d seen an orangery where he could cultivate some more delicate species. Also, there were some sturdy-looking fruit trees on the south side of the estate. A well-planned fruit and vegetable garden seemed like a sensible addition.Crowley walked slowly to the wall that surrounded his estate on the east side, where he had left his horse.Deep in thought about exotic plants, he didn’t notice the approaching footsteps on the gravel path until a voice broke through his musings."Good morning."Suddenly, Crowley looked up and stared into piercing blue eyes that politely met his gaze.Standing before him was a middle-aged man with white hair and a neatly trimmed white sideburns. Slightly stocky, he was well-dressed in a beige frock coat, a mustard-yellow vest with a tartan cravat, gray-brown trousers, and a beige hat. His feet were in neat, yet practical, brown leather boots. Everything about his appearance spoke of order and an attention to detail.Crowley quickly composed himself, realizing he had been staring rudely at the man."Good morning! Apologies, I was lost in thought," he replied, and the initial reserve of the man began to visibly melt away."Aziraphale Fell," the man introduced himself, extending his hand, which he had just freed from its soft, brown glove. "You must be Mr. Anthony Crowley."Crowley swiftly removed his glove and shook the offered hand. His companion had a surprisingly firm grip."Indeed. May I ask…"Mr. Fell smiled quietly as he put his glove back on."You must forgive my curiosity. I was just passing by Shadwell, and he was very forthcoming with information, telling me that his new employer arrived here in the area yesterday. I came to introduce myself— you see, we are neighbors. I own the estate a mile south of here: Eden House.""It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fell. I was just on my way to my horse to return to Lewes…""Oh, I don’t want to hold you up, Mr. Crowley. I’m just here for a friendly word and a welcome."Crowley slipped his long fingers back into his glove and made an effort to move his features into a friendly smile. It wouldn’t do to scare off his new neighbor right away."Well, if you’d like to walk with me for a bit… unless you’re headed in the opposite direction?""With pleasure," Mr. Fell assured him, and together they walked down the gravel path toward the other end of the estate."You’re a relative of the late Agnes Nutter, aren’t you?" Mr. Fell inquired politely."Ah, yes, indeed," Crowley replied, studying the profile of his new neighbor. He had a strong jaw and almost cute, upturned nose. "She was my maternal great-aunt.""My condolences," the other man said. "She lived quite reclusively; I didn’t see her often."Crowley nodded. "I must admit, I have no memory of Aunt Agnes. The inheritance came as more of a surprise than anything else…" he confessed."Well, as they say, the unexpected happens often," Mr. Fell smiled. "I take it you're not from this area, if I may ask?"Crowley forced himself to respond. The likelihood that this man had heard of his name or his lifestyle was practically zero. "I’m from London.""Ah, a city man. I’m sure you’ll come to love the country life.""I strongly suspect so," Crowley said. "Once the estate is spruced up and I’ve found enough staff…""If you like, I can inquire a bit to see if anyone here is looking for work. Only if you don’t mind, of course.""I’d appreciate that!" Crowley sighed. "The first interviews are in a few hours, and I’m already losing my patience.""I completely understand, my dear boy. Finding staff is always a tedious matter. Where are you staying until you can move into Possingworth?""In Lewes, at Madame Tracey’s.""Ah, the good Madame Tracey." Mr. Fell let a smile pass over his round face. "She’s a shameless person, but her charm compensates for that."Crowley couldn’t help but laugh softly at this apt description."You say it. She’s actually helping me with the staff search. It seems she wants to hire an entire battalion for me!""You’re wise to listen to her advice, Mr. Crowley."Together, the two men reached the wall where Crowley had tied up his horse."I’ll let you return to the excellent staff choices Madame Tracey is no doubt providing. But please, do visit me tomorrow evening for dinner, if it pleases you. Perhaps I can offer some insight into staff and construction matters."Crowley looked for signs of a hidden agenda, but the face of his new neighbor betrayed nothing but open sincerity. Finally, Crowley nodded."Thank you, if it’s no trouble."Aziraphale Fell smiled, and Crowley noticed that the smile reached his eyes, which crinkled slightly at the corners."I assure you, this is the start of a wonderful neighborhood. I wish you a good ride, and once again, welcome to East Sussex!"With a light tap on his hat brim, the new neighbor turned and headed down the path toward his estate, while Crowley mounted his horse."See you tomorrow!" he called after him, before urging the horse forward and riding toward Lewes. What a curious man, he thought to himself. With an even curiouser name - ‚Aziraphale‚ it sounded somehow angelic. What a thought, to have an angel as neighbor!
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Crowley fastened the buttons of his waistcoat and slipped into the formal jacket he had reluctantly brought along at Dowling's insistence. He made a mental note to thank the boy for his foresight. Who would have thought he’d be invited to dinner directly? Certainly not him.As he adjusted his cravat, he allowed himself a moment to reflect on the day.Both today and yesterday had been consumed by interviews with potential staff for his household, and though the process had sorely tried his patience, he found himself quite satisfied with the results.Madame Tracey had outdone herself, and he was now the employer of two housemaids, a footman, a cook with her kitchen maid, a stable boy, and even a housekeeper—not to mention his valet, Dowling.It seemed absurd to engage such an extensive household staff for a single man, but with an estate of this scale, he had little choice but to expand.The only position left unfilled was that of a butler, but where in Someone's name was he to find someone suitable in the countryside? Perhaps an advertisement in the local paper? Or he could consult an agency…Even in London, candidates were far from plentiful, as he had discovered during his search for a replacement for good old Robards over the past few months.It had been difficult to let the old man retire, well-earned though it was, as Robards had served his father before him. But age caught up with all in time.Crowley examined himself in the small mirror of his room at the inn. A figure, lean to the point of gauntness, with a narrow, pale face, gazed back at him.He had never been particularly fond of his appearance; even as a young man, he had been all too aware of how much he differed from his peers. Tall and gangly, with red hair and spindly limbs, he had often been the target of his schoolmates’ mockery.But now, approaching fifty, he liked his reflection even less. A sharp chin, an overly prominent nose, and beneath it lips so thin as to appear almost a straight line. Not to mention his eyes...Crowley sighed and slid on his tinted spectacles. At least his attire fit well; the latest fashions flattered his waist and long legs nicely. Not that there were many occasions here in the countryside to make an impression.His new neighbor, Aziraphale Fell, had been polite enough not to comment on the glasses the previous day. Perhaps, in the interest of fostering a good neighborly relationship, he should offer an explanation.