Archive of Our Own

Highland Hearts

Prologue  

In the Beginning

This is the story of a young man who lived long ago, in mid-twentieth-century London…and, then, in a magical version of the Scottish Highlands. These were not the Highlands of the real world, but a realm where legend and tartan hillsides intertwined, creating a haven of love and acceptance during a time that was otherwise dark for those who were in any way different.

Chapter One  

Cast Out

“You were put on this earth to glorify the Lord,” Aziraphale’s father, Metatron, often said. The Eastgate family had named all of their children biblically going back for many generations. Metatron Eastgate, named after the most powerful of Hebrew angels, the scribe who kept track of all the choices made by humans and ethereal beings, suited his name particularly well; he seemed to be constantly cataloguing everyone’s errors, weaknesses and sins.

When the Eastgates’ second child was born, a mispronunciation led to his birth certificate reading “Aziraphale,” not, in fact, the name of the angel they had chosen. Nor the name of any actual angel, at all. His parents saw this as a divine omen. From the beginning they were convinced that this was a sign that Aziraphale was unworthy of their family. As he grew older his lack of proper piety only confirmed their belief that he didn’t belong in their family.

Aziraphale’s siblings were content with church, prayer, and religious schooling, leaving him to a lonely childhood. Aziraphale found solace in Bible stories, as this was the only book in the Eastgate household. While still a boy, he came to learn about the existence of other stories. He hungered for the handsome books that he glimpsed in shop windows when walking down the high street in Kensington. 

When Aziraphale was ten years old, he asked his parents for the book From Earth to the Moon by Jules Verne, which he had spied in the window of Hodges Bookshop one fine afternoon. His parents reproved him, telling him that he was not placed here on earth to accumulate possessions, nor to read sinful material. Verne was a sinner, they explained, and a Frenchman. Aziraphale listened quietly, his blue-grey eyes wide, and said nothing. The next day he made his way to St. James Square and, for the first time, entered the London Library, where he checked out a copy of From Earth to the Moon by the purported Frenchman, Jules Verne. It was beautifully bound in a deep-green vellum with the title embossed in gold leaf. Aziraphale read the book secretly late into the night. When he finished it he read it again from the beginning, and then again, renewing his loan time after time. Eventually he had the book half memorised. He copied what he remembered of the story into his journal and read that after the book finally had to be returned to the library.

When Aziraphale was fifteen years old, he asked his parents for The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. His parents were firm and unequivocable: he was not to read Wilde, as he was a decadent man and furthermore a deviant. This time, Aziraphale’s eyes were not quite so large and shocked, after years of being told that almost everything he was interested in was sinful. In truth, he hadn’t expected another response to the one he received. 

The next day, he went to Hodges Bookshop in Soho and applied for the position of junior clerk. He worked a few days a week after his school hours, accounting for his whereabouts by claiming to be studying. He used every shilling he made to build a small collection of his favourite books, comprised of works by Wilde, Verne, E. M. Forster, Evelyn Waugh, and Jane Austen. These volumes warmed his heart in times of trouble, provided companionship in his loneliness, and kept him happily entertained for hours. He admired the books and read a chapter from one each evening before carefully returning it to its safe place under the bed. 

It was during the annual May spring clean that the Eastgates’ maid stumbled upon the hidden cache of books. Having been instructed to report anything unusual to her employers, she took it directly to Metatron. He in turn called Aziraphale into his study.

“We found some decadent literature in your possession, Aziraphale,” Father said coldly. “You are more than well aware that you are not to read such rubbish.”

“But…Father…” he gathered his courage to explain the glories of these works, somehow, in a way that his father might understand.

“I have had the problem handled!” Metatron gestured toward the window of his darkened study. Aziraphale saw the Eastgates’ gardener, Sandalphon, warming his hands over a small fire in a metal can. When Aziraphale rose to look closer, it became obvious that the fire was being fed by his precious books. 

“NO!” he cried, banging on the window. He trembled with despair. 

