Crowley waited until Mallory left the room. She'd gone to fetch a stronger light from her toolkit - a proper forensic rig, apparently, and left him alone with the manuscript that probably shouldn't exist.

The moment the door clicked shut, he muttered, "Right then," and pulled out his phone.

The screen flared too bright in the dim room. He squinted, tapped "Angel" in his contacts, and listened to the faint, prim ring-ring of a phone that had probably been answered in the exact same tone of voice for a hundred years.

On the third ring: "A. Z. Fell & Co." came the familiar voice. "We're closed for inventory, but if you-"

"It's me," Crowley interrupted. "Emergency."

There was a pause. "Crowley, it's eight-thirty in the morning."

"Yes, I noticed that."

"What sort of emergency requires waking me at this hour?"

"You don't sleep."

"I rest my mind. There's a difference."

Crowley rolled his eyes and leaned against the edge of the table, staring down at the manuscript like it might grow legs and leave. "Listen, angel, you remember that whisper-cursed book we talked about? The one everyone thought was lost in the Lisbon fire?"

Another pause. Longer this time. "Crowley. No."

"Yes."

"Oh dear."

Crowley grinned. "I've got it right in front of me. Well - not mine, technically. Some collector has it, but he hired a consultant to verify it, and she's already halfway through deciphering it."

"Has she read anything aloud?"

"No. Not yet."

"Good God."

"Exactly."

"Who is she?" Aziraphale asked. "Is she safe?"

Crowley hesitated, gaze flicking toward the hallway Mallory had vanished into.

He had watched her for three full minutes when he arrived before making himself known. She hadn't noticed him slip into the room or the way he paused in the doorway. But he'd seen her, and the precision with which she moved.

The way her fingers hovered reverently over the parchment like she was greeting an old friend. How she mouthed words to herself silently, absorbing every detail. She was utterly absorbed. Controlled, calm, curious, and that made her dangerous in a way Crowley hadn't expected.

He knew there had been a chance Lord Halberd would hire someone to authenticate the manuscript but he hadn't expected it would happen this fast. And this young woman looked the part too - composed, bookish without being pretentious, dressed in soft layers of comfortable, ink-stained clothing that gave her the quiet gravitas of someone who could out-debate a university don.

"She's… interesting," he said carefully. "Name's Mallory. Expert in ancient documents, works alone, drinks a lot of tea, and has the emotional range of a loaded crossbow. She knew what she was doing the moment she touched the vellum."

"And she's still alive?"

"Not only alive, angel. She told me off for interrupting her analysis and asked if the book was authentic. Like I was wasting her time."

There was a small, muffled sound on the other end of the line. Possibly a sigh. Possibly a very distressed teacup being set down harder than intended.

"You didn't tell her what it is, did you?"

Crowley's mouth twisted. "I gave her… context."

"You gave her vibes."

"They were accurate vibes."

"This isn't a joke, Crowley. If that book is what we think it is…"

"It is," he said quietly. "I saw the sigil. It's reacting. There's… something underneath the binding. Like a seal. And I think it's thinning."

Aziraphale went very quiet.

"You have to get it out of there."

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. "That'll go over brilliantly. The human's already memorising half the layout. I try to leave with it and she'll hit me with a magnifying lens."

"Can she be trusted?"

Crowley looked down at the table. The manuscript sat innocently, as if it weren't possibly housing something powerful enough to bend time if spoken aloud.

"She didn't even flinch," he muttered. "That thing practically purred when she opened the cloth, and she just started analysing pigment structure."

"That sounds… promising?"

"It sounds terrifying."

A moment passed. Crowley's voice dropped a little, more to himself than to the phone. "She's not just smart, angel. She's exactly the sort of person this thing would choose to latch onto."

Aziraphale was quiet again. "Then you can't leave her alone with it."

Crowley sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Figured that out already."

"Do not let her read anything aloud."

"Not planning on it."

"And Crowley-"

"Yeah?"

"Be gentle."

He glanced at the door. His voice softened despite himself. "...Not my specialty."

"Well," Aziraphale said, voice dry but fond, "that's never stopped you before."

The call clicked off.

Crowley slid the phone back into his pocket, but didn't move right away. He stared at the manuscript, then at the door, then back again. He hadn't meant to sound worried. That wasn't the brief.

He muttered under his breath, "Bloody typical," and straightened just as Mallory returned, balancing a portable light source and a very old brass magnifier.

Her dark curls were pinned into a loose bun, though strands had already begun to escape. A pencil was tucked behind one ear, another stuck into the coils of her hair where she'd clearly forgotten it.

"Everything alright?" she asked, adjusting her gloves again.

"Peachy," Crowley said, pushing off the table and flashing her a sharp, harmless smile. "Just checking in with someone."

She raised a brow - not sceptical, exactly, but noted, then returned to fitting the lens into place.

"A colleague?"

"Something like that." He gestured to the manuscript. "Now. What did I miss while I was tragically under-informed?"

Mallory stood beside the table, switching on the lamp and tilting the angle of the light across the parchment. "Well," she said, calm as ever, "either this is the cleanest fake I've ever seen... or it's real."

Crowley's mouth twitched. "Oh, it's real."

She didn't answer immediately, but the tiniest crease formed between her brows - as if something in his tone had caught. And the room seemed just a little darker for it.