“Neighborly relationship!” Crowley snorted at himself as he turned from the mirror to fetch his hat and gloves. “Have I sunk so low that my priorities now lie with ‘neighborly relationships’?”Still, he could not shake the thought that it mattered to him not to start off on the wrong foot with Mr. Fell. The man had seemed kind yesterday—courteous and genuinely eager to cultivate amicable relations. At the very least, it wouldn't hurt to try to fit into the local society respectably.When had he last consciously tried to appear respectable?The London circles he'd frequented sneered at such notions, dismissing moralizing advocates of propriety as narrow-minded and provincial.But in recent years, Crowley had caught himself longing for a simpler life. Away from London’s cesspool—a loud, reeking, and ever-awake place. His lifestyle had begun to feel strangely hollow, almost lonely, despite being constantly surrounded by people.What was it Fell had said yesterday? "The unexpected often comes unbidden" or something like that.“Thank you, old girl,” Crowley murmured as he turned to leave, fully aware that he had just thanked his great-aunt for her timely demise.As on the previous days, he vowed not to squander this chance for a new beginning. And that new life, within the rural society of East Sussex, would start with a cordial dinner at a cordial neighbor’s home.Crowley descended the stairs, tossed a quick greeting to Madame Tracey, and climbed into the shabby carriage her establishment provided to guests.“Eden House,” he instructed the driver as he stepped into the single-horse vehicle, which promptly set off. Crowley shivered. Though the carriage walls shielded him from the biting wind, the general January chill still seeped into his bones. Hopefully, his host would let him linger by an open fire before dinner; he doubted he could handle a fork otherwise.It was only a little past five, but darkness had already descended as if it were the dead of night. Beyond the carriage windows, there was nothing to see, and apart from the steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves, all was silent. How quiet it was compared to London!That morning, Mr. Fell’s manservant had delivered a billet, inviting him for six o’clock—a rather early dinner by Crowley’s standards. Normally, he dined quite late, perhaps around eight. Neither hunger nor appetite stirred in him yet, though he generally ate little regardless of the hour.He wondered what kind of estate “Eden House” might be and lamented that he would not see it properly by night. Still, there would surely be opportunities to see the grounds in daylight.Aziraphale Fell struck him as a man who appreciated comfort. Well, soon he would see just how comfortable his neighbor’s home was. Yesterday, he had seemed lively enough; hopefully, he would not prove an insufferable bore over the course of the evening.The drive passed swiftly, and just before six, the carriage drew up in the drive before Eden House. Crowley stepped down onto neatly raked gravel and, after paying the driver, turned his attention to the estate, curiosity alight.He tried to make out its outline in the darkness: the lower windows shone brightly, casting a golden glow against the red façade of the house and the whitewashed columns framing the entrance. Eden House was undeniably grand, Crowley had to admit.The blue-painted doors swung open, and a butler appeared, ready to relieve him of his coat, hat, and gloves.“Ah, Mr. Crowley!” called a voice, and as Crowley turned from the butler, he saw his host approaching.“How delightful that you could make it!” Fell exclaimed, clasping Crowley’s hand with a warm smile on his round face. “Come, my dear boy. Let us retire to the drawing room while we await dinner.”With that, he led his guest through an elegant entrance hall to a door on the right, which opened into a warm, cozy parlor.“Sit by the fire, Mr. Crowley. You must be positively frozen from your journey. The weather this year is quite unforgiving… Whiskey, brandy, or sherry?”Crowley was sincerely grateful for the offer and sank into an armchair by the fire, relishing the flood of warmth that enveloped him.“Whiskey, please.”As his host prepared a glass, Crowley took a moment to study Aziraphale Fell more closely.The man was not particularly tall, certainly shorter than Crowley himself. Without his hat, white curls crowned his head in dense locks that, Crowley suspected, would defy even a curling iron. He couldn’t help but notice that Fell’s black evening suit was a touch snug at the hips, as though it had been tailored in leaner times.“Here you are, my dear fellow. Let us drink to good neighbors!”Crowley was more than happy to toast to that, and Mr. Fell sank into the armchair opposite with a contented sigh, crossing one leg over the other.“How fares the search for staff?” Fell inquired with polite interest.Crowley took another sip of whiskey, savoring its sharp warmth as it slid down his throat.“Well enough, I suppose!” Crowley began. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but the endless interviews are rather tedious. All those references! And truth be told, the notion of hiring such a retinue of staff for one person seems rather excessive.”“I understand completely, I assure you!” Fell agreed, his lips curling in a sympathetic smile. “I’ve lived alone for years now and maintain a veritable army of servants solely for the upkeep of the house. Between you and me, I sometimes feel like a piece of the furniture myself!”“You’ve hit the nail on the head!” Crowley laughed. “Madame Tracey is adamant that fewer than two housemaids for my estate constitutes a scandalous neglect! It’s comforting to know I’m not alone in my skepticism.”He took another sip of whiskey. “And you truly live alone in this grand estate? I’d have thought a house like this would be bursting with children and extended family!”“I have two brothers, but Gabriel practices law in London, and Michael lives with his family in the North.” A shadow flickered across Fell’s kind eyes. “My wife passed away in childbirth, as did our son.”“My apologies,” Crowley began hesitantly, inwardly wincing at his blunder. “I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, unsure of what to say.“Think nothing of it, my dear fellow,” Fell replied, taking a sip of sherry. A wistful expression touched his lips, though he maintained his benevolent smile. “One learns, in time, to live with such things.”“You never remarried?” Crowley asked, for lack of a better topic.His neighbor was silent for a moment before answering with a sigh.“Alice and I were very young when we married. We had known each other since childhood, and for both our families and ourselves, marriage seemed a natural conclusion. We were wed for less than a year before she passed.”He ran a hand over his face, and for a brief moment, Crowley thought he seemed older and wearier than before.“The further I grow from that part of my life, the more I believe I am too old and too set in my ways to go trough all that again.”He cast an apologetic look at Crowley.“Forgive me, Mr. Crowley; this is a heavy topic for what should be a pleasant evening. Enough about me—Shadwell mentioned you are a confirmed bachelor?”