Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Leaving was the only solution.

Leaving would let him live freely, abide by no rules, and live amongst the throws of his own decisions. There would be no government, no guidance, and most of all, no family member to use him for internal politics.

It would be his ultimate dream to leave. What a day it would be to wake up and not fear which sibling would ask him to slice another's throat. No cousin would ask him to poison's their uncle’s breakfast in the dining room. Most of all, there would be no egotist uncle pestering him for insider information about the enemies — said enemies, of course, were the  other members  of the le Saint family.

"Azira."

He looks up.

"Yes, uncle?" Aziraphale answers, eyes clearing from its daze, regaining clarity after a quiet daydream. "Pardon me, I didn't hear what you were saying earlier."

His uncle stares at him, eyes darting up and down in a vague semblance of concern. For a moment, nobody speaks and the words merely hang in the air.

"Yes, I'm aware." His uncle sighs, mouth pressed together in a harsh line. "Your eyes were no longer focusing. I even called your name several times to no answer."

Aziraphale considered telling the truth:  Well, I was thinking of leaving the family.  He wondered how ghastly his uncle's expression would be if he said so.

His thumping leg falls silent. His uncle's hard gaze was unpleasant and unfriendly. The chair in the office, opposite his uncle, made his bottom hurt — adding to the discomfort of Aziraphale's current condition. 

Let's not speak truthfully, it won't result well for me.

He licks his lips, a little nervous. "I'm sorry." He lies. "I had a fretful day and a busy night yesterday. I couldn't manage to get the proper amount of rest."

His uncle neither questions nor clarify what he means by a  fretful day  or a  busy night.  It was without a doubt that his uncle either already  knows  or is feigning interest in hopes Aziraphale mentions it himself.

"You see, I received good news yesterday."

"I see. What kind of good news did you receive to turn you witless?"

He swallows a thick breath and blinks his eyes nervously. "Well, I received an acceptance letter from the University of Great England." He clasps his hands together, squeezing. "I am to be admitted to the study of Literature. I will be a scholar for about four years," A pause. "Six years, at the latest."

"Great England?"

He nods.

"The westmost empire?"

He nods again.

His uncle stands from his chair, his hands spreading wide. "That is terrific news, Aziraphale! This is the perfect opportunity we have to expand our trade."

Trade?

"Trade?" He echoes, face frowning in confusion. It takes much will and a little fear to speak the next words. "I will be studying, uncle. The only trading scholars would do is for the pursuit of knowledge and education."

"Oh, dear Azira." His uncle round his long table, his boots beating the floor. He cups his young nephew's face, his eyes showing a flash of affection at his nephew's cherub-like face. It disappears quickly as he says: "Sweet, naïve child. Some families may value education as the highest honor but, I dare say, most use universities as a place of  networking,  of  business.  "

It strikes him in the face.  Networking? Business?

Though many things pass and linger in Aziraphale's head, the idea of using his means of escape (entering a school far away) would be used as another  benefit  never occurred to him.

How in the world did he come to that conclusion?  He thinks, eyes fretting around his uncle's excited face.  A school is for learning, is it not?

"There is networking uncle, I know that much. Business and politics too. It is a university, we are supposed to learn it and share the knowledge from it."

His uncle's hands leave his face. They were a little rough, having done little to no labor once their business rose significantly years ago. Aziraphale brushed the remnants of his uncle's grasp, feeling sickly — almost small and insignificant — as he watched his uncle's expression radiate joy.

"Application is also part of learning. There is,  without a doubt,  trades within." The older man chuckles. "When you are in university, you will become the golden connection for us at the westmost empire."

Aziraphale swallows his words. His eyebrows knit closer and closer as his uncle babbles at the unforeseen opportunities.

His office, full of paintings and décor unbefitting of commoner merchants ( quasi-noble,  as his uncle likes to put it) reflects the hidden desires of the family. The status and power, they currently have, were not enough for the hungry hands of the le Saint family.

His uncle's office was the most lavish and the most uncomfortable one to be in. It was his father's long ago, his grandfather's long before him. This was his home and yet, it feels no better than the streets of their old residence.

"I," He gulps another big breath, taking some words with it. "I don't think business is my strength."

His uncle looks at him, perplexed. His hands lowered, placed at his hips as though he was looking for something as he gazed at Aziraphale.

"I just think, well," He also stands, hands jittering about as he explained. He surely sounds as anxious as he feels. His gaze lowers to the floor, unable to meet his uncle's burning eyes. "I am not studying business, politics, or anything useful for the family."

He hears a hum and his uncle's shoes appear before him. His shoulder tensed quickly, and a cold jot of fear strikes him fiercely.

"What are you studying then?" Cold, unfeeling, stained with the false cheer he uses most of the time. "  I  will deem if it's unnecessary or not."

Don't look up.

"Literature."

Don't look up.

"Literature," His uncle replies, voice devoid of anything. A worrisome void of nothing. "I see, yes," His uncle turns and sits at the table. "You always loved it. I don't fault you for choosing it."

He keeps silent, not knowing what to do. His hands tingle in the familiar way it always has when he is most frightened. His feet disappeared, absolutely numb, as he stood at his place. There were no words to describe this kind of anxiety and fear.

While his body began turning off, his mind whirred into life.  Will he change my choice of study for the benefit of the family?  He almost shudders at the idea.

"Okay, Aziraphale." His uncle begins. "Sit down, you look terrible."

He sat, his legs finally feeling something akin to life. His hands still tingled and his throat felt bloated, like a toad had grown within and made his esophagus its home.

"All right, Literature, was it?" Aziraphale nods, the toad in his throat rendering him mute. "It may not be our best choice but it's certainly not the worst."

What?

His uncle grabs a piece of parchment, flattening it on his desk and then penning down a few words as his quill moved hastily. "Literature intersects with many studies, though it is not centered on any studies we may need, it is  very  much suitable for making connections."

"I see," He manages to babble. "You permit me to enter the university then, uncle?"

The quill stops and dots the parchment. Without words, his uncle extended the paper and looked at Aziraphale. He scrambled from the chair and carefully held it. He was unsure of the nature of the letter, but it was never good to peak at his Uncle's belongings.

"This letter will serve as your guide." His uncle says, reclining on his lavishly decorated cotton chair. "I have listed the names of the most notable nobles of the westmost empire."

He doesn't stop but merely continues, smiling at Aziraphale as though he has stricken gold. "Remember those names, if you happen to find their kin at the university of yours — you  must  befriend them." 

