Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Mr Crumble disappeared without a trace after nearly thirty years of marriage, Mrs Rhubarbella Crumble worried.¹ Not about Mr Crumble’s wellbeing or whereabouts per se, but rather what the loss of his income would mean for her. Throughout the years, the two things keeping their marriage together had been their son, and the economic logic that two people pooling their money together can afford more things than one person alone.

Mrs Crumble sat down and readjusted her budget. With the disappearance of Mr Crumble, the food expenses could be halved, and the liquor expenses were suddenly non-existent. Still, what she made in her little bakery could not quite cover the rest. Her son had left to travel the world ten years before, and didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get back.²

In the end, Mrs Crumble decided that the best course of action was to rent out the upper floor. After a thorough cleaning, where she took no small amount of pleasure in throwing out Mr Crumble’s collection of empty bottles, she had the neighbour’s son fix the leakages in exchange for baking him some of her special brownies.  Afterwards, Mrs Crumble took out an advertisement in the Ankh-Morpork Times. A sweet young lady helped her by trimming down the list of ‘things she could not tolerate’ from the original nineteen to two: ‘no pets and no drunkards’. She closed up her little bakery that night hoping someone would answer.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Mrs Crumble got up early the next morning, and was just getting the breads out of the oven when an explosion rattled the walls. Since the walls stayed where they were and the roof gave no further sign of collapsing, she shrugged it off and continued with her work. Then the front door of the bakery opened, and someone entered. She could hear two people were arguing back and forth.

“-right if he runs off?”

“-wants to get a picture of it, it can’t wait.”

“Yes, but he’s not going to write any of it down.”

“Well, yes, but-“

“We don’t need to be two for this. Whatever’s happening is happening now-”

“That's true. If you talk to the lady, then-”

“You can do it, I’m following Otto.”

“But, you’re the one who-”

Mrs Crumble headed out to greet her new customers. Two people were standing by the door; a young man, and the sweet young woman Mrs Crumble had met at the Times’ office. They stopped arguing the moment they saw her.

The young man took his hat off. “Hello, we are-”

In a flash, the young lady kissed his cheek, gave Mrs Crumble a ‘nicetoseeyou’, and rushed out the door and down the street. The young man spun around, but seemed to realise it was too late to catch her. He shook his head, but Mrs Crumble could see a tiny smile on his face when turned back to her. “Hello, I’m William de Worde. We’re here about the flat?”

“That was quick! I only put it in the paper the other day!”

“Uh, yes, Sacharissa,” he gestured vaguely to the doorway the young lady had escaped through, “she told us about it, and we’ve been looking for a place, so we figured ...”

Mrs Crumble felt a flash of annoyance. If the young lady had just told her that, she could have saved the pennies it cost putting it in the paper. But she had wanted tenants, and here was one, most likely two and she might as well go for it.

She showed de Worde around the flat, drawing attention away from the many faults, and emphasised that the house was in safe neighbourhood,³ and merely a stone’s throw⁴ away from the lovely Hide Park.

As she was talking, de Worde took notes. Mrs Crumble suspected he wanted to run everything by his lady-friend before making a final decision. Men could be like that.

“First months’ rent is in advance; then the two of you can move right in.”

“Oh, there are three of us.”

Mrs Crumble’s first thought was a child. She snuck a quick glance at de Worde’s hand; he wore no wedding ring. Young people nowadays didn’t do things in the usual order anymore. Still, she smiled. “Well, there’s room for a little one.”

“Oh, no, we don’t have kids. It’ll be me, Sacharissa and Otto.” There was a slight hesitation. “He’s a Black Ribboner.”

Mrs Crumble’s smile stiffened. A vampire. Had that been on her original list of things she could not tolerate in a tenant? In-door smoking and loud musical instruments had seemed more obvious than dangerous, undead blood-suckers. De Worde hadn’t used any of those words. He’d said ‘Black Ribboner’ as if to pre-emptively assure her that ‘don’t worry, he doesn’t bite’.

The young man was staring at her. A small frown had appeared on his face, and seemed to deepen for every moment the silence stretched on. Even Mrs Crumble, a woman that had only a basic grasp of spelling, could read his face: if she had any problem with vampires, there would be no deal.

Faced with the choice between loss of income and the possibility of being drained of blood during the night, Mrs Crumble made the sensible decision. “I see. Well, you’re all welcome.”

Mr de Worde seemed relieved.