“Crowley—just Crowley,” he said, twirling his glass in his long fingers, a motion his companion’s gaze followed intently. “The title reminds me too much of school days. And yes, I’ve never been inclined toward marriage.”“Then Crowley it is,” Fell nodded, still watching the steady movement of the glass. “Who knows, perhaps one of the local young ladies might change your mind?”“I doubt it!” Crowley laughed, and his neighbor startled slightly at the sound, drawn out of his reverie. “I dare say we’re of similar age, Mr. Fell, and like you, I am quite content to forgo matrimony!”“I shall remind you of that, should the need arise, my dear fellow!” Fell replied with a wink. “But come now, dinner must be ready, and you must tell me what you think of old Shadwell. Can you make any sense of his peculiar dialect?”The evening passed pleasantly, filled with laughter over Shadwell’s eccentricities and his covert fondness for Madame Tracey, which she, in turn, did not seem entirely to discourage. Fell even promised to keep an eye out for a butler and recommended a few local businesses for the renovations at Possingworth Manor. He did not bat an eyelid when Crowley mentioned his intention to plan and execute much of the garden’s layout himself, instead transitioning smoothly into a discussion of the beauty of English gardens and the rich diversity of the local flora and fauna.Aziraphale Fell was a most agreeable companion, Crowley decided. Always polite, friendly, and obliging, yet beneath this amiable exterior, Crowley thought he discerned a sharp wit and a keen intellect. What had begun as a slightly somber mood gave way to effortless conversation, excellent food, and truly exceptional wine.His neighbor revealed himself to be mildly epicurean, possessing a refined palate, as he admitted with a slight blush. Beyond that, Mr. Fell led a quiet life, occupied with managing his estate, tending to his well-stocked library, and hosting the occasional visit from a select few friends or family members.Crowley found himself liking the man, a realization he carried with him as he rode back to Lewes in his neighbor’s carriage. Yes, indeed, he could have done far worse for a neighbor. It was not until he lay in bed at the inn that he realized Mr. Fell had not once inquired about his tinted spectacles—and that he had entirely forgotten his intention to explain their necessity.
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The next morning dawned on a Sunday, marking Crowley’s final day in the area before his intended departure. On Monday, he would return to London to put his affairs in order.It had been arranged with Madame Tracey and his newly appointed household staff that the house would be made habitable in his absence, with Shadwell overseeing the necessary basic repairs and procurements.In two weeks, Crowley mused, he should have everything in London concluded and would be ready to relocate here, to Possingworth.With a resigned air, he buttoned up his elegant, dark Spencer jacket and brushed a faint speck of dust from the lapel. Only one task remained for the day—a visit to his future parish church—and the very thought filled him with dread.Crowley’s relationship with the Almighty had always been somewhat strained, rendering his attendance at Sunday services a rare and sporadic occurrence.However, as Aziraphale Fell had parted from him the previous evening with a kind remark about introducing him to a few parishioners after the morning service, Crowley had little choice but to nod politely and express his thanks.He reflected grimly on the curious stares his extravagant attire and, above all, his tinted spectacles were bound to attract. At least, he consoled himself, Mr. Fell would be by his side—a thought which, strangely enough, lifted his spirits ever so slightly.The service itself was as tedious and dull as Crowley had anticipated. The church was pleasant to look at, though modest—not particularly large, but adequate for the surrounding villages.The vicar, an elderly gentleman with a notably sluggish tone of voice, did little to hold Crowley’s attention. Instead, his gaze wandered during the sermon, landing frequently on his neighbor in the pew:Mr. Fell had greeted him with his usual friendly demeanor and invited him to sit beside him.The minutes before the sermon were filled with his softly whispered introductions of various parishioners and Crowley’s stoic attempts to let the probing stares of others roll off him.During the pastor’s monotonous sermon, Crowley found his attention drawn to Mr. Fell’s expression of rapt devotion.“That,” thought Crowley, studying Fell’s countenance, “is what pious fervor ought to look like.”The man’s face bore an expression of sincere dedication, and even his voice during the hymns resonated with an unmistakable reverence.“Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven;To His feet thy tribute bring.Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,Who like me His praise should sing?”“It’s as if every word speaks directly to him,” Crowley murmured inwardly, a hot pang of envy flaring within him at the unwavering trust the man beside him placed in the inscrutability of the Lord.Would he, one distant day, be granted the same grace as Aziraphale Fell? Was forgiveness even possible for someone like him?Crowley’s hands tightened around his prayer book, his knuckles whitening. If Fell noticed his unease, he made no mention of it.After the service, Mr. Fell made good on his promise, introducing Crowley to the pastor and several parishioners. Father Brown welcomed him to the congregation with a few well-meaning, though barely comprehensible words, before an imposing older lady named Miss Deborah Jenkins commandeered him with inquiries regarding the annual church bazaar.The elder Miss Jenkins, the daughter of the late rector of the local school, struck Crowley as a self-appointed authority on various matters. He took an instant and immense dislike to her, finding her manner and appearance to be almost bird-of-prey-like.Her younger sister, Miss Mathilda Jenkins, however, proved more amiable, asking him a question or two with a kindliness that compelled Crowley to respond with the utmost courtesy. She seemed the sort of gentlewoman who would slip children sweets when their parents weren’t looking, and Crowley found her far more agreeable than her elder sibling.Aziraphale Fell, for his part, made every effort to integrate his new neighbor into the conversations on the churchyard, with varying degrees of success.Crowley received well-meaning recommendations for tradespeople, a few condolences on the passing of his Aunt Agnes, and even an invitation to tea from Mrs. Brown, the pastor’s wife—a small, pale woman of sickly complexion. Crowley thanked her for the invitation, and although he appreciated the social significance of the occasion, he did not exactly relish the prospect of the visit.What he encountered most frequently, however, was the anticipated skepticism. His fashionable attire, red hair, and, of course, his tinted spectacles were a source of distrust and suspicion among the parishioners. Crowley was all the more grateful for the warm advocacy of Mr. Fell.“Give them time, my dear,” Fell assured him as the two set off toward Eden House, where Fell had invited Crowley for tea. “You are new and exciting to them, Crowley. In the countryside, people need a little while to adjust to an unfamiliar face. But you’ll see—soon enough, you’ll be an integral part of our little community!”Crowley grumbled his agreement, though he harbored no such optimism.