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    Summary

    Hell needs more interns, Crowley needs to learn where to lie and tell the truth, and the Bentley has never driven this fast through Central London to Aziraphale's bookshop.

    "Crowley dashed past his effort to take his coat. Crowley was not wearing a coat. Aziraphale’s hands hung in the air nonetheless, an attempt to understand the cause of the demon’s urgency barely scraping through the gears of his mind. His fr-business partner went straight for the wine, uncorked it with one sleek, black talon, and began downing the bottle in one go."

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