Tuesday Afternoon, a cottage in Lower Tadfield

In an old cottage on the outskirts of Lower Tadfield, a doorbell rings. A witch almost chokes on her breath.

Anathema had wards about the house since before Armageddon, in case the forces of evil came to interfere with her work. Sage and rosemary, thyme and angelica. She had added a few since then, too, because one never knows who is out for vengeance, and one doesn't know anything at all when there's no longer any book of prophecy that predicts important future events.

She has conducted a continuous triangulation between the kitchen window, the hallway, and the bathroom for the past twenty minutes. It has nothing to do with warding and everything to do with nerves and hoping that Newt will return soon. There hasn't been the characteristic coughing of Dick Turpin on the driveway, however, so this can only be one person.

Anathema has also been cursing herself high and low, and breaking the remainder of her ceramic pots, since the old wall-mounted bakelite phone rang. She burnt the new set of prophecies. Why ever did she burn the new set of prophecies? Agnes would have mentioned this, for sure. This man had known about the Antichrist, had stopped literal angels and demons from restarting Armageddon, and now he is at her door, asking her for help.

She shoots a glance at the wreath of blackberry bramble hung above the door before opening it.

He looks the same as he did at Tadfield Airbase. That is to say, he looks like a kindly librarian in a Charles Dickens novel, one who is never more than ten minutes away from suggesting tea and biscuits, and never more than five from saying "lovely".

"Welcome in! Pleased to meet you properly, Aziraphale...?" She takes his hand and lets the question hang in the air.

"Just Aziraphale – and the pleasure is mine, Miss Device."

He doesn't just look like he stepped out of the 19th century, because next thing she knows he bows to her.

"Anathema," she offers automatically, and feels her anxiousness melt away like snow when one steps inside from harsh winter weather. He might just have the kindest smile she has ever seen. "Please, this way."

That he doesn't make her nervous doesn't mean he makes her any less curious, and on their way into the cottage kitchen Anathema eyes her guest like a pickpocket sizing up a potential target. His aura is peculiar – not like those four from the airbase, the ones that had been like black holes. No, Mr Aziraphale is quite the opposite. Not negative but positive. Not pulling things in to devour, but pouring himself over his surroundings. Anathema isn't surprised at all that he passes the blackberries and her other wards without even noticing them.

"Oh, just lovely, this place. So warm. Well cared for, well borne."

He's not, as one might think, talking to her. Anathema doesn't know how she knows that, but there are other things she doesn't know about this man and one must prioritise. Mr Aziraphale is humming, a pleased little sound, and seems for all the world to be conversing with the cupboards and candle holders and ceramic jars in the kitchen. It's a ridiculous thought. It's equally ridiculous, but equally evident, that while he isn't actually touching anything, he is examining the old cottage by more than sight.

"You wanted help with something, Mr Aziraphale?"

"Ah. Yes."

The look on his face makes her wish they hadn't burned the book.

"I think I would like to discuss the matter with both you and Mr Pulsifer present. If that is possible," he says, and looks like a man who is grasping every straw within reach to postpone something highly unpleasant.

"Of course. He should be back soon, he was just picking up the last of his moving boxes. Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?" She is already opening the cupboard with her herbal teas and that one unopened jar of coffee she keeps in case of visitors. Observant visitors might wonder why she has coffee when there is no coffeemaker in the kitchen; these visitors will discover that the coffee is bait, and that they are about to be given a passionate lecture about how much land is deforested to make room for coffee plantations.

"Some cocoa would be nice, please."

"Sorry, I don't have–" There is a tub of cocoa innocently nudged in between her ginseng and nettle teas. Anathema grabs it like one grabs an unidentified fuzzy object in the far back of the fridge. Ever since Adam Young turned out to be the Antichrist, she treats anything too blatantly innocent with suspicion. "Milk and sugar with that? Are you okay with soy milk?"

"Absolutely, dear."

She darts a glance at her guest, who also sits like he has stepped out of the 19th century. His aura could be human. Her mum also has an aura that is a little more vibrant than most, and she'd always fancied that Agnes must have had an unusual aura, too.