“I fear I am far too eccentric for this upright parish,” he remarked.“Nonsense!” Mr. Fell exclaimed. “It’s merely a matter of patience. Have faith!”Crowley snorted softly.“You’re the only one who doesn't seem to care about the mystery of my glasses. You haven't asked me about them even once...”Aziraphale Fell cast him a scrutinizing glance before sighing and admitting:“I must confess, I am curious. But the reason you wear them is your own affair, and I’d never dream of prying—that much decorum, at least, I possess.”Crowley halted and glanced around. The path they were following toward Eden House was lined with towering pines, their evergreen branches softening the dim winter light. He nodded, more to himself than to Fell, and, in one swift motion, removed the glasses.A faint gasp escaped Mr. Fell as his blue eyes met Crowley’s unfiltered gaze.Crowley was acutely aware of the sight his eyes presented. Over his right eye lay a milky-white film, veiling the entire orb in an opaque sheen. His left eye was clear, but the pupil within its tawny iris was slitted—serpentine in form.“A fire, some years ago, at a friend’s house,” Crowley offered as explanation, his gaze dropping to the frost-hardened ground. “It was night—I was asleep and didn’t realize the blaze had broken out. A tipped candle in the servants’ quarters, they said afterward, I believe. I barely made it out, but a few ugly scars remained. And, of course, my eyes—not a pleasant sight, I know.”A gloved hand rested gently on his arm, and Crowley looked up in surprise. Compassion was etched deeply on Fell’s face.“How dreadful, my dear boy. But how fortunate you are to have escaped with your life. Yet—if I may ask—has your right eye lost its sight entirely?”Crowley shook his head.“No, not entirely. I can discern light and shadow, vague shapes. The left eye is mostly unscathed, though bright light pains me—hence the spectacles.”“Of course, I understand,” Fell nodded, withdrawing his hand. “But you are mistaken, my friend. Your wounds are marks of His Providence, and we must give thanks that He preserved your life, where so many others are lost.”Crowley was at a loss for words. Gratitude for the man’s sincere kindness swelled within him, yet he could not articulate it. At length, he nodded, and Fell offered him a gentle smile.“Come now, Crowley. Put your glasses back on, and let us continue. I always find myself a bit peckish after the service, and I hear today’s scones are quite exceptional.”Obliging, Crowley slipped his glasses back on, and together they resumed their walk. After some time, filled with light, pleasant conversation, they arrived at Eden House.By daylight, Crowley could fully appreciate the grandeur he had missed the previous evening. The immaculate façade, the tree-lined drive, and the symmetrical gardens all struck him as almost celestial.“Why ‘Eden House,’ precisely?” he inquired as they crossed the gravel-strewn drive.“Oh, my family is quite devout,” Fell replied. “Hence our names—Gabriel, Michael, Aziraphale—unusual, perhaps, but intended to bestow upon us a guardian spirit. My father named Eden House; I suppose the place seemed to him a paradise on earth. And, truth be told, I cannot disagree.”“That, I can fully comprehend!” Crowley agreed, and Fell smiled with evident pride before ushering him toward the doors."I must say, I feel exceedingly at ease here. How could I not? Let us proceed to the library—ah, good day, Young!" Mr. Fell greeted his butler as they passed through the entrance hall, shedding their outer garments."Please bring us tea, along with some of Mrs. Potter’s excellent scones; I find myself in the mood for something sweet."Crowley followed his neighbor into the library and settled into the chair offered to him. The library was indeed impressive, and Crowley felt compelled to express his admiration."Oh, thank you most kindly, my boy. I confess I am rather proud of my collection. Books are my passion, you must know. You are most welcome to borrow anything that strikes your fancy!"Crowley was not much of a reader, but given his neighbor’s enthusiasm, declining such a generous offer was out of the question. He offered his thanks."By the way, I meant to give you the name and references for a butler," Mr. Fell said, retrieving a folded slip of paper from his desk and handing it to Crowley before seating himself opposite and crossing his legs."The name came to me this morning while speaking with my valet. This gentleman served for several years at an estate not far from here, but the owners recently passed away, and the household was dissolved. Perhaps he might suit your needs; his references are impeccable, I am sure!"Crowley could scarcely express his gratitude as he carefully tucked the paper into his pocket."You have no idea what a burden you’ve lifted from me! I cannot thank you enough… I shall have Shadwell arrange for an interview. I will be returning to London tomorrow to settle my affairs, but I expect to be back in two weeks—permanently this time."A hesitant expression crossed Fell’s round face before he offered, "I do not mean to impose, Crowley. I am sure Shadwell is the right man for many things, but I am not entirely certain that hiring a qualified butler is among them. If you wish—but truly only if it suits you—I could summon the man here and see to the particulars myself?"Crowley could hardly believe his luck! It had been a long time since he had encountered such selfless kindness and helpfulness."Mr. Fell, I cannot express how endlessly grateful I would be! You are truly an angel in a time of need! Should you take this matter into your hands, I shall be deeply in your debt.""Oh, nonsense!" Mr. Fell replied, blushing slightly at Crowley’s praise. "I am delighted to be of some small assistance to you. It seems to me that we are destined to enjoy a fine rapport, my dear fellow. Why not lend a hand when one can?"At that moment, the butler appeared with a tea tray laden with delicacies, and as Mr. Fell enthusiastically partook of the offerings, Crowley leaned back in his chair, a quiet smile playing on his lips at this unexpected angel in his new life. ‘Eden House,’ indeed.Without even thinking, he removed his glasses and set them on the table beside him.
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"For Someone’s sake, be careful!" Crowley burst out, inwardly recoiling at the men’s recklessness. A grand piano was not a billiard table!Three men, their faces flushed with exertion, were struggling to maneuver the instrument through the doors of Possingworth Manor, all the while making a valiant effort to avoid the tormented expression of their employer and, more pressingly, the sharp words of the butler. The dismantled legs of the elegant instrument had already been brought into the music room, and now the body itself was to follow—provided, Crowley thought with gritted teeth, that it survived this crude odyssey unscathed."Do keep in mind," Shax intervened at that very moment, "that you shall be held personally accountable for any damage incurred due to your negligence!"Pressed flat against the wall of the music room to stay out of the way, Crowley had never been more grateful for his new butler than in this instant. With a low grumble, the three men straightened their backs and made a marginally greater effort to keep the grand piano’s solid rosewood frame level as they navigated it through the doorway.Crowley had been somewhat skeptical of