Sandalphon looked up and cast a cruel smile at him, before turning back and poking the books with a stick, revealing the cover of one, Persuasion . Aziraphale felt a piercing ache in his chest as he watched the flames consume his cherished tomes. Each crackle of the flames seemed to echo the loss of his dreams. A deep, hollow emptiness settled within him. The ropes that moored him to this world, that tethered him to his very being, were burning in that can. Those books had been his friends, his family, his solace. Now they were burning up, their ashes caught in the wind with the autumn leaves of the horse chestnut tree. His very soul seemed to burn and turn to ash along with his books. 

“Your mother and I have tried to stop your deviant ways. You are a man now and fully well aware that reading this base rubbish is against God. Against all that we believe in!” Metatron too was shaking, his voice raised in outrage, a bit of spittle forming on the edge of his lips.

Aziraphale made an attempt to reason with his father. “But…Jane Austen! Her father was a minister!”

“She was a thief and a spy!”

“That has never been proven! She wrote novels! Excellent novels!”

“Enough! You know the rules of this house. You are no longer a child and are responsible for your actions. You are a man. We have fulfilled our responsibility. Your mother and I have decided that you can no longer live in this house with your impressionable siblings. You will leave my house by sundown,” Metatron’s tone was more than stern—it was final, like a man casting out sin itself from his home.

“A man? Father, I’m not yet sixteen…” Aziraphale could scarcely comprehend what was being said.

“You are certainly old enough to deliberately disobey. This is not the first time…but it is most certainly the last. You and your wickedness are no longer welcome in this house.”

“Wickedness? Father, I am an excellent student. I see no one. I know no one. I am always at home.”

“Yes! At home! And what are you doing at home?! Are you improving your soul with readings from the Good Book? No, you are not. Are you in the chapel repenting your sins? No, you are not. Are you out on the street spreading the word of our Lord and Savior? No. You. Are. Not. You are reading books by known criminals, Frenchmen, and…and…pansies!”

“Pansies?” Aziraphale's mind was in utter confusion. Was he meant to have been working in the garden? Or not working in the garden?

“For some time your mother and I have feared that you have… homosexual …proclivities.” He finished in a whisper, as though the word itself burned upon his lips.

“Homosexual proclivities? I…have no proclivities of any kind, Father.”

“Yet you are soft, and you are not interested in manly pursuits.” Metatron was done listening, if ever he had begun. “This discussion ends now!” He banged his fist on the dark mahogany desk. The sound echoed in the dark room, underscoring the finality of his decree.

Father ordered him to leave the premises immediately. He called upon Sandalphon and the two of them escorted him to the front door. Father would not allow him to take his school books–his tuition would no longer be paid. Nor was he to take his clothing, other than what he wore. Not even his warm coat. 

“You are no son of ours; you never were. This is evident by your ungodly choices. Let your sinful nature keep you warm!”

Aziraphale, who had been unloved, uncelebrated, and unwanted, left his parents’ house with nothing but the clothes he’d put on that morning. He headed to the only other place he knew, Hodges Bookshop, his place of employment. As he walked on that cold, bright autumn night, he made the decision to leave behind the name of Eastgate. He would change his surname to Fell. He would be the angel who fell from grace with the Eastgates. He passed a church on a blustery avenue and turned his face away from it; religion was clearly not his answer. In his short life, religion had brought him no solace, only torment. His exhausted, bewildered mind began to form a new dream. A vision of the life he wanted grew within him. His parents would not be a part of it. Obviously. Religion would not be a part of it. A grasping, covetous desire rose within him. He wanted more than anything a house of his own. A manor house. He wanted a large and plush library, its shelves lined with gilded first editions. He wanted an elegant dining room filled with exotic delicacies. He wanted overstuffed chairs and velveteen settees where he could sit and enjoy the luxuries of his palatial house. 

When he arrived at the bookshop, its owner, Nina Hodges, asked why he was in before his shift. Aziraphale could think of nothing but the truth to tell her. 

“I…I…seem no longer to be welcome in my parents’ house.” He hung his head.

Nina studied his face quietly for a few moments. During the short time he had worked in the bookshop, he had told her about his parents’ strictness. She had observed Aziraphale’s awkward mannerisms and sensitive nature. She knew him to be kind and hard-working. 