His uncle waves a hand, dismissing him. "Once your relationship is strong, send a letter. We will begin preparations here." His uncle turns away, grabs another letter, and begins to write again. This time, for work. Actual work.

"May I prepare for my travels?" He folds the parchment his uncle gave and tucked it in his inner coat pocket. "I will prepare well and leave swiftly, as the ship will take long and my classes will begin shortly."

"Yes, yes, you may."

"Thank you. Is there anything else you wish to discuss with me, Uncle?"

His uncle stops writing and flaps an eyebrow at him. His gaze was strange and incomprehensible, his emotions were too many (or too little) for Aziraphale to decipher. After a long, agonizing minute, his uncle shakes his head.

"No, that will be all, Azira."

"Yes, uncle. I will excuse myself."

His heart was thumping harder than the percussions of a marching band. Though he felt the fear and anxiety drain quickly, the ice-cold awareness piercing his back as he turned to leave did not make him feel any better than before.

Aziraphale gathered his things quickly and left the office as swiftly as he could. He hoped his Uncle didn't notice how much he didn't want to stay.

He knew he already had a shaky and unstable position at home, but to know it with his demeanor was almost agreeing with the fact.

Aziraphale didn't care for his surroundings and climbed the stairs, taking two for every large step. He doesn't acknowledge anyone passing by, but surely, with the way he is speeding through the estate, anybody can see he is in a hurry.

On the highest floor of the home (a chateau, really), resides Aziraphale's large and quaint bedroom. It comprises more rooms than he could count and more splendor unnecessarily attached for the sake of saving face.

Well, to call this whole floor a room, would be an understatement. 

The whole third floor and its attic were Aziraphale's bedchambers. Unlike other members of the family, who occupy one room each, he was given a special kind of treatment from his grandfather.

After briskly walking into the middle room, his  actual  chambers, he sat down on his writing desk and stared out the giant windows before him.

I can leave.

Was his first thought, once the terrible turmoil of feelings left his body. The tingle, the shakiness, and the ice-cold fear that encompasses his being lingered briefly as Aziraphale recounted the moment in his Uncle's office.

I'm given permission.  He thinks, disbelief coating his inner consciousness.  If I plan now, I can leave tomorrow afternoon.

It was still shocking. His uncle, Gabriel le Saint, was rather  aggressive  with many things in his life. The urge to control and to lead was his uncle's defining feature. Even at home, the servants often avoided his uncle purely because of his demeanor — the false cheer, the sardonic smile, the hidden motives.

The whole time Aziraphale waited for a reply from the university, he had debated whether to run away without a word or to announce his acceptance.

Should I tell them?  He had wondered for many nights.  What if I do and something worse comes about? Will I be able to handle it all when it comes to that point?

It was a fortunate thing that his deceased father and his grandfather left him with generous savings. If he needed to, he could walk out the door, feigning attendance to some event, and leave. On the other hand, if he announced his results, he needed to prepare for whatever reaction his uncle may express.

He didn't know when his uncle decided something was  good  or  bad.  And if he deemed the acceptance as  bad  than  good , it would leave Aziraphale questioning if he could see another sunset, a sunrise if he was lucky.

If he caught wind of something awful, I don't think I could ever leave again . He wondered, slipping the paper of his uncle's note to his writing desk.  My choice of study certainly would've gotten me locked up if there were truly no benefits.

Aziraphale sighed, collapsing onto his bed and closing his eyes.

Fortunately, it  was  a good thing.

While he did manage to breeze by the meeting relatively unscathed, the next time would be uncertain. To be able to remain safe, he needed to plan and prepare. He needed allies and supporters who could lend strength when he needs of it. Most of all, he needed to be away as soon as possible.

His body longed for a minute of rest. Even his head felt dreary and tired from the brief encounter at his uncle's office. It seems even he, himself, could be drained from such a tumultuous endeavor.

Nonetheless, if he wishes to leave sooner, he needs to plan quickly.

By morning, all eyes followed him and mouths began chattering as he entered any room. Oddly, he felt like a spectacle in his own home, in his land. Every room he entered and exited echoed with the surprise and the suspicion of his move. He didn’t appreciate it, but this was normal.

I wish they could just leave me be , he weakly complains to himself.  What is it to them if I make a decision? I’m no longer a child.

Aziraphale didn't expect a fuss for entering a university, the attention he suddenly received made him overtly aware of the ill stares of his family members. He never stepped out of line on his own. Most of the time, he was either dragged across it by his grandfather or his uncle. This time was different, surely, since he  alone  sent the letter and he  alone  awaited for the reply that follows.

In the eyes of his family, this could mean two things. One, he is beginning to show his promise as a successful adult, intent on taking the seat of heir for the family business. Or two, he was beginning to plan his slow and painstaking emancipation from the family. Both of which the family didn’t want nor intended to go through.

While he does not embrace attention, not to the slightest degree, his family members do not wish for him to thrive or to achieve anything worthy. It was obvious and blatant, how  useable  he seems. All he wanted was a simple thing: freedom.

And if all plans fail to attain it amicably, death was the last resort.

“Kindly call Muriel to the field. I will be waiting for her under the sessile oak.” The servant nods, rushing away as he walks out.

Behind his home was a large pasture. At the center, where a small hump (almost a hill) stood was a large sessile oak. It had a swing and some tables around for tea time. At a nearby oak, slightly smaller than the one at the top of the hump, was a gazebo.

As he neared the hump, he felt a swell of nostalgia wrapping his heart. He climbed slowly, steps crunching on the fresh crush, dragging his eyes at the rolling hills, the symmetrical trees, the town in the distance, and the air.

He had prepared to leave, to risk it all in one go and never come back. He was sure that if he managed to become  someone  worth  something  at university, he could live a life of no regrets or remorse.

Yet, once faced with his home, intent on leaving — his resolve weakened, his emotions wavered.

This is where I spend my childhood.  He thinks, his smile twitching downwards.  This is home, no matter how terrible it became when mother and father died.

He breathes in the fresh air, the smell of grass and faint wine. Aziraphale listens to the wind and the bustle of work. Once more, he finds himself rubbing his chest, throbbing with emotions he can’t process at the moment.

“Aziraphale!” He hears someone yell. “Azira!”

He turns, seeing his cousin racing down the field with a stricken face. Her morning dress fluttered wildly behind her. Her doe eyes were wide and her hands waved with a panic he has never seen. His chest aches further but he swallows it, much like the toad yesterday, and smiles.