Herbert Shax at first. Since arriving at Possingworth yesterday afternoon—this time to take up permanent residence—he had made every attempt to avoid his new butler.Shax had been hired by Mr. Fell and therefore must have been deemed competent. Crowley clung to this notion as he exchanged his first words with the imposing man. He was tall, at least as tall as Crowley himself, and Crowley would hardly have described himself as a small man. His dark hair was parted with military precision, and upon his upper lip rested a magnificent and formidable mustache. Shax, Crowley swiftly discerned, had the habit of regarding his interlocutor with a skeptical gaze over the bridge of his Romanesque nose—much in the manner, Crowley suspected, that Julius Caesar must have once looked down upon his senators.The butler was, quite evidently, an insufferable snob, and Crowley had the distinct impression that he failed to meet the man’s exacting standards.Since then, he had endeavored to keep interactions with the somewhat intimidating man to a necessary minimum, in the hopes that he would, in time, grow accustomed to his presence.Yet he had to admit—Shax certainly knew how to keep the staff in line.The manor was in no way comparable to the state in which Crowley had found his inheritance a little over a fortnight ago. The kitchen had been renovated, the servants’ quarters restored to a presentable condition, and the roof patched up. The ghastly curtains and carpets had been removed, and a tolerable replacement was due to arrive from London within the week. Naturally, there were still walls to be papered and further refinements to be made, but these could wait.Crowley was a man of simple yet refined tastes, and in time, Possingworth would reflect his vision. However, such things could not be accomplished overnight.At the very least, under the stringent supervision of Shax and Mrs. Todd, the diligent housekeeper, the entire house had undergone a thorough cleansing. Indeed, everything gleamed with the sheen of wax and furniture polish, and Crowley hesitated to lay his hands on the bannisters for fear of leaving unsightly fingerprints.At last, the grand piano was fully within the music room, and Crowley released a breath he had not realized he had been holding. With palpable relief, he sank onto a chaise that, by providence, stood invitingly nearby.Already, the men were setting about reattaching the piano’s legs—under Shax’s scrutinizing gaze—while young Newton brought in the appropriate stool from outside.Newton Pulsifer, or Newt, as the other servants—except for Shax and Mrs. Todd—referred to him, was a timid young man with round blue eyes and a head full of brown curls. He was somewhat prone to clumsiness, but Crowley found the lad, who was a little younger than his valet Dowling, rather likable."Where to, sir?" one of the men interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, Crowley found the grand piano fully assembled and the entire room waiting expectantly for his direction."I... over by the window, just there." He gestured vaguely, and with a nod, the three movers heaved the instrument into its designated place.Shax cast a disapproving glance at the unmistakable handprints marring the polished wood."The furniture polish, Pulsifer!" he ordered, his sharp tone making the footman visibly flinch. "Ask Anathema—she will provide you with the bottle."Newton scurried off, and Crowley observed with amusement the faint flush that crept up the young man’s face at the mention of the pretty lady’s maid.His amusement swiftly gave way to a sense of alarm as the butler addressed him."Dowling has already arranged the entire sheet music collection in the appropriate shelves, sir. If you wish, I shall summon the piano tuner at once."Crowley could not shake the impression that Shax was less informing him of these matters than simply dictating them. From his vantage point on the chaise, the butler seemed to loom over him even more than was strictly necessary."Very well, Shax," Crowley managed. On a whim, he added, "And please send Mrs. Craddock up—I have some thoughts regarding the menu for the coming days.""Very well, sir," Shax intoned with cool condescension before striding away.Crowley let his lanky frame relax.Truly, the man held a most peculiar power over him, he mused, turning his gaze to his newly installed grand piano.A faint sense of belonging settled upon Crowley at Possingworth, owed in no small part to the mere presence of his beloved instrument. His pianoforte playing was one of the few things in life of which he was truly proud. At his mother’s insistence, he had received lessons from an early age. His father had only grudgingly conceded to his wife’s wishes, yet even the man’s disapproval had done little to dampen young Crowley’s enthusiasm.Music had opened a new world to the quiet child he had once been, and whenever he was deprived of playing for too long, he was beset by an almost morbid longing. He had spent countless hours in free improvisation, shaping little melodies upon his mother’s pianoforte. Later, at university, he had pursued formal instruction—composition techniques, musical theory, thoroughbass studies, and counterpoint exercises. His unbridled imagination had been tempered by structure, resulting in a number of rather elegant compositions. To this day, Crowley still composed the occasional virtuoso piece or song whenever leisure permitted.He had just risen from his seat, intent on playing for a while, when the arrival of Mrs. Craddock, the cook, was announced.She was the very image of a capable cook—rosy-cheeked and round. Crowley was strongly reminded of his former cook in London, who had been sent into comfortable retirement with a generous pension, and he wondered whether all English cooks bore such a striking resemblance to one another and whether, perhaps, it was a prerequisite of the profession."Mrs. Craddock," Crowley began, "this afternoon, I am expecting a gentleman for tea, one with a most refined palate. I wish to ensure that we serve him something befitting his tastes."Mrs. Craddock bestowed a genial smile upon her employer and leafed through her menu."Indeed, sir. Mr. Fell is quite well known in these parts for his passion for fine food. I was considering preparing a selection of smoked salmon sandwiches, accompanied by delicate almond madeleines. Would that be to your satisfaction, sir?"Crowley smiled faintly. So, Aziraphale Fell’s fondness for haute cuisine had evidently made the rounds."Madeleines, you say?" he mused. "Something French… I daresay he will be most pleased. An excellent suggestion, Mrs. Craddock!"The older woman beamed with self-satisfaction."Shall Mr. Fell be staying for dinner, sir?"The question unsettled Crowley. He had invited his neighbor for tea, largely as a gesture of gratitude for securing the services of Shax—would it be presumptuous to insist upon his remaining for dinner? He ought certainly to extend the invitation, but would that be overstepping? And what if Fell had other engagements for the evening?Mrs. Craddock mercifully rescued him from his muddled thoughts."Might I propose, sir, that I prepare something most agreeable, so that should Mr. Fell choose to stay beyond tea, we are well equipped? I have a number of things in store that would undoubtedly meet with the gentleman’s favor."Relieved, Crowley nodded and dismissed the cook. He could not quite say why, but the thought of Mr. Fell’s visit unsettled him