Tadfield. Late evening. The bookshop. The Them have just finished their after-dinner school project session and left to bicycle back to their homes. Aziraphale, robed in his ratty old velvet dressing gown, is in the backroom, seated on the Persian carpet, supported by one of the giant pillows propped against the front of his armchair. Crowley is wearing himself, sprawled across Aziraphale's lap and resting his head upon the angel's shoulder. He's pushed the robe off Aziraphale's other shoulder, and is idly caressing the angel's fuzzy chest while he speaks.
I'm getting that edgy feeling again, Angel. Something's going to happen.
Yes. I've noticed. You've been exceptionally clingy for the past week.
I'm trying to home in on what's gnawing at me. Keep coming round to Eric and Hekla.
That why you drove up there this morning? Instead of going to London?
Yep. Nothing obviously amiss. Just the opposite, in fact. Alexis and Leslie say they're the best grooms they've ever had. Pay attention to instructions. Don't slack off. Liked by the horses. Eric's learning to ride well. Old Boris seems to enjoy packing him around. They were doing small jumps yesterday, bareback and no hands.
I remember riding horses. Most unpleasant.
Definitely hard on the buttocks. Not to mention they're such cantankerous beasts.
But Hekla and Eric get on well with them?
I think Boris likes us demons because we feel like a hot water bottle on his back. And Hekla is, well, an angel. You never got bucked off, or kicked, or bitten, did you?
No, now that you mention it.
I got the treatment regularly. Those giant black jobs Hell provided could kick you into next week. And they always insisted on rearing and pawing the air at least once before galloping off at top speed.
Ran John Gilpin's race, did you?
Crowley laughs.
And how! At least Gilpin's horse let him mount. I had to take a running leap into the saddle and grab the mane for dear life. Usually the damned animal was prancing around, and I'd go right over the other side and into to the dirt. And you know what stable dirt is like.
I expect the livery stable grooms found that hilarious. They were always snickering behind my back, I know.
The bastards would gather to watch and laugh themselves sick whenever I showed up. I think what finally sold me on humans was when they invented cars.
They sit in silence for some moments. Then Aziraphale murmurs:
Beelzebub hasn't shown up to brand Hekla as she did me?
Nope. That's one of the things worrying me. Hekla's vulnerable to Hell Fire extinction.
Surely no demon would destroy her?
No way. To them she's a prize. A trophy.
Am I?
Crowley smiles.
You bet. A big one. You've made me a legend. Mmmmm . . .
He spends the next several minutes kissing Aziraphale's neck and shoulders.
Aziraphale hugs his demon close and strokes his head.
Really, my dear. If demons won't attack her, why do you think Hekla needs protection from Hell Fire?
Crowley sits up and gazes at Aziraphale.
Surely you remember what the Heavenly Host tried to do to you?
I will never forget, Crowley.
What do you think happened to that Hell Fire tornado after I survived it?
I . . . I don't know. Doesn't it burn itself out?
Oh no. I walked out, of course. But Eric was still there when I left.
Eric? He was there?
He was the demon Hell assigned to deliver the pot of Hell Fire. He opened it to release the tornado. Got cocky and asked Gabriel if he could hit me. Said he'd always wanted to hit an angel. Gabriel actually gave him permission.
No! Gabriel would have allowed a demon to strike me?
Oh yeah.
How humiliating!
Gabriel's a right bastard, no mistake. But Eric's no fool. Disposable Demons have a keen sense of self preservation. I gave him a look, and he backed off. But to continue about the Hell Fire pot. There's no way the angels would have approached it. They were scared out of their celestial skins. So Eric would've had to replace the cover.
Crowley magics his phone to hand.
Call Eric. . . . . . . Eric. Tell me what you did with that pot of Hell Fire you delivered to Heaven. Did you take it back to Hell? . . . Hm. . . . Turn on speakerphone, will you? I want to ask Hekla a question . . . . . . Hekla, in your travels around Heaven sweeping out rooms, did you ever see a pot of Hell Fire? . . . Indeed. Any way humans can get at it? . . . OK, thanks, Hekla. Ciao, you two.
He disappears his phone and regards Aziraphale.
Eric says Gabriel told him to leave the pot in Heaven. Hekla says it's just sitting in a locked storeroom on a floor off limits to humans, with a sign saying, "Hell Fire. Danger. Do not touch." This is bad, Angel.