“I’ve been trying to rent the place upstairs for weeks with no takers,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “You can rent it for two shillings a week.”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew large. “Really?”

“It’s not doing me any good sitting there empty. The key is underneath the cash drawer in the till.” She turned and walked away. Aziraphale quickly caught up with her and threw his arms around her from behind. Nina patted his hands draped over her shoulders.

“Enough of that,” she said with a slight grin. “Go earn your rent money!”

Once again, books had led him to a place of safety. He now had reason to hope.

Chapter Two

Ten Years Pass in the Bookshop

Aziraphale’s life above the bookshop was a peaceful one. He fell into a quick friendship with Maggie Merriweather, the young manager of The Small Back Room, the record album shop next door to Hodges. She lived in the tiny flat across the landing from his own. 

Maggie helped him settle in, offering support and advice on everything from meals to wardrobe. She took him to the best charity shops, and they combed the rails for the sort of clothes that best suited him. He began sporting a bowtie and waistcoat. He was extremely choosy, but over time, he gathered a small, yet rather elegant wardrobe of fine second-hand silk and cashmere. Having never known luxuries, he began to appreciate the few he could afford. 

Maggie loved and knew about music in the same way he knew books. Their passions complemented each other. She and Aziraphale worked hard during the days, reading and listening to music late into the night. In the evenings, after closing, the two of them would dine and talk into the late hours discussing their dreams. This was the beginning of a friendship that would endure through the years.

Very late one night, Maggie told Aziraphale of her deep, passionate love for the bookshop owner, Nina. She longed for one kiss, one embrace. Aziraphale understood his friend, even though he, himself, had never had such feelings for anyone. He had no desire for romantic or physical intimacy. Each night, he and Maggie schemed, trying to come up with a perfect plan for her to “reveal all” to Nina. 

One night, after the Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Association meeting, as Maggie recounted to him later, Nina asked her to go for a drink at the pub. Over a pint, Maggie gathered all of her courage and confessed her feelings. To Maggie’s surprise, Nina felt the same. Seeing the two people that he cared for most fall in love brought Aziraphale immense joy.

He learned from them both. From Nina he learned about the management of the shop, how to order books that customers wanted to read, how to take inventory that included the circulating mass of second-hand volumes, and how to close out the register at the end of the day, after ensuring everything was securely locked up. Aziraphale quickly rose to the position of senior clerk. From Maggie, he learned about fine quality clothing and to refine his own style. From both of them, he learned what true, deep, abiding love should feel like. And he concluded that he was incapable of experiencing such love, wondering if it was because he had known no love as a child. He did love his dear friends. At the same time, like Charlotte Lucas in his beloved Austen’s Pride and Prejudice , he did not have a romantic temperament; he never had.

When Aziraphale turned twenty-five, Maggie and Nina took him out for tea at Lyon’s Tearooms, a particularly posh establishment. Aziraphale was delighted and thanked his friends profusely. After enjoying the sumptuous tea, Nina and Maggie had big news to tell him; Hodges Bookshop and The Small Back Room had been sold. Maggie and Nina would be opening a tea shop together as partners. They had purchased a small space in Soho for their new shop. Nina had recommended to the new owner that she hire Aziraphale as the manager. After all, she had personally trained him. The three of them toasted their bright futures with rather expensive tea, savouring the moment of change ahead.

Chapter Three

An Offer of Marriage

The new owner of the bookshop, now renamed Daemon Family Books, was the Honourable Lady Shax Daemon, a baroness. She was a stunning woman; more than twice Aziraphale’s age, and she was absolutely taken with him. He was beautiful, all curly hair and doe eyes, young, and eager, she thought, to partake of the worldly pleasures she could provide. Lady Shax had wasted no time in inviting the young shop manager to dinner at the Ivy Rooms. She was not one for talking around a subject. She had come directly to the point. She was determined to have Aziraphale as her suitor.

