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Summary
Everything’s gone to shit. Aziraphale’s fucked off back to Heaven, and Crowley’s stuck down on Earth with a new angel who asks the most annoying questions, like they’re some kind of divine punishment. Then there’s all the weird dream he’s been having, the same one, over and over. Oh, yeah, and the bookshop’s haunted.
Or,
The shop’s always been able to do what it wants, within reason. There’d been that time in 1973 when it had manifested an extra room to hold Aziraphale’s unexpected stock of National Geographic magazines. Or the time Aziraphale brought in a new copy of Alice in Wonderland and they’d each had to answer a riddle to go down into the wine cellar. But Crowley’s never come across a single locked door in this bookshop in two hundred twenty-four years. It’s just - it’s not done. Something’s up with the shop. There’d been the thing with the jazz music from Crowley’s dream. Crowley’d figured it was just another one of the bookshop’s quirks, although the bookshop’s musical taste tends largely towards classical, naturally enough, with, of course, the exception that any Shostakovich left in the shop too long turns into a copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours.