The next day, which is a Thursday, they do find their way to the orchard, and Aziraphael could swear he sees an uneasy frisson rustle through the trees, from one to the next and all the way down the leafy avenues, before Crowley even crosses into the shadow of the canopy.
It's good to watch him work. Not only for the obvious reasons: that it's Crowley, that he's home again, that this is familiar, and comfortable, and lovely; that Crowley himself admittedly makes quite the picture, hand pressed to the bark of an apple tree beneath the stippled sunlight. It's good to watch him work because of how Crowley seems to enjoy it, a sharp grin of satisfaction slicing across his face with each piece of fruit that nervously swells a little heavier on its branch, with each terrified leaf that has even dared to hint at the coming of autumn unfurling again, glossy green blooming back across the onset of oranges and reds
( ... )
There's only so long, of course, that they can hide the fact that someone's staying in the gatehouse. If nothing else, the smoke wafting from the chimney in the evenings is bound to be a giveaway. By the time Crowley's been there three days, people have no doubt begun to wonder. Aziraphael, waking him in the morning as he slides from beneath the covers and from beneath Crowley's arm, decides that it might be best if he were to pop back up for a short while, carry out a few of his duties as Prior, and (for all the world as though he'd never do anything more) assess the situation. Crowley nods, only half-needing to feign sleepiness, and rolls over to doze off again. After a little while, he doesn't need to pretend at that, either
( ... )
It's only been four days since the shaky transport from Jubilee landed, and a borrowed skimmer touched down unannounced on the Southdown landing pad. But then, four days is an age by some reckonings. There's no skimmer this time, no craft of any sort to give Aziraphael a little warning. Even so, as he sets out towards the gatehouse from the abbey proper late in the afternoon, he knows who's arrived - would know, in fact, even if he couldn't sense it. Raguel is standing in the middle of a field almost halfway between the two, talking to the homemade scarecrow set to guard the neat rows of vegetables. Some of the stuffing is coming out from underneath its ragged hat, and Raguel tucks it back in almost tenderly as Aziraphael watches.
The hazy sunlight has slanted dramatically, casting a near-complete shadow across half of the scarecrow, and as Raguel whispers earnestly to it Aziraphael has to struggle to rid himself of the illusion that the thing is moving. Raguel, he notes, is crushing the nearest tomato plant
( ... )
On Sunday, Crowley takes that walk upriver after all.
When Aziraphael returns, the day's business taken care of, he finds Crowley elbow-deep in a violent critique of Raguel's gardening efforts around the gatehouse. The plants are trembling, and glorious.
Inside, on the low coffee table, the firelight gleams on a metal plaque, twisted and mangled at one end by a long-fingered handprint.
It says: NORTH CENTRAL POSITR BY APPOINTMENT OF PAR AND THE COUNCIL OF
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It's good to watch him work. Not only for the obvious reasons: that it's Crowley, that he's home again, that this is familiar, and comfortable, and lovely; that Crowley himself admittedly makes quite the picture, hand pressed to the bark of an apple tree beneath the stippled sunlight. It's good to watch him work because of how Crowley seems to enjoy it, a sharp grin of satisfaction slicing across his face with each piece of fruit that nervously swells a little heavier on its branch, with each terrified leaf that has even dared to hint at the coming of autumn unfurling again, glossy green blooming back across the onset of oranges and reds ( ... )
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The hazy sunlight has slanted dramatically, casting a near-complete shadow across half of the scarecrow, and as Raguel whispers earnestly to it Aziraphael has to struggle to rid himself of the illusion that the thing is moving. Raguel, he notes, is crushing the nearest tomato plant ( ... )
Reply
When Aziraphael returns, the day's business taken care of, he finds Crowley elbow-deep in a violent critique of Raguel's gardening efforts around the gatehouse. The plants are trembling, and glorious.
Inside, on the low coffee table, the firelight gleams on a metal plaque, twisted and mangled at one end by a long-fingered handprint.
It says:
NORTH CENTRAL POSITR
BY APPOINTMENT OF PAR
AND THE COUNCIL OF
Reply
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