slightly. Possingworth was not yet fully to his liking and, naturally, paled in grandeur beside Eden House, but he nevertheless wished to make a good impression on his neighbor.Why Mr. Fell’s good opinion mattered to him, Crowley himself could not precisely say. Perhaps it was the man’s evident goodwill, the kindness and affability he had shown in the brief time they had known one another? Or perhaps it was because Aziraphale Fell struck him as the most selfless soul on earth?Crowley did not know, nor did he particularly care to dwell on the matter.The desire to sit at his pianoforte was, however, thwarted. No sooner had Mrs. Craddock departed the music room than Shax ushered in a tenant eager to make his introduction to his new landlord.As a lifelong Londoner, Crowley possessed no expertise whatsoever in the breeding of sheep, and he felt rather foolish as he nodded along to enthusiastic accounts of wool prices, estrus cycles, and breeding maturity, feigning comprehension where he had none.Shadwell had assured him that all his tenants were capable farmers who tended their lands well and had, even in times of hardship, always found a way to manage. Still, Crowley could not shake the notion that he would do well to acquaint himself more thoroughly with the intricacies of sheep husbandry.What, pray, was this lactation of which the man before him had been speaking with such fervor for the past several minutes?Perhaps Fell might offer some insight? And surely, Shadwell himself could impart some useful knowledge. Both Fell and Madame Tracey—who harbored a curious fondness for the peculiar Scotsman—had assured Crowley that Shadwell was, in fact, quite competent in his field.He bid the tenant farewell with a well-meant handshake and a few forced but courteous words, only to be immediately intercepted by Mrs. Todd, the housekeeper, who required his attention on several domestic purchases.In the blink of an eye, the afternoon had slipped away. It was already past three when Crowley hastily penned a reply to a letter, just in time before Shax announced a visitor—Aziraphale Fell, his round face adorned with its customary genial smile, was shown into the drawing room."Crowley, my dear!" Aziraphale Fell exclaimed warmly, clasping his hand with enthusiasm. "How delightful to hear that you have now permanently left London behind! And what a splendid house! I have seen but little of it thus far—your Aunt Agnes was not one for entertaining—but Possingworth is truly an impressive estate!"Crowley was almost embarrassed by how much he relished Fell’s praise and replied, "It still requires furnishing—a number of things are due to arrive from London in a few days—but without those ghastly curtains, it is at least tolerable. May I give you a tour?"His neighbor nodded eagerly, and together, they strolled through the drawing room and morning room, the dining hall, across the entrance hall, and at last, through the music room into the adjoining library."Oh, Crowley," sighed Fell, his melancholy tone immediately putting Crowley on alert. "Your library is in a truly lamentable state!"And indeed, Crowley had to admit that the sparsely filled shelves of the small library were far from impressive."It does appear somewhat… dreary," he conceded. "Aunt Agnes does not seem to have been an avid reader, and I must confess, to my shame, that I am not much of one either.""My dear fellow!" Fell cried, aghast. "There is no such thing as a poor reader—only one who has yet to encounter the right books! Allow me to bring you a modest selection, and I daresay you shall soon find your library brimming with worthy volumes!"Could Crowley possibly refuse such a generous offer?"If it brings you pleasure, I shall not stand in your way," he replied with a small smile, and the spark of joy that lit up Fell’s face made it well worth the concession. "Besides, most of the books here seem, for reasons unknown to me, to be occult literature… A little variety in the library would certainly not go amiss.""Ah, Agnes Nutter was a great enthusiast of the occult and of animism," Fell confided with a conspiratorial wink. "Rumor has it that the good lady fancied herself possessed of considerable prophetic abilities."Crowley let out a derisive chuckle. "So long as she does not decide to haunt this house as a lingering spirit…""I would not be surprised…" Fell smiled."Come, let us return to the drawing room. I have had tea sent up," Crowley interjected, steering the visibly intrigued Mr. Fell away from the peculiar occult volumes. He would have to see about having them removed.Upon beholding the lavish tea spread, Aziraphale Fell could barely contain his delight, clasping his hands together in unbridled enthusiasm."Good heavens, what a princely display!" he declared, beaming at Crowley. "You need not have gone to such trouble on my behalf, my dear fellow.""Nonsense," Crowley muttered, awkwardly brushing aside the praise as they took their seats opposite one another. "I merely wished to give the new cook an opportunity to showcase her skills. I am not a particularly demanding eater.""Is that so?" his neighbor asked slyly. "Well, regardless, it is exceedingly kind of you to treat me to such a fine repast! My word—are these fresh madeleines?""Prepared specially by my cook, Mrs. Craddock, for your renowned palate!" Crowley replied, smirking at Fell’s enthusiasm as he poured him a cup of tea. "I wished to offer a small token of appreciation for your assistance in securing Shax.""Simply scrumptious!" Aziraphale Fell sighed in bliss after taking a bite of a madeleine, dabbing at his lips with a napkin."I had not realized the extent to which my hedonistic reputation precedes me!" he added, blushing. "As for Shax…"He glanced around the room before leaning in to murmur conspiratorially, "He struck me as exceedingly competent, but I fear the man is an insufferable snob! When he took my hat, I inquired whether he was settling well into the new household, and do you know what he actually replied? ‘As well as can be expected!’ Imagine that!"Crowley grinned unabashedly. "Thank Someone! I was beginning to think I was the problem! I have been attempting to avoid the man since yesterday, and yet he still manages to catch me with that judgmental stare… Apparently, that is simply his natural state!"Fell very nearly choked on his tea, hurriedly setting down his cup onto its saucer as he suppressed a fit of laughter."It is often said that the finest domestics are even greater snobs than their masters," he remarked, and Crowley smirked."In that case, Shax must be the greatest butler in the world!""Enough, Crowley," Fell laughed openly, and Crowley noted, with amusement, the charming dimples that appeared in his round cheeks when he did. "Lest the man overhears us…""Very well," Crowley conceded good-naturedly. "Let us turn to another matter that has been plaguing me since midday. Following a conversation with one of my tenants, I find myself compelled to ask—what, pray, is lactation, and what has it to do with sheep farming? Please, enlighten me, as one more learned in agricultural matters!""Ah, lactation… A most vital process!" Fell declared, carefully setting down his half-eaten finger sandwich to take a sip of tea. "Let us begin with the fundamental principles of optimal milk production…"