“Muriel, darling!” He answered.

His cousin rushes up the hump, panting ridiculously fast and sweating so much despite the mild weather.

“Goodness, Muriel.” Aziraphale takes his napkin and offers it to her, her gratefulness overshadowed by the hard lines on her face. “Take a deep breath. I’m here to listen.”

She nods, exhausted. Her curly hair stuck in odd ways while the smaller pieces clung to her damp face. She collapses on the trunk, leaning on the cool wood as she regains her breath. He had never seen her so panicked before, and he grew worried.

“What is it? Don’t tell me something terrible occurred.”

"I really don't want you to go." His cousin, Muriel, says.

He pauses, smile stilling as he watched her eyes water. His throat easily dries and, much like Muriel’s sweat during mild weather, clammed up under the cool wind. He couldn’t find the words but he still understood what she meant, what she is saying.

He and Muriel, though five years apart in age, shared similar personalities and views. Their outlook on life and goals differed strongly from most of their family members.

Their similarities brought them closer than siblings. Thick as thieves, as they say. So naturally, Aziraphale also grew troubled with the idea of separating, even if Muriel also intended to leave for university, much like he is doing now.

"It may be selfish of me to say this, but you and I are the only people in this household who hold some semblance of humanity in our hearts," Muriel says, thumbing her fingers together. "I'd rather suffer together than be alone. "

"Oh, Muriel." He moves closer, sitting beside her. "My dear, I would never leave you alone."

Her face pinches with distraught. "But you are," She sighs, gripping his hands as though it would prevent him to leave. "You are leaving and I would fend for myself as the country goes to rubbish and our family picks fights with one another."

Aziraphale shakes his head. She was barely fifteen and the fear she has in her heart was more than her years could carry. It hurts to understand her. It hurts, even more, to contribute to her trying times.

“You are always on my mind, even if we are not together.” He takes his other hand and places it on top of hers, maybe for her assurance, maybe for his own. “You are like my sister and you, alone, I consider my true family.”

Muriel grips his hands, easing the tremor that increases with his every word. “Then what becomes of me when you leave? Will I still be your family?”

Aziraphale wishes he could assure her by displaying his inner workings, his mind, and his heart. By chance that he can open his body and do so, he will gladly do it for his family. Well, for Muriel.

"My dear girl, you will always be my true family. Even if you are old and gray, I will always think of you as my little sibling.”

“Thank you.” She whispers. Her eyes downcast as she nibbles on her lips with clear anxiety. “I just,” she gulps. “I just didn’t think this would happen so soon. I mean, we have discussed this prior but, I was assuming it would take a year or so, not a few days.”

Aziraphale smiled. Freeing his hand and wrapping it around her shoulders. With a tug, she slotted herself snugly in his arms. “It must have been terrifying for you.”

“Yes.” She lays her head on his shoulder, sagging. “I never felt so much fear in so little time, the anxiety of the future choked me and I feared, very much feared, the idea of you leaving me.”

“I know, I know.” He murmurs into her hair, kissing the messy crown. “I should’ve told you a few days ago that I also planned for you as well.”

Muriel sat up, her face mixed with confusion and expectancy. “Planned for me?” She echoes. He nods. “What did you plan?”

“I knew if I left, you’d be vulnerable to the whims of the family." He pulls a letter from his coat, placing it on her hands. "I planned ahead of time to send you to a finishing school. Though it may be in France, it's at least three days away by carriage. I hope you’d find it far away enough to take a break from the family.”

Muriel stands as she whisked away the letter.

Her eyes widen as she clumsily takes hold of the letter when it slips from her grip. She tears the sides and begins reading. The letter slowly shakes harder and harder as her eyes descend. Aziraphale stands, waiting for her reaction before saying anything.

"A finishing school?" Muriel begins, clutching the letter to her chest. "At the coast of France too!" She beams. Her smile exuberant and the hard shadows of her face gradually disappearing.

The complicated feelings of his heart unfurled. He felt peaceful, watching the barely young lady bounce around, hair whipping about.

"Yes, well. I know they would never allow you to leave so far at your young age, but I managed to convince Uncle to let you go to this finishing school."

Her expression sours quickly at the mention of her father, but she returns his smile after a moment. "I can’t believe it. This is so,” Muriel waves her hands strangely, trying to find words in the air. “I can leave and I can get away from this miserable place. I can finally make friends who I like and I can finally experience the coast!”

Her laugh is bright and her eyes were too. As she moved around excitedly, her morning dress whipped around happily. Soon, she grabbed his hands and swung them in joy.

“I can’t wait to plan too! I will ask Eugenie to help with my plans and I’ll do it and leave when it's all done.” Muriel babbles quickly, swinging their hands. Her innocence shining and her demeanor finally reflecting her age. “Oh! I don’t have anything I can bring. All of my dresses are from several seasons ago. All my of things are worn!”

Aziraphale laughs loudly, throwing his head back. He hears Muriel cry between his bouts of laughter, “Do you think dresses and things are appropriate for finishing school?”

Muriel looked indignant, crossing her arms over her chest. “Of course, it matters! There will be many young ladies and young gentlemen, so many new friends I could make for the first time.” She whips around and spreads her morning dress, a piece she bought several seasons ago. It was slightly shorter than normal morning dresses. It was also out of style.

But who is Aziraphale to judge what Muriel wears?

She looks cute either way , he thinks while smiling at Muriel.  Whatever she wears, I’m sure she’ll make some good friends.

He shrugged. “Well, whatever you wish to do, I assure you, it will work out well.”

She doesn’t answer but she does come close and hug him, terribly tight and a little emotional. Whether Aziraphale noticed her shaking shoulder, he didn’t dare comment. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed as well. From over her shorter shoulder, he sees his home, the field, the town way over there, and the servants. He smells the air and faint wine. He feels the wind and sliver of sunshine from the foliage.

Somehow, it doesn’t ache as it did moments ago.

His heart didn’t ache with the forlorn realization of  leaving  anymore. Yet the taste of bitterness and sweetness only came when he thought of the  longing  he will endure. He will long for afternoon teas with Muriel, the scent of parchment when he reads, the constant thrum of work, and the secret trips to the town over. He will long for the silent nights after a long day, the creak of his bed as he sleeps contentedly, and the laughter shared with Muriel.

He hugs Muriel tighter. The sense of parting passes through them with no words.

