An angel's kiss is said to heal all wounds. What a pity, then, that I am not friends with any angels.
Of course, there's Crowley. But he hardly counts. And in any case, this is all his fault.
The Compliance materialised on a Wednesday, in the middle of the week between half-closing and market day. Not much was happening and I was quietly puttering among my books. A bit of light cataloguing does wonders for the heavenly soul, especially if one is already an angel. This might be why, when I mentioned my afternoon plans to my demon acquaintance Crowley, he got a haunted look and shot off in his Bentley to the south coast.
Wednesday half-closing was an antiquated idea, of course, but I liked it. It lent a breathing space to a busy week, and gave me a chance to catch up on administration, never my strong point.
I'd recently acquired a new set of nineteenth-century books, a batch of unmarked boxes from a house clearance, and needed to go through them and assess if they held any value, either as rare editions, or for their intrinsic worth.
The first volume I spread on my desk was dusty and a little damp. Books should smell delicious, and this had a sulphurous tint about it, suggesting it had survived at least one fire. It announced itself as an encyclopedia of cattle diseases - unlikely to fly off the shelves. I set it aside.
The next book smelled of stardust, and love.
I spread the pages. An illustrated book. Colour plates, each separated from the rest by delicate tissue paper. I lifted a page, turned it and suppressed a gasp.
A glossy starling in three poses strutted across the double-page. His plumage gleamed blue, green, purple. The drawing was exquisite. Whoever created these images knew the species intimately, and adored it. My skin tingled. I could almost feel the care radiating off the page. The artist truly loved and admired his subject. Every feather was an offering. Every rampant wing was a prayer to Creation.
I turned the page. The next spread showed a toucan, the next, a parakeet. Parrots of many kinds, an entire chapter of hummingbirds, a suite of lovebirds and finally an osprey.
By the time I closed the book I was breathless.
What a find. This one could go in the window. Such skill would surely attract a buyer, someone who appreciated the artwork as much as I.
I turned eagerly to the next volume. It listed Rabbits of the Steppes. Nicely drawn, but lacking the brilliance of the first book. The illustrator was carrying out his job in a workaday fashion.
Next was a five-part dictionary which contains the pleasing word comity. Then more illustrated guides. Horses, deer, cats and the last, a mesmerising book devoted to eagles. Again the artist's talent sprang to life. Every crest, every quill was pinpoint perfection.
The beauty was so intense I became exhausted.
I closed the book and moved to the door for some air.
And at that point, the Compliance smoked into existence on the pavement in front of me, stinking of nebulae and burning a smouldering great hole in the ground.
Author's note: I hope you like this gentle story of friendship and loyalty. I *may* have scattered some Neil Gaiman references through it. All characters and premises belong, of course, to him and TP. -Sef