She leaves the cocoa on the countertop and the soy milk in a saucepan on the stove, and goes to fetch the Book.

It was, in its own odd way, appropriate that the Book had been returned in worse condition than it left. Every owner had left a mark in it, like a family tradition. There were scribbled hypotheses in the margins, wine stains and coffee stains, and a pencil drawing on the front page. There were dog-ears, and highlights, and an oddly successful attempt at drawing Queen Anne's portrait in pancake batter. It was fair to say that the Book was not just a prediction of the Device family's future, but a chronicle of its past.

"I've been wanting to meet you, too, actually." She sits across from him and puts the Book on the table, along with a thick wad of notes with singed edges. These are not written by any Device. These notes are new, although the handwriting looks decidedly 19th century, down to the scratch marks of the nib when the scribe was in a hurry. "This was you?"

"Oh. Yes. Fantastically gifted, your ancestor. I must say, I've never seen the likes of it, and I've been collecting books of prophecy since the dawn of time. Agnes' was a– a dream come true, really. Never thought I'd see it, much less hold it in my own hands!" Mr Aziraphale is wiggling from his shoulders out to his excited fingertips, and Anathema thinks it might soon be possible to see his aura even without the gift. "Truly an honour to have been allowed to study it. Ah, though I never actually asked permission. To do so. My apologies, Miss Device."

"Are you psychic, Mr Aziraphale?"

He looks genuinely shocked by the assumption.

"Me? Oh Heavens no. No such talent here. But I do have quite the knack for sleight of hand, if I may say so myself," he beams, and begins rummaging through the pockets of his waistcoat.

Briscoe Device, born 1828, had been capable of astral projection. He had left a notebook where he described, in vivid detail, meeting with supernatural entities on the spiritual plane, and fantastic journeys to faraway solar systems where beings that look like octopi communicate with each other through telepathic song.

Anathema has never attempted astral projection. She doesn't know if she'd be able to do it in the first place, if it requires some special talent, or if she'd manage to get back into her body again. These questions may be answered very soon, because if Mr Aziraphale does not stop doing parlor tricks that should have stayed in the 19th century, her spirit will attempt to leave her body.

"You deciphered Agnes' prophecies," she tries again, holding the notes out towards him. "My family has been combing through these for 350 years and you figured it out in four days." And he is trying to make her believe that he isn't hiding that two-pence in his sleeve.

"Three." He smiles like a maiden receiving compliments for her looks. "Three days. I was quite... absorbed. If I can put it like that." The coin makes nervous rounds between his fingers, until he seems to realise it and swiftly clasps his hands between his knees with an air of saintly innocence.

Kindly librarians in Dickens novels do not appreciate swearing, or that's Anathema's instinctive feeling about it. She keeps the swearing to herself, a whirlwind of profanities at the enigma of how this man – who looks and speaks and sits like the childishly delighted and deeply embarrassing uncle at Christmas – has somehow deciphered the most advanced collection of prophecies in the world. In three days. And talks about it like a kid in elementary school bubbling about his favourite comic.

Mr Aziraphale looks concerned. That's all Anathema can tell before he drops his gaze and scrutinises himself intently, as if searching for something. Whatever it is, his disapproving face suggests he didn't find it.

"I can't help getting excited," he sniffs with a hint of reproach. But he rearranges himself on the chair either way, slips the coin back in his pocket and smooths out creases in his cashmere trousers. "It's a unique work, after all."

"You read my mind." Anathema stares. She's quite sure the only thing Mr Aziraphale gets for several seconds is static. "You said you weren't psychic."

"I'm not psychic – and it's not so much reading as skimming, really. Just the surface layer of what you're thinking at the moment." An accusatory expression passes across his face, then turns around for one last dirty look before it leaves. "You were thinking rather loudly."

"Sorry. I'll… try not to think so loudly." She does try. It's not easy when your brain is screaming at you that the man before you is not a man, and that you should know better than to burn your great-great-great-great-great-grandmother's prophecies. "And sorry for what I was thinking. That wasn't very nice of me. I just want to understand how you... How you did this. How you showed up at the airbase, how you knew about Adam and how you convinced those beings to not start Armageddon–"

The stovetop gives off an infernal hiss as soy milk bubbles out of the saucepan.