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“...And therefore, the breeding objective to be pursued must be chosen in accordance with local demand.”Satisfied with himself, Aziraphale leaned back and took another sip of tea, while Crowley desperately attempted to process his neighbor’s nearly two-hour-long lecture on sheep breeding. Perhaps he ought to have taken notes, he thought to himself. His confusion must have been plainly written upon his face, for Mr. Fell chuckled good-naturedly and leaned forward to pat Crowley’s knee in a soothing manner.“Think nothing of it, Crowley! The beginning is always difficult, but in time you shall come to understand what your tenants are speaking of. Perhaps we should take a stroll to one of my flocks on some occasion, and I can explain the matter in a more practical fashion!”“I should very much appreciate that,” Crowley muttered. “To be frank, I have comprehended but half of all that you have imparted to me. I do not understand how you possess such a wealth of knowledge on the subject!”“Oh, it is not so complicated. With a little time, we shall make a most accomplished estate-owner of you yet!” Mr. Fell dismissed the compliment with modesty. “And you must not forget that I was raised here. As the eldest son, it was ever clear that I should inherit the estate, and I was instructed in the workings of agriculture from the very beginning. I know nothing else!”“Have you never considered doing anything different?” Crowley inquired with curiosity. “Aside from managing your estate, I mean.”Aziraphale Fell looked pensive, his fingers unconsciously playing with a button on his waistcoat.“You know, Crowley,” he began, “I sometimes think, in hindsight, that I might have preferred to dedicate myself to something else. As a young man, like so many others, I had a fondness for poetry and the finer aspects of life. I sometimes think I should have liked to pursue the study of literature and philosophy rather than the law, as my family wished.”He sighed and leaned forward to take up his teacup, his gaze unfocused as he spoke.“Who knows? Perhaps I might have even taken to writing, composing books of my own. But surely, I lack the God-given talent necessary for such an endeavor. And someone had to maintain the estate—being the eldest of three sons, the right and duty fell to me…”After a small sip of tea, his gaze returned to Crowley, and he offered him a smile. Crowley found himself unexpectedly unsettled by the sight, for it was all too apparent that the expression was somewhat forced.“We must all conform to the roles that have been set for us, must we not, Crowley? And in the end, my brothers and I have settled into the expectations placed upon us: Gabriel was always destined for the practice of law, and he is most successful in his pursuits. As a young man, he even served on the Royal Commission on the Criminal Law, and he is now a distinguished professor of jurisprudence at the University of London. His wife is the daughter of a colleague, and they have been blessed with four sons and two daughters. My youngest brother, Michael, was always meant for the Church, and from what I hear, he is most content in his calling as a canon of St. Chad’s Roman Catholic Cathedral.”“And you? Are you content?” Crowley asked, instantly regretting the personal nature of the question. What possessed him to pry into his neighbor’s private affairs?“I believe I am,” Fell replied after a brief pause, much to Crowley’s surprise, before adding by way of explanation:“Perhaps I might have chosen another path, had it been left to me rather than dictated by my father. But it was not to be, and I must confess, agriculture pleases me. I spend much time in the fresh air, I am surrounded by the beauty of nature, and I have diligent people by my side, working together with me to reap the bounty of this God-given land. There are worse fates, my dear.”Crowley nodded, though he was not entirely convinced by Aziraphale Fell’s assertion. It seemed to him that the man was seeking to persuade himself of his own contentment rather than Crowley—but, after all, it was none of his concern.“But I must admit,” Fell added, almost sheepishly, as though he had perceived Crowley’s doubt, “that I am, at times, a little lonely. My family is scattered far and wide, and we seldom see one another. As you know, I no longer have a wife or children. I have my books, and they are ever a delightful diversion, but I do regret that I have cultivated few acquaintances and fewer true friendships.”“You have me, if you wish,” Crowley blurted out without thinking.“I mean,” he hastily corrected himself, his face flushing with color, “you may count on me as a neighbor, and indeed as a friend, if that is agreeable to you.”The expression that crossed Mr. Fell’s round face was best described as something like touched surprise, and once more, Crowley found himself unexpectedly captivated by the dimples that appeared with his smile.“Oh, Crowley, my dear fellow!” he exclaimed. “You are already such a fascinating and most amiable neighbor, and I should be truly delighted to call you my friend!”“Then it is settled,” Crowley mumbled, inwardly cringing at his own awkwardness. As though someone like Aziraphale Fell—an upstanding landowner and prosperous sheep breeder of good and devout stock—would ever wish to associate with the likes of him, if only he knew of Crowley’s past. And yet, Crowley found himself absurdly pleased to call the round, wonderful man before him a friend.“Now, really, my dear fellow; I am honored by your kind words—there is no cause for such an expression of embarrassment!” Mr. Fell chided him gently, evidently having noted Crowley’s discomfort.“Good heavens, how swiftly the time has passed!” he then exclaimed, glancing at his golden pocket watch. “I have imposed upon your hospitality far too long already, but the company was simply too enticing,” he added with a smile. “I really ought to take my leave; it is nearly time for supper.”“Do stay,” Crowley replied at once, recalling his earlier conversation with Mrs. Craddock. “My cook has already prepared enough for two, and I should greatly enjoy your company, Mr. Fell! We have not yet spoken nearly enough of sheep breeding…”“Aziraphale, please. Among friends, such formalities are quite unnecessary,” he smiled. “And I do believe we have spoken quite sufficiently on the subject of sheep breeding! But if you are certain I shall not be imposing…”“Not in the least. Not at all, Aziraphale,” Crowley answered quickly, his tongue nearly stumbling over the unfamiliar name. How swiftly he had come to appreciate the company of this man—and how reluctant he was to part with it!“Well then, I shall not say no,” Aziraphale declared cheerfully, slipping his pocket watch back into his waistcoat.“Sherry?” Crowley inquired, rising and making his way toward the bar, as his guest sank contentedly back into his chair.OoOoOoOoOAnd what of you, Crowley?” inquired Aziraphale, closing his eyes for but a brief moment in sheer delight. Mrs. Craddock had truly outdone herself with the 'salamis de palombes'. “Truly, an excellent dish… That hint of Armagnac—delicious!”“What of me?” Crowley echoed, well aware of Mrs. Craddock’s considerable talent, yet deriving far greater pleasure from Aziraphale’s delight than from the meal itself.“Are you content with your path in life? That is to say, do you believe you may find satisfaction in this new chapter?”This was treacherous ground, by Crowley’s estimation. And yet, he found himself desirous of answering Aziraphale as truthfully as possible.