The advertisement was in the Times when Mrs Crumble bought it later in the day. She had a slight hope that since Mr de Worde had to talk to his lady-friend, and ... other friend, someone more suitable might show up before anything could be decided. Several people came to the bakery to inquire about the flat. There were two trolls, a group of hooded figures that wanted the place for ‘completely innocent roleplaying meetings’, and one elderly lady that seemed perfect until she mentioned her fifty-two darling cats that she’d bring along.

In the end, Mrs Crumble agreed that Mr William de Worde, Miss Sacharissa Cripslock and Mr Otto Chriek could rent the flat, and started digging up her grandmother’s recipe for garlic bread.

The next day the three of them spent their time moving everything up the stairs. Mr de Worde and Miss Cripslock had a single bed each, instead of one double, but Mrs Crumble was willing to bet they’d push them together once the rooms were ready. Mr Chriek brought along a third bed, not a coffin, as Mrs Crumble had expected. The vampire stopped in the middle of the moving to look at her newest cakes.

“Oh, zey look nice! Can I move zem around a little so zer colours vork better next to each other?”

Mrs Crumble was about to give him the usual ‘you touch it, you buy it’. But the vampire’s smile was so brightly enthusiastic (and showing off some very pointy teeth), that she allowed it. He rearranged them, took a picture, and collapsed screaming into a pile of dust on the floor.

Mrs Crumble stared at the crumbled heap. The screams had been heard all over the house, and soon Miss Cripslock hurried into the room. “Otto, are you- oh.” She turned and yelled up the stairs. “William? Do we have any vials here?”

“What? No, they’re still at the old flat.” A pause, then; “Should I bring down the dust-pan?”

“No need, I’ll fix it.” She turned to Mrs Crumble. “Can I borrow a needle?”

Confused, Mrs Crumble got her one from her sewing kit. Miss Cripslock pricked her finger, and let a drop of blood drip down onto the dust. It instantly reformed into Mr Chriek.

Miss Cripslock helped him up. “Bring along a vial when we get the next load. You won’t get out of moving our stuff by crumbling up.”

“I vasn’t tryink to. I just vanted to capture zer image.”

“I know. Now get up there and help William with the wardrobe.”

As the vampire left the room, Miss Cripslock handed the needle back. “Sorry about that, we should have warned you.”

Mrs Crumble put the needle back in the sewing kit. “Does that ... happen often?”

Miss Cripslock rolled her eyes, but there was a fond smile playing over her face. “All the time.” Then she went back up the stairs to continue the moving.

Mrs Crumble went back to her cakes. The vampire had actually arranged them quite nicely. From upstairs, she heard the sounds of furniture being moved around. She wondered if the young couple would get any privacy, with a third roommate; the flat wasn’t that big. Then she shrugged; it was their business, and she shouldn’t bother with it. The only thing that mattered was that they paid the rent.⁵

The three of them turned out to be quite easy to deal with, perhaps because they spent so much time out of the house. Mr de Worde and Miss Cripslock seemed to devote most of their time to wandering around the city taking notes on the oddest things, and Mr Chriek followed along with his iconograph. They had various visitors; dwarfs that seemed to be work friends, vampires with black ribbons, or people that wanted to discuss things they’d printed in their paper. But usually, they got home late, went right up to the flat and (judging by how tired they looked) presumably fell straight into their beds.

The front door opened and someone hurried through the backroom and up the stairs. Mrs Crumble looked up from counting the day’s income when she heard something fall to the floor with a little thump. She covered the money with a baking bowl and ventured out to the stairway.  A notebook and some pens had been left behind. Mrs Crumble picked them up, and began following her tenants up the stairs. She turned the corner, and stopped dead in her tracks.

Miss Cripslock had pushed Mr Chriek up against the door, and was kissing him with the sort of passion that’s usually found in trashy romance novels. The vampire was running his pale fingers through her hair; long locks were falling out of their proper place. Miss Cripslock fumbled with the doorknob with one hand, seemingly forgetting that the door to their rooms swung outward. The other was yanking at Mr Chriek’s clothes.

Mrs Crumble backed down the stairs as quickly and quietly as she dared. They didn’t seem to have noticed her. She vaguely remembered something about vampires having superior senses, or perhaps that was werewolves? Either way, this vampire had seemed too preoccupied with the lady sticking her tongue down his throat to pay any attention to his surroundings. Slowly, Mrs Crumble put the notebook and pens back where she had picked them up. In-between the ... sounds coming from upstairs, she caught some words.

“-uin my shirt, Rissa.”