He told Lady Shax right away that he had no romantic interest in her nor in anyone actually. He wished only for the best that the material life had to offer: sumptuous meals, aged wines, exquisite fabrics, plush furnishings, and manor houses with picturesque gardens. His passions were reserved for Mulberry silks, oysters from the Delta De l'Ebre, and well-aged Châteauneuf-du-Pape from the Rhone . Aziraphale was well on his way to becoming rather the shallowest version of himself that he could be. 

He knew from the many compliments that he had received over the years ( what a cherub, so angelic ) that he was a handsome young man, his manners were pleasing, and he was amusing company, being knowledgeable of all the latest entertainments through the reading of many books and periodicals. When Baroness Shax Daemon— the owner of not just the bookshop where he was employed, but indeed of many establishments in the neighbourhood—invited him to dine with her at the Ritz, he agreed happily. 

Baroness Shax was a handsome woman of a certain age and felt quite content to spend time with Aziraphale on her arm. They soon became a couple; attending many dinners, teas, and soirees. Aziraphale enjoyed the marvellous establishments Baroness Shax opened up for him and she, in turn, enjoyed his attentions. 

In 1957, the year Aziraphale turned twenty-six, Shax left for her usual summer in the Scottish Isles, where she had a holiday house. Aziraphale prepared himself for a quiet season with no parties nor entertainments. He had plenty to do in the bookshop and it would not hurt to spend some time catching up with Nina and Maggie. They were terribly wrapped up in each other, but they were also his only friends and he had missed them during his whirlwind of parties with Shax.

One afternoon, at his desk in the bookshop, whilst concentrating on the quarterly book order, he received a package from a courier. The package contained a Cartier burgundy box which held a princely platinum ring with a large round brilliant diamond and a note from Baroness Shax. The note suggested that they marry. She missed him terribly; the note said, if he agreed to her offer she would have the arrangements made and they could marry next week. 

Baroness Shax had brought up the subject of marriage a few weeks ago before leaving London. Aziraphale had been discomfited at the time. He had no interest whatsoever in the sensual side…the physical side…of life. In sex. He was very clear and honest with her. It was not personal, he had never experienced those feelings about any woman; indeed, he harboured none of those feelings for men either. It was simply that he’d never felt that sort of attraction. Baroness Shax had been quick to assure him that this was not of the least consequence to her–were she to need sexual services she would hire them, thank you very much. What she needed was a handsome, well-spoken, smooth-mannered husband who would squire her about town and country and be a credit to her. Every one of her acquaintance would envy her for having the regard of such a pretty young man. In return, he would live in luxurious establishments, eat in the best restaurants, wear custom tailored clothing from Savile Row, and, upon marriage, Daemon Family Books would be bestowed upon him as a wedding gift. The subject had not been brought up again and then she had left for her country estate on Tadfield Isle. 

Although it had been discussed, Aziraphale was briefly taken aback by the concreteness of the proposal before him. It was certainly a subject which he had been pondering ever since Shax had brought it up. If he married Shax he would have the bookshop, a fine house, all the first-class, exquisite accoutrements of the good life. 

Aziraphale gave a brief thought for Wilde’s Dorian Gray and how his “good life” had turned out, but dismissed the story as a silly fantasy. Shax’s proposal could fulfil his fifteen-year-old self’s vision of a good life. He set aside any misgivings and immediately sent his affirmative reply to Shax by courier. He then called Nina and Maggie at their Tearooms and asked them to meet him at The Ritz that night for dinner and a long cosy chat, his treat. He had important news to share. Maggie and Nina would be happy for him, he was certain of it. 

Chapter Four

Reflections in the Mirror

“There you are, my dears. You are both looking lovely, as ever!” Aziraphale leaned in and kissed their cheeks. He was seated at a table beside a mirrored wall. The lights from the chandeliers bounced off the polished surfaces, making the whole place shine twice as brightly. Aziraphale looked down at the large new ring on his finger. It, too, sparkled like The Ritz. He thought ironically of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story “A Diamond As Big As the Ritz.” The diamond, in that story, symbolised the end of youthful dreams. In contrast, he was absolutely certain that he had made the right decision to follow his youthful dreams.