Water has a boiling point of 100 degrees Celsius, give or take some depending on atmospheric pressure. Milk, regardless of type and pressure, has a boiling point of Whenever You Have Given Up Waiting And Look Away From The Stove. This is one of Crowley's, which he would have received a lot more credit for if anyone in Hell had known the first things about cooking.

Anathema doesn't know about that particular quirk of physics. She still finds the boiling milk very curious, because she never actually turned the stove on. She is also very curious about her guest, who seems to have the ability to bend reality to his expectations in a way not unlike Adam.

Newton arrives eventually, with the characteristic clanking noise Dick Turpin makes when the engine cools. They all relocate to the living room because both Anathema and Mr Aziraphale look like they would prefer to be someplace comfy and informal for whatever they are to talk about. She and Newton take the couch, as they usually do. Mr Aziraphale takes the antique, button-back armchair, and looks like he was rented part and parcel with the rest of the inventories.

"So. Armageddon never happened, and that is largely thanks to you – to your skill and courage. Averting a global nuclear war is no small feat, after all. By comparison, this is, ah – nothing, really," Mr Aziraphale says, and is as convincing as his magic act. To his credit, he seems to realise that. He grimaces and tries again, this time more collected. "I came here because I need help. I don't know anyone more qualified than you two." His collected state lasts about three sentences. "There is an item I need to acquire. It is currently in the, ah, the British Museum. Which is a bit of a hitch, but I figured, for individuals so skilled at manipulating computers that they can deactivate nuclear launch protocols, a museum security system would be practically – well – and I really do need to get this particular item–"

"Just one? Why not more?" Anathema asks.

As methods of human communication go, silence is remarkably underrated. Newton's is saying Has she gone mad? Aziraphale's is saying Did I spend 6,000 years worrying about Crowley's bad influence on humanity? I've been deluded. Swathed in a gauze of idealisation. Blinded and stumbling on the rocky shores of belief until the inevitable fall into the cold waters of veracity.

"While we're at it," she adds, shrugging.

"That's… stealing," Newton points out, with that undercurrent of hesitation that comes from pointing out something that shouldn't have to be pointed out.

"It's the British Museum, half of what's in there is stolen already."

"Isn't that a conspiracy theory? From that magazine you've got, The New Aquarian? The one that talks about Atlantis and aliens and–"

"You met aliens."

"Well, yes, but–"

"We saw Atlantis on the news."

Newton is starting to realise that this is Waterloo, and he is Napoleon.

"I think that may have had something to do with Armageddon," he tries.

"That's my point!" Anathema gestures towards their guest. "Mr Aziraphale was there when Armageddon happened. He's here now. We don't have a book of prophecy anymore but if we had I'm sure this meeting would be in it! This could be important, Newt."

To his credit – or maybe not – he does consider her argument for a moment.

"It would still be stealing, though."

Like all witches trying to lead men into wickedness, Anathema recognises when it's time to change tack.

"Didn't you mention robbing a bank? Right before Armageddon, you said you regretted never robbing a bank?"

"Bank," he stresses. "Not museum."

This statement begs many questions. What novels did young Newton read as a child? Did he name his car Dick Turpin only for the pun? Has Aziraphale really been this bad at his job, or is humanity just like that?

"Does it have to be a bank? It's more or less the same, just exhibits instead of money."

"It's about the moral principle. Banks have always worked in their own self-interest. They exploit their position to make more money for themselves, and they don't care if that means lots of ordinary people lose their houses or their savings. I'd much rather rob a bank."

"But a museum isn't that different? Look, one steals people's future, the other steals their past. Besides, is it really stealing if the object in question is stolen already?"

"Uh, that– I mean, if you were returning a stolen object to its rightful owner, then I suppose not. But I don't know if that's what we're being asked to do." Newton looks at Mr Aziraphale with an expression that might be a plea for help.