“Well, then you need to get out of it, don’t you?”

“So impatient, vot about Villiam?”

“He won’t be back for hours, and I want- I need-”

“Yes, vot do you vant-”

There was a creaking sound; they’d finally remembered which way the door went. There was some laughter, and then the door slammed shut again. Mrs Crumble went back to counting her money. She got a different sum three times, until she gave up and scooped all off it into her handbag.

She had not expected this. Miss Cripslock had seemed like a perfectly proper and sensible young woman, but here she was getting uncomfortably close with the undead. And what about Mr de Worde? Since the day they’d showed up at the bakery, they’d seemed to be a happy couple; she’d caught them kissing more than once. And now she was carrying on with that vampire when her young man was away.

Mrs Crumble sighed. It was none of her business what kind of mistakes people made, but it would be her business when Mr de Worde realised what was going on behind his back. It was just a matter of time before she needed to go looking for new tenants. 

Two weeks after Mrs Crumble’s discovery, she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But the shoe that would destroy the relationship, possibly implode the Ankh-Morpork Times and most importantly throw Mrs Crumble’s finances off track, remained stubbornly in the air. Mr de Worde seemed completely oblivious. The only slamming of doors happened when they hurried out to get a story, and the only screaming when the vampire tried out something new with his iconograph.

One evening when Mr de Worde was the first to return from work, he stopped by her to buy some (relatively) fresh bread. They often bought from her. It wasn’t part of their agreement, but welcome none the less. As Mrs Crumble handed him the spare-change, she couldn’t help but ask:

“So, how are things between you and Miss Cripslock?”

De Worde smiled. “Wonderful. Sacharissa is wonderful.”

“And ... Mr Chriek?”

Some people were good at communicating with their eyebrows. Mrs Crumble wasn’t fluent in the language, but she made her best attempt at ‘something might be going on there’ to open up for airing any suspicions. There was a flash of worry in de Worde’s eyes, and Mrs Crumble took his hand and put on her kindest and most sympathetic expression. “Just ... do you want to talk about anything, dear? Anything ... going on?”

But de Worde didn’t start questioning her about what she might know. Instead, he let out a breath, as if some burden was getting lifted off his shoulders. “Otto is amazing.”

Mrs Crumble resisted the urge to face-palm as he waxed poetically about how great both his girlfriend and his flatmate was. No, not just flatmate. Mr de Worde clearly thought of Mr Chriek as a dear friend.

“I’m so lucky to have those two. I didn’t think this would happen. Sacharissa, maybe. It seems obvious when I look back on it now. But then Otto came along and well ...” De Worde smiled. “It’s ... it’s good to know you’re not ... bothered by it. Some people are.”

Bothered? By the vampire-thing? Well, she was steadily getting less bothered by that, and more by the infidelity happening right under her nose. But Mrs Crumble held her tongue. It wasn’t her business, it really wasn’t.

Then came the day when Mrs Crumble spotted Mr de Worde in Nonsuch Street. The young man was studying the window display belonging to the jewellery store of H.Hogland and Son. Mrs Crumble gave a quick greeting before continuing on with her errands, but when she came back down the street with her purchases half-an hour later, de Worde was still pacing back and forth in front of the jewellery store. He seemed thoughtful.

People spending a lot of time in front of jewellery stores were either preparing to buy a ring for their sweetheart, or planning to rob the place.⁶ Mrs Crumble frowned. Back when she’d gotten knocked up, her father had given her boyfriend a choice: he could either make an honest woman of her, or eat all his meals through a straw from then on. So Oglaf had put a ring on her finger. She doubted he’d contemplated that much over which one to get. As far as she knew, there were no parents threatening de Worde with bodily harm. Instead he looked nervous, but excited.

All the way home, Mrs Crumble pondered about what to do. She was poking her nose into things she had nothing to do with. She’d already tried to give Mr de Worde hints on several occasions, but he continued to be oblivious. He’d gushed about how he adored his girlfriend, loved that vampire-friend of his, he trusted them. It was cruel, how they had took advantage of that.

As she put her wares into the cupboards, Mrs Crumble came to a decision. She had to tell him.  It was better that he learned it from her, today, than when he was down on one knee with the ring in his hand.

That evening, Mr de Worde came back later than the other two. Mrs Crumble had spent the day waiting for him, hoping to catch him alone.⁷ When he finally came in the door, he seemed to be off in his own world. She grabbed his arm before he could reach the door to the backroom and the stairs.