“I was never quite the dutiful son that you were,” Crowley began, taking a generous sip of his excellent wine.“No siblings, and thus all expectations rested upon me. I did my utmost to disappoint every last one of them,” he added with a grin.“You cannot mean that, Crowley!” cried Aziraphale, aghast, setting down his fork to regard his companion across the table with disbelief. “I am certain your parents must be very proud of you!”“I rather think not. I am hardly exemplary company,” Crowley replied dryly, taking another sip. “My mother passed early, and my father and I always had a—ah, strained relationship, I believe it is called. I was sent to Oxford, meant to become a physician. But after some time, I found I had little inclination for it…”“You abandoned your studies?” Aziraphale asked, his gaze tinged with sympathy.“I fell in with the wrong sort,” Crowley admitted hesitantly. “The years that followed were… somewhat debauched. My father passed away; we had not spoken in years. And so I took to travel. Later, I took over some of his ventures, made a few investments—these past years, I have lived most comfortably in London, yet I lack any lasting occupation.”He wished, not for the first time, that he had left his spectacles on. But at some point that afternoon, during Aziraphale’s impassioned discourse on sheep, he had set them aside, and they now remained in the drawing room.“Only here have I come to realise how erratic my existence has been. One might say I hope to find, in this new life, a steadier routine, a more constant occupation, if you will.”“Let us drink to that!” Aziraphale declared, raising his glass. “To life’s detours and newfound friendships!”“Cheers to that!”A tremendous rumble of thunder seized the moment, and the night beyond the windows flared silver under the fierce lash of lightning.“Goodness!” Aziraphale exclaimed, visibly startled. “What a storm! Do listen to the rain, Crowley—it pours something frightful!”At that moment, Shax and Newton entered the dining room to serve the dessert.“Shax, pray tell, what transpires outside?” Crowley inquired of his butler, as the table was cleared and Newton set down the plates of crêpes with orange fillets.“A powerful storm, sir,” Shax replied, refilling their glasses. “The roads appear to be flooded, as far as can be discerned.”“What dreadful misfortune!” Aziraphale lamented. “Crowley, I fear I must impose upon your hospitality once more—I daresay I shan’t manage the journey back to Eden House with the roads so drowned.”“Indeed not!” Crowley answered, furrowing his brow. “You shall have to remain here! Shax, prepare one of the guest rooms for Mr. Fell.”“Very good, sir.”“I truly am sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, idly prodding at his crêpes. “I should hate to burden you with my presence any longer than necessary…”“Nonsense! You are more than welcome. I would not have you attempt the return in this weather.”As if on cue, another growl of thunder cut through their conversation, and Aziraphale flinched.“I suppose I have little choice! But I cannot help but feel guilty for troubling you so.”“Think nothing of it,” Crowley assured him, as Aziraphale cast a troubled glance across the table. “Come now, we must not let Mrs. Craddock’s splendid efforts go to waste!”“I must say,” Aziraphale sighed, pacified at once, “you have been most fortunate in securing such an exceptional cook.”“Madame Tracey evidently has an eye for staff,” Crowley chuckled, and the conversation meandered pleasantly on. From time to time, further thunderclaps punctuated the evening, and Crowley noted with quiet amusement how Aziraphale seemed rather on edge. Did he fear storms as a child might?At the next great crash, Aziraphale dropped his fork, which struck his plate with a clatter.“I do apologise—I am always a little unstrung in storms,” he admitted, pale and agitated. “You see, as a boy, I was caught in a tempest, slipped on the road home, and was swept into a river. I remember, even now, how a farmer fished me out, drenched and half-drowned. The memory is still somewhat vivid, though I now number more than fifty years.” He shuddered and flinched once more as thunder roared overhead.A pang of guilt struck Crowley—he had been silently amused by Aziraphale’s skittishness, yet now, understanding the true cause, he sought some manner of distraction.“My pianoforte arrived today,” he declared suddenly as inspiration struck. “Do you care for music?”“Oh, passionately! Though I am utterly untalented myself. You play?”“But of course! Come, Aziraphale. Let us close the evening with a little music.”Leaving their nearly finished crêpes behind, Crowley herded his unsettled guest into the music room. The thunder had begun to fade, yet the blond man still appeared somewhat shaken.“Do you have any particular preferences?” Crowley asked as he settled onto the piano stool, lifting the lid. “I must warn you—the tuner is not due until the morrow…”“Play what you will,” Aziraphale murmured, reclining upon a chaise, still looking rather wan.Crowley considered for a moment, then let his fingers hover above the keys before striking the first chords. A gentle melody rippled through the room, filling every corner.Aziraphale watched, transfixed, as Crowley lost himself in the ever-quickening phrases.He was a lean, angular man who moved through life with a perpetual stoop, as though reluctant to stand at his full height.But here, before the piano, his limbs relaxed, and a quiet power infused every movement, so that his entire form swayed with the music. His unshielded eyes were distant, his focus turned wholly inward.The first movement gave way to minor keys in the second, rising to a resplendent crescendo in the third. Crowley’s fingers danced effortlessly, so swiftly that Aziraphale struggled to follow their motion. Without pause, he transitioned from the final tremolo into the bittersweet reverie of the fourth, only for it to plunge, quite suddenly, into a cascade of relentless minor chords, fading almost into nothing. The cycle closed with a solemn, weighted sixth movement that seemed to hum in the very air, so tangible Aziraphale swore he could taste it.Crowley’s brow was furrowed, his lips drawn with some distant anguish as his hands moved over the keys.Whatever hurt him so, he poured every fiber of himself into the music, and as the last note trembled into silence, Aziraphale felt as though some part of Anthony J. Crowley had faded with it.Crowley let his fingers rest upon the final chord as the sound dwindled, and Aziraphale found himself incapable of speech."'Songs without Words'", Crowley murmured at last, his voice scarcely above a whisper, yet it seemed to resound in the hush that followed.“It has been long since I heard something so profoundly moving,” Aziraphale whispered. “I cannot express how greatly your playing has touched me, Crowley.”Crowley lifted his scorched gaze from the keys, meeting the piercing blue of Aziraphale’s own, and for a moment, understanding passed between them—a mutual recognition of all the unspoken emotions the music had stirred.“I believe I shall retire for the night, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, breaking the gaze after some time, and rose from the chaise. “Might I prevail upon you to play again on the morrow?”“As often as you wish,” Crowley replied, watching him go.As Aziraphale departed in search of his chamber, Crowley felt as though some vital part of himself had left with him.With quiet finality, he closed the lid of the piano.