A Nice anned Accuratte Prologue

London, in the Year of Our Lord, 1893. A strange beginning for our tale, dear readers, but nevertheless, all shall be revealed.

A dull yellow sun had risen above the rooftops about 4 hours earlier, and was still there, shining down onto the quiet avenues of the genteel London district. There had been a great deal of commotion earlier, when a man who had walked into one of the houses had enchanted all of the inhabitants of the surrounding neighbourhood to sing popular songs of musicals that had yet to be written1. But now, all lay still.

The house in question was not remarkable in any way, except that a family of landed gentry resided there and the young daughter of the house had been kidnapped. The house was large, imposing and decorated with all the right bits of fiddly architecture that would be sure to attract gargoyles before long (gargoyles kept the pigeon population down very effectively, even if one did have to avoid stepping in excreted cement and paving slabs every now and then).

Across the wide, tree-lined avenue stood a similar house; and within the dining room of this house stood a maid, who had been dusting one particular portion of the windowsill for a little longer than was strictly necessary. The maid was peering intently at the house across the road, trying to squint urgently through the net curtains. What she could see was this:

The front door of Lord Anthony Cloade's residence opened and out stepped two men, into the bracing morning air. One of them was..well...he was wearing a pair of white trousers, a white tailcoat, white top hat, a red waistcoat and..he appeared to be a...a cat-man.

The maid, Ivy Stolkes, stared in amazement. The second man to walk out she recognised as Lord Cloade's new temporary butler; he was a young man with raven-black hair, sparkling emerald eyes and skin so deathly pale he would have been mistaken for a vampire, had he not been standing quite calmly in the sunlight that curled lazily over the rooftops and lumbered into the near-deserted street. He was dressed in a gleaming black morning suit and appeared to be talking in serious, avid tones to his bizarre companion.

Ivy gasped again.

"Ivy Stolkes, haven't you finished dusting in there?" called an angry voice. Oh dear. That tone always lead to trouble. Ivy's, usually.

"But...but...Mr Mainwaring! A..a man just...just...well...there was a large puff of smoke, and then he wasn't there any more!" Ivy gabbled quickly, although all it earned her was a clip around the ear for making up such nonsense.

(_)

Far away from that chilly London morning, and into a thundery Paris one, in a back alley, there was another puff of ethereal blue smoke. The strange young man who had been in London mere moments before looked up in surprise at the rain; but was unperturbed. He set off heartily, looking forwards to a fresh croissant and a long chat with an old friend whom he had not seen for a long time.

Just off the Rue de Remarke is situated a small café. There is nothing particularly special about this small eatery, it is small, cosy, warm, has an inglenook fireplace and sells delicious cakes and pastries. It is also a hotspot for gossip, scandal and coffee. It is a place where lovers meet, friends gather and revolutionaries plot to overthrow the government in a coherent way before the next shift starts. There are dozens of cafés like this one all over Paris. What sets this one apart, is one single member of the clientèle.

The angel, Aziraphale, sat quietly at a two-seater windowside table, watching the rain tumble from the stormy skies. He looked to a casual observer, like a scholarly man with golden hair that had had attempts of neatness applied to it, but now fell in its own unkempt style. He was quite good-looking and appeared to be in his mid-thirties. His azure eyes radiated a warmth and friendliness that made him easy to talk to.

He leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers beneath his lips and looked thoughtful, as if pondering the great mysteries of the Universe2.

When one meets Aziraphale for the first time; one is prone to forming three immediate impressions about him:

1) He is English.

2) He is as straight as a roundabout.

3) He is intelligent.

Two of these assumptions are wrong. Heaven is not in England, no matter what Wordsworth spouted on and on about the Lake District; angels don't really go in for sex (not that they can't, it's just that mostly they need to make an effort to want to3); and angels are intelligent, but apart from being more well-practised than humans, there isn't a vastly great distinction.

The door of the café opened as the bell jingled merrily, in opposition to thunderclap outside. The young man who had just popped in from London scanned the room and, seeing his old chum, sat down opposite him.

"Aziraphale! As I don't live and don't breathe! How are you?" The man exclaimed in delight. To anybody else the later sentence would have seemed uncommonly out of place, however, because the angel knew his friend was a ghost of sorts, it made perfect sense.

"Ah, my dear Nostradamus, it is wonderful to see you, too." Aziraphale smiled serenely. "Now, what will you have? They do a very nice burgundy -" he was cut off, however, before he could complete even the first of the wine selection.

"No, no. Very nice of you to offer, but I'll just have a run-of-the-mill coffee and croissant." Typical Nostradamus: for all his fine clothes, he still preferred bog-standard nosh, when the opportunity arose.

Aziraphale studied his friend's appearance. "Why are you wearing a butler's morning suit, may I ask?"

The man who called himself Nostradamus smiled knowingly. "I was just in London, serving Lord Anthony Cloade for a couple of days. I was trying to solve the mystery of why his daughter was kidnapped." when he saw the look of anguish flit past the angel's countenance he added quickly, "But she wasn't really kidnapped, she merely walked though a portal in space-time into a parallel universe."