“I will dearly miss you, you know.” Muriel murmurs to his coat. “I will send letters day by day and you  will  reply to all of them.”

“I will dearly miss  you . I will worry and fret every second that you are away from home.” He shakes his head, indignant. “And a letter once a week is quite fine, my dear girl. A letter a day is too much for you.”

She huffs, “No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

Muriel sighs, leaning into his shoulder. “Why did you have to choose a university so far? A letter a day wouldn’t be such trouble if you stayed within France.”

He blinks in surprise, clearing his throat. “I haven’t told you, have I?” He pulls away, facing a red-eyed Muriel. “My father, mother, and I used to live in England for a while. About a year or so.”

“Oh!” She ticks her head to the side, confusion marring her face. “I don’t recall anyone mentioning this before. Was this before I was born?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, eyes flickering upwards, trying to recall the details. “My seventh winter came and pass in England. You were about two, a little child who toddled around.”

“You are familiar with the westmost empire then?” She nods absent-mindedly, eyes glazing over as her thoughts ran wildly. “I’m sure you’ve got friends awaiting your return.”

He hums, neither agreeing nor denying. “I do have one friend who I wish to reconnect with.” His mind wanders to the last thing he had received from them. “They gave me something precious of theirs. It’s only right I find them and return it to them.”

Muriel quirks a brow, seemingly able to catch the change of tone in his voice. “He must be a very special friend.” His smile tightened, unable to meet her eyes. “Maybe a  super  special friend when you meet them, right?”

Her smile was annoying. The heartfelt moment shattered at her quip. The affection in his heart for her dried quickly, filled with a distaste for her less-than-tasteful jokes.

He swallows. Hard.

“We need to head back in for breakfast if we wish to avoid unnecessary attention,” Aziraphale announces. “Well, attention other than my departure, of course.”

Aziraphale pretends to not notice her mischievous gaze nor her giggles, offering the crook of his arm to her. She wipes her morning dress, inelegantly and clumsily, much like the child she is. Then she smiles, filling his affection for her just a little and hooking their arms together with a tight grip.

“Do announce your fiancé before returning.” Muriel joked, her eyes glancing at him with mirth. “It would be dishonorable to arrive with a lover with no prior notice.”

“Muriel!” He blanches, attempting to pull away despite Muriel dragging him back in. “I did not raise you with such love and care to be treated like this.”

She laughs, skipping down the hump together. “I was kidding! Goodness!”

Breakfast and luncheon flew quickly.

It was not without stares and murmurs, but it was expected. He managed to smile amicably, eyes downcast but not forlorn. Whatever comment was thrown at him, he nodded or answered simply. He avoided snider remarks and the occasional joke at his expense, but this happens every other day, so he ate as he would normally.

Maybe rushing things was a rather stupid idea.

In the time between sifting, packing, and sorting for donation — he found himself ragged, tired, a little excited, and, most of all, with a lot of free time on his hands.

He didn’t have anything left in his bedchambers except the furniture that came with the room. His prized books, some trinkets from long ago, and other valuables were carefully packed away. His simple seasonal clothes were brought along while the gaudier, totally not his style, clothes were left in the closet. He had already requested his bank to transfer all his wealth to a branch in England. Though it may take a while, he didn’t feel any panic as he already prepared a sizable amount of pocket money.

He was all set, rearing to go, rearing to  leave .

Finally, after many months and days of planning, the time has finally come.  Aziraphale stood awkwardly at his barren bedchambers, feeling off without the usual sight he has seen for many years.  It will take some time to adjust to my new home but at least it is without constant fear and anxiety. That, itself, is worth any and all trouble,

He sighed, lingering along the windows as if to paint the scenery to his heart. From childhood to now, he had stared outside the windows many times before. The last time always feels a little different. The view, the lights, the sounds — it will be no longer the same, this will be the last time he will see it as  his . Was he ready to face it all? Most likely not. He will be away for years, decades even. 

By then, how much will change in this barren bedchamber? Will it even be his bedchamber whence the time to return came?

With questing running in his head, Aziraphale hardly notice the servant that shuffled outside his bedchamber. The servant, Eugenie, Muriel’s nanny, cleared her throat. He whips his head to the sound, brows unfurling from its knot. Luckily, he was not too far gone to mute the world’s sound.

“Eugenie! What do I owe the pleasure?”

Eugenie shakes her head, smiling, glancing around the barren room with astonished eyes. Her hands politely place in front of her. “Hello, Aziraphale. How are you fairing sweetie?”

He smiles, waving his hands. “Well, I’m feeling exhausted. A rather strange feeling to have before embarking on a journey. I feel a little scared but I’m more than excited for what’s ahead of me.” He nods at the window. “I was just relaxing, taking one last look before I leave.”

She walks closer after he nods letting her in. “It’s easy to feel many complicated things when you leave, dearie.” She pats his hands, eyes kindly assuring him. “You’re a strong boy, I know you can grow beyond those feelings soon.”

“I’d like to think so,” He clutches her hand, filled with the warmth of a parent he has missed for many years. “I’m not confident in many things but at least I can give my best at trying.”

“Good man.” She cheers, patting his hand one last time before breaking away. “It’s good to see you like this.”

He nods, tucking his own hands in front of him. He glances at the window one last time before moving away, smiling at Eugenie. “Did you come to bid me farewell? I feel sorry that I have nothing to offer but a place to sit.”

Eugenie shakes her head. “I planned to say my farewells at the entrance but I came to deliver something to you.”

“To me?” Aziraphale’s eyes flicker around, trying to remember if he had forgotten something. “I don’t think I’m expecting anything. What is it?”

“Master has called for you.” She says, her demeanor sheepish. “He wishes to have a chat with you over tea.”

“Grandfather did?” He stood straight, alarmed. “He isn’t supposed to be home until tomorrow morning,”

“Yes, that was the schedule.” She shrugs. “He heard of your departure and wishes to speak with you before you go.”

The toad he swallowed yesterday jumped up to his throat. His hands, usually tucked over his stomach, came to his hair and clutched his head. His eyes dart to an apologetic Eugenie to his attire. The languid emotions and melancholic thoughts died as quickly as his panic grew.

What a terrible timing!  He wails within.  I have yet to change out of my lounging attire. My face is pale and unwashed. My hair — goodness, my hair!

He rushed to his bathroom, turning on the hot water to fill in his bath. Aziraphale rushes out again, setting eyes on Eugenie and his servant, Louis. He heads no manners, nor grace, and pleads towards them: “Help me get ready! I need to meet Grandfather quickly.”

With great skill and swiftness, Aziraphale rushes out of his bedchambers within the hour. He threw a grateful look at Eugenie and Louis, shouting a ‘thank you!’ over his shoulder. His shiny shoes and heels thumped on the stairs as he raced down to his grandfather’s office. His breath quickly grew ragged and his face flushed considerably.

He reached the office soon enough, leaning on the windowsill opposite the office doors. His knees were already jelly, partly from anxiety and partly from running as though he was a racehorse.

His uncle and his grandfather are two very different, very authoritative, and very intimidating people. While his uncle leaned more towards showing a veil over his true emotions, his grandfather was the complete opposite — honesty, integrity, and loyalty. He was an open book. It was his complete uprightness that made him scary.

If he had to choose, on personality alone, his grandfather would be his choice. He wasn’t moody nor overtly calculative, he wasn’t distrustful of others and didn’t pool fear in others from his terrifying actions.

His grandfather used all the good values he learned as a commoner as his main force of power. He believed in the power of the good and stuck with that. If he caught you doing something remotely bad, he’d punish you.

Which was why Aziraphale was counting back the months and days when he interacted with his grandfather. It was abnormal already to call for a private summons, but a chat over tea? It seemed much like a warning, signaling a reprimand or punishment of sorts.

It can’t be a bad thing, right?  He assures himself, with very heavy doubt.  I didn’t even interact with him this month. I did greet him and send letters about my well-being, but nothing awful.

“Good God.” He wheezes, eyes tight with nerves.

He breathes and waits a moment before knocking on the office’s door. After a while, he heard the faintest sound of a chair scrape and the sound of his grandfather’s voice, muffled, from the other side.\

“Come in Aziraphale.”

He nods to no one and pushes the door open.

Unlike his uncle’s very lavish, fancy, and decorative office — his grandfather’s office was warm, with little to no décor, piled high with various records and books, and most of all, full of family paintings.

It hasn’t changed much since the last time he visited the office. Around two years ago, after he had been gifted the third floor, his very massive chambers. He was seventeen then, and now, at nineteen: the only thing that changed was the papers nearly organized at the desk.

“Good afternoon, Grandfather. I’ve come to see you.”

His grandfather, sitting on the lounge chair, nodded, gesturing at the open chair across from him. “Come and sit, dear boy.”

“Yes, um.” He slowly sat, making little noise. “How are you today, grandfather?”

“I’m fine. All as usual.” His blue eyes peered at him, head to toe. His white hair glowing as the sun shines through the drapes. “You, on the other hand, have quite some news to share, I hear.”

He nods, clenching the pillow he had thrown across his lap. “I received a letter from the University of Great England yesterday. Due to the short notice of the opening term, I hastily prepared for my departure.”

“Which is today, yes?”

“Yes, today.”

His grandfather leans further into the chair, closing his eyes. “This is terrific news for you. I’m sure you are quite ecstatic to study at a university.”

He breathed out, deeply. He tries to ease his nerves but fails when his grandfather’s eyes open and peer at him. “I am. There are many opportunities and experiences I am excited for.”

“Good.” His grandfather stands, waving a hand that kept him seated. “I don’t wish to take up to much of your time. I know you will leave soon and you still need to accept farewells from others.”

His grandfather combs around the letters in his drawer. He pulls out a yellowed and worn parchment, sealed with the family emblem. He returns to his chair, sinking on the leather with a hand outstretched. He says nothing more, letting the air between speak on his behalf.

Aziraphale takes the letter, swallowing the toad that decided to stay in his throat. He stayed silent, waiting with bated breath for his grandfather to speak.

“Before your father, Raphael, passed on. He had sent a letter to you from the inn he had stayed for several days. By the time it reached our home, your father and mother have, sadly, departed.”

He doesn’t speak again, looking down. The tremor of a punishment leaving him quickly and the realization of  something  else replacing it. 

“I never knew when could be the perfect time to give it to you. At your birthdays? Maybe even special holidays? It all seemed inappropriate, shameless even.”

The swell of dread and expectancy begun at his chest. His brown eyes began to shake, unable to understand the meaning of this gesture.

“I decided it was perfect now. You are now an adult,” His grandfather patted his knee as if certifying his adulthood. “You are prepared to know what it contains and old enough to know how to manage your feelings.”

He tucks the letter away, feeling the emotions he had battled many times today come forth again. It was ironic, in a way, that his grandfather trusted him with his emotions but he, himself, didn’t trust with. It felt a little too weird, to be given this letter many,  many  years after their passing.

It felt like a hurdle, a challenge. A test to see how set he was to his plans, how set he was on leaving the family. A rude test. A painful test. A very  cruel  test.

“I wish you well, as always, Aziraphale.” His grandfather continued, unaware of the agony writhing in front of him. “Do send a letter once in a while, I do wish to know how you fair abroad.”

The silence lapped. Aziraphale looked at his grandfather — his wrinkles, his white hair, his strong yet frail demeanor, his very warm hands — and swallowed again. He succeeded in gulping the toad down, stringing a few words despite his apparent speechlessness.

“I, well,” He wipes his clammy hands on his trousers. “I don’t know what to say but thank you. I don’t think I am prepared to read it, but,” He glanced at his grandfather's eyes. “I will read it when I am ready. When I can handle what's in the letter.”

His grandfather shakes his head, sighing. “I didn’t give you the letter for you to read it right away.” He reaches over and taps his right knee again. “I came to return what is,  rightfully , yours. Whatever you do from then onwards, is your own decision.”

Aziraphale nods, mouth pressed firmly together. “I see. I will think about it again, on what I should do, I mean.” He leans back on the leather chairs, closing his eyes tightly. His grandfather mirrors him. “When I find the answer, I’ll be sure to send a letter.”

“I will await it,” his grandfather then smiles, eyes alight in a familiar mirth he saw in Muriel earlier today. “I will also await any  delightful  news of a partner, a fiancee, or a spouse in the letters.”

He sputters, sitting upright. His cheeks and ears were an embarrassing shade of red. “I don’t think I will even meet a person to ever send such delightful news to you.” He feels his heart thump crazily, much more when the letter was given to him.

What is with this family and its penchant for tasteless jokes? 

He hears his grandfather chuckle.

“Mhmm.” His grandfather drawls standing up and waving him out. “We shall see, dear boy.” His voice carries the tone as if he didn't believe him, as if he knew what was already in the future.