Help is not coming, as Aziraphale is having another stint with an existential crisis.

"What's so special about this item you want us to get? Is there something magical to it, some curse, some prophecy?" Anathema notices the blank look in his eyes. "Mr Aziraphale? If you want us to help you, we at least deserve to know what we're getting into."

"Uh," he says. "Nothing special about it, dear. Just an ordinary piece of jewellery." He isn't quite sure if he should be grateful that he didn't need to do any tempting, or concerned for the young couple's future. "And it's just Aziraphale."

Anathema doesn't believe a word of it. She doesn't say so, because she doesn't need to. She speaks silence like a native, and the longer she stares at him the more he fidgets with his cup.

"It… belonged to someone."

At the mention of this someone, Mr Aziraphale softens. And nearly strikes Anathema blind.

Energy can take on a variety of forms depending on what you do with it. That's how humanity discovered radio waves, electricity, and a bunch of other technological achievements Newton can only ever sigh longingly about. And if you're going to explain these things by comparing atoms with solar systems, it's time to mention the comets.

The atom is excited. The surplus energy that is released when its electrons flamenco takes the shape of tiny glowing particles, called photons. These are more commonly known as light, which is what sustains all life on Earth – or burns through diamonds, if you focus them at a single point. The latter isn't a problem, usually, since angels conceal the divine radiance of their true form from human eyes. It can be a problem, if the human in question is gifted with the ability to see beyond the mortal plane, and the angel in question has a particular focal point for his excitement.

Anathema turns her face away with a gasp and a vaguely man-shaped afterimage buzzing in her field of vision.

"I'm fine," she assures, like someone who hasn't just stared point blank into the sun.

"You're crying," Newton points out. He is a nice, helpful lad, and leans in with a tissue.

"It's just the light." Anathema dries her cheeks, squeezes his hand reassuringly in hers. Her chest still feels the phantom ache of being stretched to its very limits. It's a lovely, devastating ache. The ocean of his light could flood her, could dissolve her in its depths, and nothing would have made her happier. "Sorry, it's just– So much love."

"You see auras?" Mr Aziraphale's face falls. "Oh of course you do, goodness me, how careless I've been! I'll turn it down right away, dear girl."

That's just ridiculous. People can't alter their auras at will, no more than they can change how many arms and legs they have. It's an aspect of their spirit, a small bit of their metaphysical Selves that shimmers through the veil just enough that people with the gift for it can see them. Most people aren't even aware they have auras. Yet Mr Aziraphale is closing his eyes and concentrating, and to Anathema's astonishment the brilliant glow actually soaks back into him.

"Better?"

She nods dumbly, takes a moment to wipe at her eyes again. "You're getting it for him, then? That… man that was with you at the airbase?" She doesn't know exactly what they are. She does know the love she felt had a shape and a voice.

"Yes." He looks proud. Sort of. In the hesitant manner of someone learning to dance for the first time. "As a surprise gift. He used to have long hair – beautiful hair, really – and he's growing it long again. I just happened to see that British Museum has his hair clasp and, well – I don't think they'd return it if I asked." Both Anathema and Newton lean in, trying to pinpoint the meaning of return in this context because, as the film critics say, there are continuity issues in this timeline. "His name is Crowley."

Crowley. Even with his aura dimmed down, Anathema feels the waves of that ocean lap over the room like distant song. It fills his eyes, fills his voice, the softness of his love – and his regrets. He never told him, Anathema realises. All that love, and he never told him.

"So." Newton isn't sure what exactly is happening, but Anathema seems to be okay and Mr Aziraphale seems to be whatever he is. "We are returning a stolen object to its rightful owner?" They both nod. Newton still doesn't really follow what happens but trusts that it will turn out alright. He looks at Anathema, just to confirm: "Just one?"

Laughter takes her by surprise, the kind of laughter that makes everyone look their most lovely completely by accident. "Just one," she smiles, and squeezes his hand fondly.

