BAD GRACE - quantum witch © 2005

see Prologue for warnings, rating, and summary

In which Newt receives an important message, and Anathema stops barfing.

1:01 - GLAD TIDINGS

IT WAS TURNING INTO A GREY and drizzly sort of Sunday, putting its name to shame.

There hadn't been any truly dark or stormy nights, or days either for that matter, since Almostageddon (1) happened, or failed to happen, or whatever semantics you want to use.

On this particular slightly drizzly Sunday, exactly two weeks after the forgettably unforgettable non-event, Newton Pulsifer was sitting in his small London flat, reading the local ads, and wondering just how he might get a job that actually paid anything, rather than returning to the dreadful services of United Holdings (Holdings) Ltd. and his position of wages clerk. He was feeling terribly gloomy about his abysmal prospects, and the weather wasn't helping at all.

Not that he'd made any extra money working weekends for Shadwell, and now that job was out of the question. The old man had completely retired, moved out to the countryside, and had left all his clippings and ledgers to Newton, who hadn't the faintest clue what to do with them. He hadn't the heart to burn everything, though it truly needed it.

So he did the best he could to pack it all away in boxes and somehow managed to shove them all into his flat. He hadn't bothered to file and catalogue, which also worried the clerk in his soul. Things being unorganised and in his flat gave him a metaphysically unscratchable itch. But for now it would have to wait. He only hoped that the landlord wouldn't consider him a fire hazard.

He had, at least temporarily, elected not to stay on at Jasmine Cottage with Anathema. He did rather regret not staying, because he liked her a great deal. More than a great deal, to be honest with himself. The real reason he wanted employment wasn't merely for the money – though that is, as they say, what makes the world go 'round º - but because he knew that getting married and keeping a happy home wasn't cheap.

Newt may have convinced Anathema to burn Agnes' second book of prophecy… but he was still stirred by the statement of the delivery man, who'd asked for 'Mrs. Pulsifer'. Meaning Newt's wife. Meaning Anathema. And Newt had found in that very instant that he adored the idea.

He'd known Anathema for less than a day at the time they had, er, become intimate and helped avert the end of the world (in ways that even now he had trouble recalling in detail). But he felt something about her that he couldn't properly put words to. The phrase 'soul mate' seemed rather trite and overused, but it was the closest he could come to describing it.

She hadn't actually asked him to leave her home, but he'd gone anyway after staying for another full day. They hadn't been, er, intimate again, though they'd certainly been very affectionate. The lack of serious intimacy hadn't really bothered him, because he'd realised straight off that whatever Anathema wanted to do was just fine by him. She seemed to truly value her independence and space. And she hadn't seemed to be forthcoming with furthering of the physical side of things. Yet, anyway.

Newt had had to leave largely because he had no change of clothes and no ready cash, and disliked seeming like the guest-who-wouldn't-leave. He had declared he would return soon enough because he was awfully fond of her, but needed to earn a living somehow and really wanted to have his own toothbrush for visits and so on. Anathema hadn't said much at the time, merely smiled and said she'd be quite happy to see him again. She'd said even less later on due to having her phone turned off, apparently because of money troubles on her end as well.

And now he'd been away much longer than anticipated. So far his attempts to get better work had fallen flat, though he was considering taking some sort of demolition job since everything he touched broke apart. In fact he was beginning to think that the relationship wasn't making much headway either, which was rather discouraging.

This all changed rather rapidly on the drizzly Sunday in question, when a knock came at his door. He opened it to greet a man delivering a telegram.

"Mornin'," the young fellow said cheerily. "Lovely weather, eh? Mr. Pullseefer?"

"Close enough, yes."

"Telegram for ya! Shall I read it aloud?"

"I can read for myself," Newt said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh come on, please," the man said almost pleadingly. "Always wanted to do one of them singing telegram deliveries, like in the old movies, ya know? Can't I just do this one? You seem like a nice chap and it can't really hurt, can it?"

"Fine, all right! Go on then!"

"Jolly good! Ahem!" The deliverer cleared his throat and glanced briefly at the telegram, muttering to himself as he tried to work up a suitable tune. Sadly the only thing that came instantly to his mind was Beethoven's Fifth. Feeling rather stupid now, because he couldn't recall more than the opening bars, he began:

"From-An-a-the-MAAAAA… My-Cy-cle-Was-MIIIIISSED…"

Newt wondered for a split second why her bike would have been important enough to send a telegram, then choked upon the remainder of the message.