“Mr de Worde-”

“Yes?”

Mrs Crumble led him towards the counter. “I need to tell you something.”

“Oh? Wait just a moment.” He smiled and reached into his pocket, fumbling to get out a notebook. He struggled a bit, before taking out a handful of items and beginning to put them on the counter. Several pens, two small boxes, some loose papers and a confused-looking salamander appeared before any notebook did.

Mrs Crumble shook her head. “No, dear, this isn’t newsworthy, it’s ... it’s private.”

“Yes?”

“Well, your girlfriend-”

Suddenly, Mrs Crumble heard the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs. De Worde looked towards the backdoor, then back at the mess he’d made on the counter, and panicked. Instead of starting the difficult project of getting everything back into his pockets, he shoved the boxes and pens off the counter, so they fell into the dark beside Mrs Crumble’s feet.

“Don’t tell-” he hissed, before the door opened and Miss Cripslock and Mr Chriek appeared.

“William, I just realised something! Dibbler mentioned he sold the man a sausage; then it’s likely the guy had only just arrived in city. I’ll head down to the docks and see if he came in on one of the ships.”

“Wonderful, Rissa!” De Worde kissed her, and let her continue on her way out the door.

The vampire came up beside him. “Villiam, is zat vun of my salamanders?”

“Yes, it must have snuck into my pocket while I was looking over the pictures you took at the opening night of ‘The Book of Om’. I didn’t realise it was there until I was halfway home.” Mr de Worde lifted the tiny creature up from the counter, and handed it to the vampire.

“Vell, I need to develop zer pictures of zer Seamstresses going on a strike anyvay. I vill bring it along.”

“Thanks, Otto.” Then de Worde leaned forward, and kissed Mr Chriek. It was the same casual sort of kiss he had just given to Miss Cripslock. As if it was something that happened on a regular basis. The vampire soon left with the tiny creature tucked into one of his own pockets. It was only then that Mr de Worde turned back to Mrs Crumble, who stood frozen behind the counter.  

“Sorry about that, I didn’t realise they were home.” He bent over the counter, but couldn’t reach the stuff scattered over the floor. “Could you-”

Mrs Crumble’s legs bent, and her hands scooped up the items, while her mind was preoccupied with rearranging her theories about her tenants’ personal life. She tried to focus on handing the small boxes over to de Worde.

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.” He put the boxes back on the counter, and opened one, revealing a ring. “Good, no harm done.” The second box contained a matching ring. He turned to Mrs Crumble, holding it up conspiratorially. “They – they look alright, don’t they?”

Mrs Crumble just stared. Mr de Worde continued talking. “I think they’ll like them. I hope so.”

“They.”

“Hm?”

“You’re planning to ...”

“Yes.” He fidgeted with one of the boxes. “Not sure where yet, or when, but I’m pretty sure they’ll say yes. I think. I hope.”

They. The three of them were together, all of them, in some sort of … was it harem, they called it in Klatch? When it was more than two people? No, Mrs Crumble wasn’t sure what to name this arrangement. In the later years, Ankh-Morpork had steadily become a bigger melting pot, opening up to different people with different relations. But this was the first she’d heard of something like this.

But things were changing. Over the years, several of the religions had opened up for the possibility that a marriage could be more than just one man and one woman.⁸ Mrs Sticklewart’s daughter had married a woman, and Mrs Crumble had spent many an evening at the tea-club tuning out her complaining. Not everyone was accepting of people outside the norm. It was curious that Mr de Worde was so comfortable being open to her about this.

Then she realised.

He thought she knew. Mrs Crumble thought back and suddenly understood how they’d managed to talk past one another, or as much as one could call it talking, when the conversations had mostly consisted of hinting and various eyebrow acrobatics.

She groaned, hiding her face in her hands.

Mr de Worde looked at her. “Mrs Crumble? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong.” Mrs Crumble shook her head, eventually dragging the hands away. “Just remembered something stupid.”

“Oh. … alright.”

He was staring at her now, confused. The boxes were still open on the counter, the rings glittering in the candlelight. Mrs Crumble picked one up, and looked at it. It was simple, but pretty. It had to have cost him a quite bit. It was ... odd, this arrangement the three had. But then again, Mrs Crumble had been anticipating heartbreak, quarrels and having to search for new tenants. This didn’t cause any such problems. On the contrary, the three of them seemed happy with it.

“These are very nice, dear.” Mrs Crumble smiled, handing the box back. “They’d be fools to say no, Mr de Worde. And I don’t think they are fools?”