Aziraphale, whilst not a sceptical soul by nature, had to draw the line somewhere. "Parallel universes? I must protest!"

"Very well, protest all you like." Nostradamus grinned in a way Crowley would have been proud of. After looking around the coffee shop, as the thought occurred to him, Nostradamus could not see the Hell's Angel anywhere. "Is Crowley not joining us?" he asked, looking a mite disappointed.

Aziraphale's cheeks had turned a slightly pinker shade than normal; but it may have simply been an affect of the exceptionally warm fireplace. "Regrettably no... I haven't seen him for a while, in fact. Not since 100 years ago when we said goodbye in this very café... Said he was fed up with all the powdered wigs and lead make-up of the Georgian period so he was going to sleep through the whole of the century. Uh, well..." he coughed slightly and cleared his throat unnecessarily loudly before ploughing on, "it is about Crowley I wish to talk..."

The other man sensed the tone and groaned inwardly, for fear of hurting his friend's feelings. "Look.." he started gently, "I honestly do not believe that you and Crowley becoming an item would be a very wise idea...you're both immortal, for one thing; and trying to make a relationship last for an eternity would soon make you both hate each other, Divine Powers or not."

He paused, not for breath (he hadn't needed to breathe for years) but simply for effect, because this was where a pause would be natural.

Aziraphale looked suddenly crestfallen, and Nostradamus knew all too well how hard angels could smite people when they were upset.

"I just mean that, because you and he are such good friends, it would be sheer folly to ruin what you have now. And I think that you're just feeling this way because you miss him and thus have an idealised picture of him in your mind.4" He flashed what he hoped was an encouraging smile, and cast out an aura of goodwill and love for the universe.

The angel looked particularly unmoved by either gestures, his azure eyes downcast.

"I've just remembered! I have a present for you. Well, one for you and a certain demon who shall remain nameless." The young man with emerald green eyes and black hair rummaged in a pocket of his morning coat and finally extracted what looked like a jeweller's ring box. He placed it on the wooden table (avoiding a puddle of coffee and breadcrumbs); and suddenly remembered that he still hadn't ordered for his food. He shelved this thought and decided that since his companion wasn't going to bother looking at the gift presented to him, Nostradamus flipped the lid of the box open. Nestled inside were two identical silver rings with red gemstones set into them.

"Now, these rings are very useful. Not to me, because if I used them nowadays they'd hinder me rather than help me. But they may help you, one day. If you press on the gemstone," (and he did so on one ring and the gem sunk in a little before popping out again, like a TV remote button) "the ring generates a field of magical grace ranging up to ten metres. It means that nothing magical works within the field. I hope you get use out of these little technological beauties."

Aziraphale's interest was piqued a little now, and he stared at the ring. The other man had pressed the ring's gem again and it changed back to red in a wholly unsurprising way.

"But..but surely, magic does not exist? It is a mere invention of mankind's imagination." Aziraphale protested limply.

"How little you know..." Nostradamus grinned mysteriously. A beeping noise emanated from his tailcoat and discovered that it was an electronic personal organiser. "What? I don't even remember making another appointment! Blarsted phase spaces..." he trailed off in annoyance.

The angel hadn't paid any attention to him and he registered it, finally. "Cheer up, old man! Things'll be better soon enough! Now, if you'll excuse me, apparently I have an urgent appointment in the year 2257 three universes over to New New New New New New New New New New New New New York where the King of Dangetrania is going to present a Flashingbadoingdoing prize to the Head Gwoing-Zwoop." he shook his head and sighed in annoyance, and continued in a disgruntled way, "That's the trouble with being a time-space traveller, everyone wants to make work for you... The Doctor and Dirk Gently never had it this bad..." He left a 20-franc note on the table by the ring-box and exited into the stormy, wind-swept and thoroughly damp Parisian morning. He was blissfully unaware that his words, far from giving his friend comfort, had actually darkened his mood even further.

However, Aziraphale pocked the ring-box (after all, being angelic by nature, he wasn't allowed to refuse a gift, it just wouldn't be right), unknowing of what trouble the rings would bring he and his demonic friend 114 years down the line...

1 ZDZ: In an effort to entertain his friends, whom he was escorting to the house. His friends had been entertained, albeit with an entertainment that could (and would) later be used as a deadly weapon...

2 ZDZ: What he was actually thinking was: "I do hope he turns up...and I wonder if he wouldn't mind footing the bill...although given that he's lunched with Crowley too, I shouldn't wonder if he'll do it automatically."

3 ZDZ: Crowley has never been entirely sure about Aziraphale's nature of (and disposition to) night-time manoeuvres, however, whenever Oscar Wilde or Noel Coward are mentioned, the angel's cheeks have been known to turn a bright rosé shade.

4 ZDZ: Nostradamus was one of those dreadfully annoying people who never resist an opportunity to give a mini-lecture. I fully plead guilty to being such a person myself.