They consume several rounds of tea and cocoa between them as the details of the plan are hammered out. Newton is the computer wizard among them, so it's he who will have to get into the surveillance room. There will be a vacancy in the museum guard force, Mr Aziraphale assures, and they will hire Newton to fill it. He will be given the night shift, and his colleagues will be out while he deactivates the security system and swaps the real clasp for the replica. No one will notice anything amiss.

It reads like the manuscript for your average heist film – probably with George Clooney, and probably with a twist – including the part where Mr Aziraphale won't explain how these steps will be orchestrated. Things will sort themselves out, he says. Newton's lack of job qualifications won't be a problem. Staff leaving a newcomer in charge of the security won't be a problem. Nothing, really, will be a problem.

And maybe there will be no problems. Maybe it will all flow smoothly, like icing with not enough powdered sugar in it, and afterwards they will part ways with slaps in the back and congratulations on a job well done. Maybe this is the only time they will meet like this.

Anathema is curious. She's also American, which means she doesn't let politeness get in the way of her curiosity.

"What are you, Mr Aziraphale?"

The look he gives her makes her wonder if he, too, can see auras. Or something beyond auras, because the way he looks at her makes Anathema feel like he is seeing more than anyone should. As with the cottage, he is examining her with more than just his eyes.

She doesn't want to know what he sees. She doesn't want to know what that burning light reveals to him.

"I am a Principality," he says at last, with something that resembles a smile. It's the smile he wore when he dropped off her bike, and it should have clued her in already then that this is something that mimics a human and occasionally misses the mark.

"What? Like Wales?" Newton, like most people, is not psychic. He doesn't sense what Anathema senses. Newton is also not American, but that doesn't mean he can't slip up on the politeness.

There's a thing they do in photography called time lapse. It uses still pictures to create the illusion of fast-forwarding a usually slow process, like the shifting of the sky from dawn till dusk, or the exquisite unfolding of a flower. It's often set to beautiful instrumental music.

The time lapse Mr Aziraphale's face is doing is not an unfolding flower. It is a drying tomato, and it is withering with the steadily increasing concentration of acid.

Newton doesn't get an answer. Mr Aziraphale pointedly sips his hot cocoa and, when he sets the cup down, produces an aged, gleaming ornament that could never have fit in his waistcoat pocket. This is a replica of the hair clasp they are to steal, he explains, and turns the conversation back to the logistics of the theft.

The human mind is often likened to a computer. This effectively means memory is like a database, only it's the worst database you've ever come across. Some of the memories will be corrupted by negativity, and are downright toxic to revisit. Some of them are entirely made up. The tagging system is wildly inconsistent, and memories will reappear and disappear like the drunk ramblings of someone who has spent entirely too much time with their tumbler.

Anathema's internal database contains most of Agnes' prophecies. It responds to certain keywords, certain numbers, and the smell of a particular brand of oolong bought at the corner store two cities away from Malibu. There's only one mention of a principality in the Book, and only one mention of cocoa, and they happen to come in the same sentence:

Open thine eyes and rede, I do say, foolish principalitee, for thy cocoa doth grow cold.

Few Devices had paid attention to prophecy 3008. They had hypothesised that it referred to the Portuguese rebellion against Spain, which didn't exactly make sense with the first half of the prophecy since the Portuguese had become independent in 1668 and the world had evidently not ended. Nothing had ever seemed to explain the first half of the prophecy until right now, when Anathema watches a Dickensian book collector, with mind-reading and reality-bending powers, sip cocoa in her armchair and look daggers at her boyfriend.

When that the angel readeth these words of mine, in his shoppe of other menne's books, then the final days are certes upon us.

An angel.

He's an angel.

An angel .

"Thinking loudly again, my dear," Mr Aziraphale says. He might have the kindest smile she has ever seen, but also the most impish.

A/N

§ More gleeful flirting with the Doctor Who franchise, and with Ocean's Eleven.

§ There's a joke in the book - or just a reference to a joke, really - that mentions Aziraphale is technically a Principality, but that people make jokes about that these days, so he doesn't use it to "introduce" himself. I looked long and hard to find an explanation to that joke, and it seems this is what's behind it.