Why in Heaven would they want to keep something around that could utterly extinguish an angel?
Crowley does not answer. Merely waits for the penny to drop.
Oh. Dear lord.
Tadfield. The street outside Stitch Witchery, the new needlework shop. Wensleydale and DeeDee are bicycling past, on their way home from their after-hours homework session with the rest of The Them at the bookshop.
Wensley! Hang on! Stop!
They stop their bikes and dismount. DeeDee cocks her head as if trying to listen to some faint sound. She turns her bike and walks it toward the needlework shop. Wensley follows her. They reach the step outside the shop door. Fiddle music can be heard within. DeeDee pokes her head through the door, then fades through it. The sound of a latch releasing. The door opens.
Wensley! Come in! You have to see this!
Wensley locks his bike, then slips inside. The door closes itself behind him. Confronting him is a tall, slender old woman with snow white hair drawn neatly back into a tight bun. Clad in a cream extravagantly patterned Aran jumper that hangs to just above her bony knees. Black leggings and black Balmoral boots. And a giant cat – a lean black panther with orange eyes like lamps – standing on its hind legs and holding a bow and fiddle.
Ah! Anathema told me you might drop in some time.
Wensley, backed against the door, is staring at the huge cat.
Oh! . . . Uh . . . Please excuse us for coming in uninvited. We can go if we're interrupting something.
Oh my goodness, no. You must stay. Wensleydale, may I present Cat Sith, my familiar demon. Cat Sith, this is Adam Young's councilor Wensleydale. And you of course recognize the Disposable Demon. Wensleydale, I am Clare Weaver, Witch.
Cat Sith presents a deep courtly bow to Wensleydale, arms outstretched, the bow in one paw and the fiddle in the other. Clare bobs a curtesy.
Uh . . . Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Weaver. Mr. Cat Sith.
Cat Sith and I were just having a bit of fun. Cat Sith, if you please?
Clare raises a finger. Cat Sith shoulders his fiddle, and begins to play "Jenny Dang the Weaver." Wensley's eyes are riveted upon the cat's paw as it fingers the strings with surprising dexterity and speed. Clare extends a hand in an invitation to DeeDee, who approaches. They face one another and bow at the waist. Then begin to dance a reel to the music.
After a while Cat Sith changes the tune to "Haste to the Wedding" and Clare and DeeDee begin to dance a jig. Some minutes later the tune ends. They stop, and turn to regard Wensleydale.
C'mon, Wensley, we'll teach you how to do a jig. It's easy.
DeeDee, when did you learn to do dances like that?
'S what we did before we discovered hip hop.
Wensley cautiously approaches and stands alongside DeeDee. The jig lesson commences.
Tadfield. Wensleydale's home. Ten minutes before he's supposed to be in bed. His parents are standing waiting for him when he comes in the door.
Wensleydale, you're very nearly late.
I called Deirdre Young. She says your homework group at the bookshop broke up over an hour ago.
DeeDee and I stopped off at that new needlework shop. Ms. Weaver and DeeDee taught me how to dance a jig.
Dance a jig? At this time of night? What on earth for?
Oh, just for the fun of it. Ms. Weaver was listening to fiddle music and dancing around by herself.
Wensleydale's parents exchange a concerned look. Then his mother decides:
Well, perhaps that's how she does her daily exercise. It is important to stay fit when one is elderly.
It does take a lot of energy. I'm pretty tired, Mum. Can I go to bed?
Of course, Wensley. But next time you're delayed in coming home, would you please call us?
Sure, Mum. I should have thought of that.
Good night, son.
After Wensley troops up the stairs to his room, his mother murmurs:
I'll wager it was that girl DeeDee's idea to stop at the needlework shop.
Do you think Wensley is hanging around with her a bit too much?
Oh, no. Not really. They seem to be fast friends.
He is 13 now.
Yes. But I'm not talking about teenage romance. It's that I can see how she fit right in with that little group of pranksters Wensley has been part of since he was small.
Them? Tut, my dear. Arthur and Deirdre run a tight parental ship. I don't think we need to worry about some occasional minor mischief. Boys will be boys.
And so will those girls Pepper and DeeDee. Not exactly sweet little princesses, are they?
My word, no. Saucy little devils. Take no guff from the boys. More power to 'em, I say. I myself like strong, upstanding women.
He grins, steps over to his wife and gives her an affectionate hug and peck.