Aziraphale felt grateful. He had never felt such a twist and turn of his emotions as much as it had now. The letter, the well wishes, and even a little joke. This was more than he could ever expect and crazier than he ever anticipated.

He rushed out, bidding a quick farewell before stalking away to the entrance where, surely, his carriage awaits to bring him to the ports.

He had passed the barren halls of the home. Hearing little to no bustle in the usual areas of work. When he reached the main entrance, he found most servants awaiting him with little pouches in their hands, smiles all gentle, and eyes bright.

“Oh,” He says, not so elegantly. “Hello everyone, um, I wasn’t expecting a lot of people.”

Aziraphale sees Muriel in the crowd. This time, she doesn’t have an air of distraught on her face. Her hair was tucked neatly in an updo and her dress changed once more. A trendier, in-season dress that she surely must’ve bought in the hours he hasn’t seen her.

“Nonsense!” Muriel exclaims, grabbing his arms and rushing him closer to the crowd of people. “You should’ve expected more, honestly. You’re well-liked by most people.”

“Well, a few people did come to mind. I wasn’t expecting most servants to as well.” He hears some giggle in the crowd, he flushes even more. “Imagine my surprise, when a few became a dozen.”

“I can see why you’re flustered.” She muses, placing him in front of the crowd. Muriel steps back, lined alongside the servants. Now that he could see her properly, she too, had a pouch on her hand. “Go on then, say your words. You need to leave, after all, you know.”

He shakes his head at her, fondly. To think she was against him leaving in the first place.  Teenagers , he sighs to himself,  never know what to expect of them.

Aziraphale faces the crowd and smiles. He felt much more at ease facing the many faces of servants than that of his uncle and grandfather. Compared to their power and the things that could be forced upon him at the slightest mistake, a little speech was no problem. “Hello again, everyone. I truly wasn’t expecting that many people to bid me farewell.”

He could see Louis and Eugenie. Some of the cooks he worked alongside when he made his little snacks. The gardeners he chatted with and the maids he gossiped with from time to time. Such minuscule interactions have brought them here, to him. He mistakenly thought that he, alone, felt gratitude for their company.

“I have lived here for a long time so my absence will feel awkward at times. I know soon enough you will find my absence a short of a blessing, after all, that’s one less le Saint to serve.” He chuckles, smiling at Louis especially.

“Wishing farewells for me is a little one-sided. Instead, I will wish you all as well. To the people I have shared many memories with, shared my life with, and to those who cherish our time together; I wish nothing more than happiness and great happening to you, for as long as time.” He closed his speech with a bow and began to accept the more personal and intimate greetings.

He had come to find out that the pouches were gifts for him,  gifts ! 

He rejected many at first, embarrassed by the unfair exchange, but Muriel assured him, taking the pouches for him and depositing them in the carriage where he can open them later.

Aziraphale had hugged so many people, shaken hands with so many rough hands, and wished many their wellness, it was jarring to see how many people cared for him. It felt sad too, that he had realized and discovered many things just moments before leaving.

Not a keen observer, I am.

Even after a while, he still feels the flush around his cheeks and ears as he waves goodbye, boarding the carriage. He hopes he didn’t look deliriously happy, which he was, but felt grateful for the new memory they had given them. With one last look at Muriel, whom he had hugged many times in the past hour, he departed.

He didn't dare look back. He didn't spill any tears. He simply looked onward, breathing deeply and rhythmically. He closed his eyes for a brief second, passing by the scenery he had too many times to count. When he opened his eyes, his heart steeled with determination. 

My next destination, here I come.

It took four days of pleasant seas and warm winds to arrive at the English port.

From Calais to Dartford, he had taken an expensive boat ride. If he had planned and waited a little, he could’ve saved some pretty pennies and chosen an affordable but respectable ride. Unfortunately, since he rushed his departure, the remaining available rides were expensive at best and daylight robbery at worst. He chose the safest of all the available rides, deeming price an irrelevant factor since most were expensive.

He enjoyed the ride. The service was splendid, the view was gorgeous and the  food , goodness, the food was to die for. His first-ever experience on a boat has been fantastic, however, it was not without hiccups.

The journey was rough at the start. Truth be told, Aziraphale had a hard time adjusting to the sensation of swaying constantly. The waves were beautiful to gaze upon but the motion twisted his insides. He had stayed at the deck for a couple of hours, admiring the view, before the incessant sickness attacked him fiercely.

Oh my god , he had choked.  What is happening to me?

He has stayed within his cabin, clutching the sheets of bed as if it would ground him and stop the rocking of the boat. He has battled a very aggressive war to  not  vomit in the beautiful room, and by the following day, he had won the war.

The remaining three days were pleasant, gracing him the reward after a long battle won. It completely erased the  vile  and  cruel  experience he has with the weird sickness. Maybe fortune or pity, the three days were uneventful.

"Dartford! We have arrived in Dartford!"

Aziraphale descends from the boat, a brown redingote on his arm. His blonde hair flickering wildly in the wind and his lips dry from the stale air. He takes out the letter from the university, reading through the instructions to when he’d arrive.

I need to gather my belongings, get a carriage to Kensington and arrange to travel with my luggage.  He tucks the letter again, clutching the satchel he has owned since he was a child.  I should head onwards, there should be the crewman who handled my luggage previously. If not, I can always ask.

There were many carriages by the port. He easily found a driver who knew Kensington and the university within it. The hard part was locating all his belongings and hefting them to the back of the carriage. The driver, who barely knew Aziraphale, quickly realized that he wasn’t strong enough to transport his luggage. After asking some crewmen for help, and with much thanks, he had left for Kensington.

Closer and closer to his new beginning. To a new start. To answers to questions, he had long felt troubled by. To new experiences. Most of all, to the new Aziraphale, that he would become. It was thrilling to feel and sense the change, to want and be the change he always needed. All that was left is to enter the university.

He had no time to admire the scenery. His heart was beating faster than the hooves of the horses. His ears were deafened with the rush of his blood, louder than the bustle of London. His eyes tittered around the carriage, running through the many  what-ifs  and  what-nots  that would await him. The relaxed and peaceful demeanor he arrived with had left him. He journeyed to Kensington with the meek and mild manner he had long since been accompanied with.

It’s just around this road.  He realizes, clenching his hands together.  I think I can see the shape of the gates.