"Care-To-Come-BAAAACK…? And-Watch-Me-Grow-FAAAAT…?"

The look in Newt's eyes was glassy and he wore an idiotic grin on his face. The delivery man looked at him briefly and then glanced over the telegram without trying to make it into a tune. His own eyes widened as he said, "Oh, er, maybe that was a bit too personal for me to be singing to a stranger, eh?"

"Never mind," whispered Newt as he took the telegram and tipped the man much more than he could afford to. "I'm going to be a father." Before the man had walked too far, Newt added, "Don't quit your day job. Really, trust me on that."

A few minutes later, Newt had thrown together a bit of luggage and was stuffing it unceremoniously into Dick Turpin. The sound of whooping joyous laughter could be heard clear up the street, as he began the drive through the suddenly beautiful drizzle toward Lower Tadfield.

ANATHEMA DEVICE WAS A BASICALLY PRACTICAL GIRL, for someone who believed in everything from aliens to zombies. After all, she'd personally seen many of those things in the recent past, and what was the point of not believing something when you'd dealt with it up close? She'd been involved directly in the end of the world, and still managed to remember most of it, largely because of her heritage.

Of course if she'd known the world really wasn't going to end on the night in question, she'd have stocked at least one condom in her home.

Growing up in a family who had studied The Nice & Accurate Prophecies for generations, most of them had saved money toward helping the supposed-final descendant get to where she was. They'd created a decent fund to support her until the end of the world, and though it hadn't been extremely large Anathema was fairly frugal. She had spent what was necessary until she'd blown the last large bit getting moved into Jasmine Cottage. Now, she was essentially broke.

Which, if the world had actually gotten on with ending, wouldn't be a problem. Of course, bloody-minded Agnes Nutter had chosen not to reveal that in her first volume.

For two weeks, Anathema had fretted over burning the second volume. Very basically, it left her utterly adrift in a world she hadn't even remotely prepared herself for. If she'd been one to simply drift before, this wouldn't have been too bad. But she had always lived purposefully, had used the Book as her direct guide to life until what should have been the end.

It was like being on death row and then, while sitting in the electric chair and feeling the wetness of the sponge trickling down over your eyebrows… someone comes along, switches it off, and releases you back to the world with your head still shaved and still wearing your hideous prisoner's uniform. Things just didn't work that way.

Now… She sniffled just a bit as she rubbed her still very flat belly. Things weren't ending, they were only just beginning, and speeding off in a direction that took her utterly by surprise.

And yet, deep down, she was rather excited. She'd never imagined being a mother, because in the past that was a waste of thinking time. Now it was inevitable. She already felt her heart swelling with love for the tiny life inside her. She'd realised her condition just this morning after losing her breakfast for the fifth morning in a row, and after counting on the calendar. And instantly she'd felt a lightness that she hadn't felt in the last two weeks since the not-quite-end-of-the-world. She did have a purpose now, though it was going to be quite different and came with absolutely no instruction manual.

She sent off the telegram to Newt, knowing he would return and very probably propose marriage, which she intended to accept. She could tell from the look in his eyes when she'd last seen him that he was the soppy, romantic sort who believed in happy endings. She knew he was likely not very wealthy, but he was also the sort who would put forth every effort to provide for what was his.

The morning had been a bit drizzly but as evening approached the skies had cleared nicely. She now sat in the fresh air on her porch, sipping at mint tea to soothe her stomach.

There came the faint sounds of an automobile splashing along the lane and, without having to look, she knew it was Newt. She stood and waited for him to pull up the drive and come to the porch. He looked rather rumpled as if he'd not stopped to get himself together before making the drive. His hair stuck up all over, his clothes were wrinkled, and he had a worried grin on his face.

When he reached Anathema, he didn't even have to speak before she caught him in a fierce hug. Suddenly, everything felt all right. She knew that this was what she'd been needing all along. He was warm and comforting and kind. And he was home.

º As well as left, right, back, forth, diagonally, and every other direction you can imagine. While this is not technically true, just try convincing the whole of humanity. Such strong belief can alter basic physics, and Heaven is a little worried about this sometimes.

(1) The term "Almostageddon" borrowed shamelessly from the wonderful fic "Twofish". Mea culpa.