De Worde grinned. “No. Rather clever, both of them.”

“Then it’ll probably be alright.”

Over the next week, she noticed how Mr de Worde constantly put his hands into his pockets, as if to check if the boxes were there. But apparently it took him a while to find ‘the right moment’.⁹ Mrs Crumble immediately knew when he had managed to do it. The three of them came in the door, late in the evening, with the biggest smiles she’d ever seen. She got a good look at the rings (again), and congratulated them.

The next day, she overheard them discussing what priests would agree to perform a ceremony with three people, and who they’d invite.¹⁰ When the first replies ended up downstairs with Mrs Crumple, she went up and knocked on their door. No one answered, but the door wasn’t locked, so she went inside.

She hadn’t actually been in the flat since her tenants moved in. They had made quite a cosy little nest for themselves. The furniture looked somewhat mismatched and worn, the wallpaper almost disappeared behind pictures and there were notes put up in a seemingly organised mess on the note board. The room was filled with books, shoes, and several devices for iconography.

The bedroom door was open. In there, the three single beds were pushed together. Judging by the dust on the floor, they had been in that position ever since the three had moved in. Mrs Crumble smiled and put the letters on a table, before she snuck back out, carefully closing the door.

As long as they were happy, and most importantly paying their rent, not much else mattered.

FOOTNOTES

1. Mr Oglaf Crumble had spent the night drinking in his usual bar. Much is said about the dangers of drinking and driving, far less about drinking and walking. He took a wrong turn, ended up at the docks, and sufficiently sloshed to mistake a ship for his house, fell asleep in an empty cabin. When he woke two days later, the ship was well on its way to Brindisi.

   During the long and dangerous journey Mr Crumble sobered up and was set to work. When a kraken tried to eat the ship off the coast of T'etse, he valiantly defended the crew, losing a leg in the process. As thanks, he was promoted to ship’s cook, and since the only food available during the last two months of the journey was increasingly rotting kraken, he became quite the expert on turning the fearsome creature into equally fearsome dishes.

   Arriving in Brindisi he set up a sea-side restaurant specialising in all forms of cephalopods. Squid Pro Quo became famed far and wide and Mr Crumble had many happy and successful years, until his untimely death when the meal he attempted to eat, fought back. His many recipes were published posthumously under the title ‘Eat it before it eats you.’▲

2. Quince Crumble was twenty-nine years old, and the sole reason Mr and Mrs Crumble had gotten married in the first place. Back in the day, they had thought less about economics, particularly how a penny for a pack of sonkies could have saved them more money in the long run.▲
3. Or at least, one of the less risky ones.▲
4. This very vague description is a favourite in the housing market. In this instance, the person throwing the stone would have to throw it across ten streets and the Ankh River.▲
5. It also mattered that no one got murdered in the night. Still, that was second on Mrs Crumble’s list of priorities. ▲
6. Occasionally, you had to rob the place TO get a ring for your sweetheart. Even criminals can fall in love.▲
7. Mrs Crumble wasn’t quite sure how Mr de Worde would react to the news. She’d be an available shoulder to cry on, and just in case, she’d prepared a handkerchief, some garlic and a stake.▲
8. Aside from people pushing for their rights, perhaps the main reason for change was the growing opportunity for business. If the Omnian church would not marry two men, they could go to the temple next door, and take their money there (or wait until the Omnians started another schism over the question). Why should Ankh-Morpork’s businesses deny their customers the opportunity to buy wedding cakes and other nonsense? At the end of the day, they paid in the same coin.▲
9. In fact, William de Worde eventually figured out that waiting for ‘the right moment’ could take months. He couldn’t win some big game and do it in the heat of the moment, sneaking in via a balcony was both impractical and far too late now, and life or death situations on pirate-ships caught in a maelstrom was hard to come by in a city.

   Sometimes you had to make ‘the right moment’ yourself. So one evening when they were all working late, he ended up dragging Sacharissa down to the cellar where Otto was puzzling with new pictures. William was usually good with words, but once he was down on one knee, he had some difficulty getting them out.

   They both accepted anyway.▲

10. In the end, they agreed to invite several friends and colleagues, all of Sacharissa’s relatives, none of Otto’s family, (he was the only one who’d taken the pledge, and wasn’t certain any of his guests wouldn't try to bite someone else in the party) and William’s sisters. Lord de Worde got a note to inform him just how well his son was getting on with lower classes and lesser races.▲