Aziraphale’s carriage turns the corner and is beholden to the University of Great England. Much like the name, the entrance was grand. The iron cast gates were intricate, dark, and shiny; spanning miles and miles ahead until he could no longer see the end. Through the gates, he could see a peak of many large buildings, halls, and even towers. The land was plated with beautiful walkways and the greenery was expansive. Everything looked scholarly and wise, everything looked lush and green, and most of all, everything looked lively. It filled Aziraphale with the excitement to learn, the tingles of something  new .

“We’ve arrived, kind sir.” The driver opens the carriage door. “Watch your step as you go.”

“Oh,” He blinks at the man. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem, sir.” The man steps back, giving a wide birth for Aziraphale to comfortably descend on. “I’ll get your bags ready for you. It might take a while.”

"Thank you."

He hopped out of the carriage, donning the brown redingote as the air grew frigid. He blew a deep breath and watched it fog in front of his eyes. Azirphale looked around and took notice of the beige and brown themes of the university. From where he stood, the university looked no less than a village. If he wasn't aware of the place, he would surely mistake the university as a territory of a noble.

I hope I'm not late for anything,  he bites his lips.  I didn't receive a date for the opening of the term, maybe it was today?

From afar, within the grand gates and beautiful architecture, he could see a man waltzing from the entrance. The driver steadily thumped each piece of luggage he had beside him, his face flushing redder and redder each time. He felt apologetic to both men who worked hard while he stayed idle. It was awkward, but he could manage.

The last luggage thumped by his legs. The driver rounded the carriage with a triumphant look on his face, sweaty and proud. He thanked him and added a few pounds to the pouch as he paid the driver. As the carriage began galloping away, the man from the main hall arrived - calm, collected, and friendly-looking.

He wore a steward's uniform, his tie a distinct shade of deep navy. His skin was a deep color too, smooth and buttery under the rays of the sun. His eyes were kind, a brown color that reminded him of Muriel at home. The man was shorter than Aziraphale but he looked stronger, a requirement for hard workers. 

He decided to greet him first, feeling a little nervous. “Greetings, I’m Aziraphale le Saint of France.”

The steward's eyes flashed for a moment, a vague mix of recognition and realization. “Greetings, Sir le Saint.” The man bowed his head. “Welcome to the University of Great England. I am Ericson, steward of the Bluebell Hall. You may call me Eric.”

“Thank you for the kind greeting, Eric. Do call me Aziraphale.” He looks around, noticing the lack of people despite being noon. “I hope I am not late to the start of the term.”

Eric shakes his head, his kind eyes squinting as he smiled. “Hope not, you are quite early, Sir Aziraphale. The classes officially begin in three days.”

Aziraphale sank his shoulder in relief, breathing out a quick sigh. His hands unclenched from its anxious grip. “That’s great news to hear. For a moment, I had wondered if classes had begun and I arrived right in the middle of it.”

Eric chuckles, hands clasped politely in front of him. “It’s a worry many young gentlemen and ladies from abroad share.” He steps aside, one hand spread grandiosely in front of the gate. “The general stewards will gather your belongings and place them within your quarters. While they do so, I will guide you to the Bluebell Hall.”

Just as mentioned, several other men appeared from within the main hall. Eric waved them over, instructing them to deliver his belonging to his quarters. They chatted a bit more, voices barely above a whisper. When Eric looked back at him, he gestured for Aziraphale to walk alongside him. With no further delay, Aziraphale was led across the gate he had been eyeing earlier.

The feeling wasn’t grand or profound. It felt like walking as normal. There weren’t any new feelings or waves of emotion that rushed toward him. All he felt was excitement and thrill, the same old feelings he had for many days now. It felt grounding to feel the normalcy of his fantastical dreaming, but he was a tad bit disappointed. After all, he was looking forward to the fireworks and marching band as he stepped in.

They crossed the grand entrance and entered the main hall. The interior was no less splendid than the exterior, covered with gold entails and fine beige bricks. The walls had paintings of the royal family, prominent graduates, and the current administrators of the university. Near the entrance, a large map was placed, with several sheets of parchment right under it.

“This is the main hall. It is used to welcome guests and students, housing the offices of the administrators you see in the paintings over there.” Eric glided to the large map, taking a piece from the stack below it. “This is the updated map of the university. If you lose the map provided, you may always take another.”

Aziraphale receives the map, eyes widening at the scale of the university. Several gardens, a few ponds, some parks, dozens of buildings with flowery names beneath, and, three large castles with the listed study of choice underneath each one. He murmurs with amazement: “Goodness, I have to thank you for the map. I would have surely gotten lost.”

“Many students have,” Eric replies, hand extended towards a door on the left. “To the left is the door heading to the dormitories. To the right is the door heading to the lecture halls. We will be heading the Bluebell Hall, to our left.”

He tucks the map inside his redingote. With a great push, he opens the door to a beautiful garden, decorated with various flowers and shrubbery, in varying degrees of color. In the middle, a tiny fountain was placed where birds and other animals loitering about.

Now  this , this was beyond any wild fantasy Aziraphale had imagined.

“The garden is free for all to use.” Eric stops in the middle, some animals frolicking away at the movement. “In this section, we have the Rose Hall, Daisy Hall, and Aster Hall. All of which are occupied by the ladies.”

The buildings to his sides all looked the same. Towering over Aziraphale with four floors and stretching wide to touch the other halls. The halls acted as a wall for the garden, creating a perfect square in the middle. The building in front of them and behind them was a floor higher, the ground floor of each building having a large archway that lead to another place. Eric guided him forwards, walking under the building.

They entered another beautiful garden. Eric pauses, recites the name of the halls, and mentions who the occupants were. The steward prattles more information he doesn't hear. 

Unable to contain himself, he asked a quick question as they lingered in the second garden.

“Excuse me, Eric.” The steward nods with a smile, eyes kind. “Are the halls name after the flowers decorated in the garden they are in?”

“Oh yes!” The man nods, pointing at the random array of flowers that look all too similar to Aziraphale. “Each flower has its beautiful meaning and style. The halls decorated with flowers share the wishes of the founder to cultivate the splendid youth.”

He hums, trying to find the difference between the Daffodils and the Marigolds. He struggles as the steward prattled on, pointing at different areas with names Aziraphale has a hard time remembering. As he was about to fall into a daze, the other man walks forward. Eric gives him no time to contemplate, leading him to the third garden.

That must be a bluebell.

This time, he notices the distinctive slope and colors of a flower. It was unmistakable and the first of the few flowers he can confidently call the name of. In the same environmental layout as the other garden, besides the flowers, Eric starts pointing at the buildings, stopping at the right building. “This building is Bluebell Hall. On the second floor, you will find your quarters marked with 2-4-BB.”

"I see. How many rooms are there on one floor, if you don't mind me asking."

"Each floor houses eight people. For each wing, four people reside next to each other. In one hall, a total of thirty-two students can reside at the same time." Eric points to the hall, marking the windows that each floor has eight.

Aziraphale cranes his neck, blinking rapidly as he watches shadows move from behind the windows. "I guess I have seven neighbors then?"

Eric nods, "And thirty-one flatmates." He adds.

They walked on the steps between blooming bluebell flowers. A few steps later, they reached the tall building that would be his home for many years to come. “You will see the stairs when you open the main entrance. If you will kindly follow me, I will guide you to your quarters now.”

Aziraphale beams as the promise of decorating his new room sounded  divine . “Thank you, I’ll be happy to.”

They entered the hall. The architecture was beautiful and the décor was simpler than the main hall. It wasn’t any less splendid — the walls were filled with paintings and mounts, the floor was shining and the windows sparkled against the rays of sun. He noticed a recurring motif of blues as if matching with the flowers outside. The smell was rich and deep, the scent of firewood and pastries permeated the air. It felt cozy and reminded him of home, oddly.

There are others who have arrived before me then.  He concludes, beginning to climb the stairs.  It would be weird to smell firewood and pastries when I am the only resident.

He could the thrum of a loud conversation up above, the conversation muffled and indecipherable. Aziraphale hears loud thumps and panicked voices. He shared a look of confusion with Eric when a young lady in a green dress rushes off past them, sparing no look nor words as she sprints away, determination set on her face.

He looks at Eric, eyes wide and eyebrows up to his hair. He blinks slowly as if to show how confused he felt at the moment. Eric blinked back, nodding his head.

“Students are allowed to visit their family members in the daytime.” The steward explains, a little off to the point.  Maybe he didn’t understand my expression . “Ladies and gentlemen must visit in groups of more than three to ensure the safety of the visit.”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” Aziraphale replies, brows furrowed at the useful but irrelevant information. “I was wondering if this was common. We just saw a young lady running as if her life depends on it.”

Eric nods again, “Many students run like her. It isn’t as uncommon as you think.”

He gave up, deciding to stir the conversation elsewhere as the voices grew rougher, louder,  meaner . “I think we should head up quickly,” he flicks his head upwards. “I think there is a commotion above us.”

He hears Eric agree and wastes no time rushing upwards. His legs climbed two stairs at a time, his hands propelled him forwards as he grips the sides. When the second floor appeared in his view, he saw two ladies surrounded by a gaggle of men.

It was obvious from afar that the men were up to no good. They all dressed similarly; cravats, pantaloons, tailcoats, and tasseled Hessians. Their waistcoats and tailcoats are the only distinction from one another, each one donning a different color. Their expressions varied from amused to prideful, eyes set on the pair of ladies.

The two ladies wore different dresses. The fairer lady wore a yellow morning dress and the tanner lady donned a deep purple waistcoat over their white blouse and black pantaloons. Aziraphale couldn’t see their expression but he could hear the anger of the purple lady and the panic of the yellow one.

They move closer, Eric shaking his head each time he took another step. He couldn’t contain his curiosity and alertness. While it was true that he was an unexpected party to the dilemma, he didn’t participate willingly, after all, the fight was happening in the middle of the hall. He stopped close enough to hear the conversation between the two parties.

An eventful way to greet, I suppose.  He watches the group with keen eyes.  I'll watch and interfere if it goes too far. After all, I don't know these people .

The man at the forefront, wearing a ghastly shade of yellow, winked at the lady in the dress. “I already sent a letter asking for your hand in marriage, Lady Margaret.” He stepped closer, causing the two ladies to move back. “I find my conditions very satisfactory. Just enough to turn the tides in my favor.” He chuckles, flashing his yellow teeth. “Isn’t that splendid?”

“Absolutely  not , Sir Hastur.” Lady Margaret replies with eyebrows pinched in faint anger. “I have already expressed my intention to  not  marry before I graduate. Much less now that I just entered the university.”

The purple lady steps forward, pushing Lady Margaret behind her. “ And ,” She drawls, eyes fierce, “If Maggie did wish to marry, it would certainly not be with you, scum.”

“Oh please,” Sir Hastur rolls his eyes, cocking his hip out with confidence. “Unlike you,  Nina , her family is in dire straits. They would have no choice  but  to marry her off to me.”

Lady Nina blanches, eyes wincing as Hastur talks close to her face. “ Good heavens , nobody would ever marry off their daughter to you.  Yuck ! Look at you, brandishing your heinous breath like a knight’s sword.”

Sir Hastur loses his smile. His gaggle of men behind him repeated her words with shock. The group of men chatter and talk over one another, enticing the leading man to show authority and power, to put the ladies in their places, and to show the difference in their status. Aziraphale quickly feels his heart falling to his gut.

He had witnessed this sight many times before. In the streets, in public, and even at home. They all had similar outcomes and unpleasant results. He felt the certainty in his gut. This, too, would end in violence.

Sir Hastur whips his head around as he listens intently to his goons. The ladies wait with bated breath, moving backward as the man’s eyes darken with anger and despicable pride. Aziraphale moves closer, his eyes trained on the shaking hands of the other man. He watches, stricken, as his hold stops shaking and whips above his head, striking a familiar pose.

Quickly!  He shouts at himself.  Those ladies, good lord, those ladies!

He hears the faintest thumps behind him, rushing forward as Sir Hastur spouts more nonsense, waving his hand in a threatening manner. The toad he had trouble keeping down jumped straight to his throat, his heart quickly freezes in fear as the hand descends fast and rough. He felt the remorse strike him just as another man rushes from behind him.

He stops and stares, neither granted relief nor spared from upset. 

Time stands still as the new gentleman quickly grabbed Sir Hastur’s hand, safely securing Lady Margaret and Lady Nina’s trouble from worsening beyond repair. “Oi! Hastur!” The man bellows, his voice deeper than expected.

Eric gasped in relief, beside Aziraphale. “Oh, finally!”

The lady in the green dress, the same one who rushed passed them earlier, pants at the stairwell. She was mess incarnate — hair all over her face, dress wrinkles in odd places, and face flushed in exhaustion. She hunches over, shouting from across the room in a triumphant tone, “I got Lord Crowley!”