“To what do we owe this week night out invitation, Aziraphale? It’s not like you,” Maggie said as she sat in the plush velvet chair pulled out for her by the tuxedoed host.

Aziraphale displayed his hand, revealing the ring. Maggie and Nina examined it, their expressions reflecting mild confusion. He was aware that it was unusual for a man to wear an engagement ring–men had only recently begun wearing wedding rings. He recalled that during the war, soldiers separated from their wives found comfort in their wedding bands. Though too young to serve himself, Aziraphale had observed this growing trend. Shax’s note had expressed her wish for Aziraphale to wear this ring as a symbol of their engagement. Aziraphale certainly had no objection to doing so. He was quite desirous of the status that came with being Baroness Shax Daemon’s husband. Although he would be marrying for fortune, people had married for far less admirable reasons.

“So? You bought a fancy ring?” Nina asked.

“Not just any ring, my dear. And I did not buy it,” Aziraphale clarified. “It is an ‘ engagement ring.’”

“I don’t understand.”

“My intended wishes me to wear a token of her esteem.”

“But…you’re engaged? To who?”

“Not who, my dear, whom ,” Aziraphale corrected, always careful to use proper received pronunciation and grammar.

“Well…’whom’ are you engaged to?” Maggie asked.

He handed her his business card from the bookshop. “Daemon Family Booksellers,” it proclaimed. “Purveyors of Literary Sophistication. Baroness Shax Daemon, proprietor.”

“The bookshop? You can’t marry the bookshop…” 

Aziraphale indicated the card with a very significant glance.

“You don’t mean…” Maggie pointed at Shax’s name, “You can’t mean…”

“Can’t I?” Aziraphale replied archly, a puckish glint in his eye.

“You’re engaged to Baroness Shax Daemon?!”

Aziraphale smiled brilliantly. “We’re to be married next week. I was hoping that you would celebrate with me this evening and then see me off on the train.”

“See you off? I don’t understand” Maggie was not grasping the conversation.

“Yes, the Baroness is summering on Tadfield Isle in the North of Scotland. One reaches it by a complicated journey via train, ferry, automobile, and boat. I depart tonight. We are to be married in two-day’s time, on the island. Everything’s arranged.”

“Isn’t Baroness Shax nearly your mother’s age?!” Nina cried out.

“My dear, do you really believe that age is the single most important factor in a marriage?” Aziraphale sounded incredulous.

“No, of course not, it wouldn’t matter at all if you’re in love,” Nina was quick to answer, “Are you in love? Are you in lust?” She could certainly understand the attraction of the sophisticated older woman.

Aziraphale gave a rather shame-faced shrug, unable to meet her gaze. 

“What would we like tonight?” he changed the subject, looking down at his menu. Nina and Maggie exchanged very significant glances, but weren’t sure how to approach this topic.

“Why must you marry so soon?” Nina asked.

“What a question, my dear!” Aziraphale exclaimed, “I should think that you would be happy for me. I was very happy for the both of you when you found your soulmates.”

“Have you found your soulmate?” Maggie asked, hopeful. Aziraphale did not meet her eyes, but Nina saw the flicker of doubt in his reflection in the mirror. 

“My question stands,” she said firmly, “If you want to be engaged, then do it…but wait for a year or a few months, at the very least, to get married.” She reached for his hand, “At least until you’ve had a chance to think it through.”

“I appreciate your concern, my dear,” he attempted to reassure her, “but I know what I’m doing.”

Their waiter arrived to take drinks orders, momentarily interrupting them. For the rest of the evening, Aziraphale kept the conversation firmly away from his engagement and impending nuptials. A rather strange thing, he thought, since that had been the very reason for this celebratory dinner.

Chapter Five

The Highland Chieftain (A Train)

Euston Station was crowded despite the late hour. People were tugging large bags onto the train and there was much bustle on the platform. Aziraphale, accompanied by Nina and Maggie, was met by one of Baroness Daemon’s assistants, Mr. Ligur. He seemed competent, though his appearance gave him a rather lizard-like air. He quickly handed Aziraphale an envelope, which contained his itinerary, a route map, and several different tickets for trains and ferries. 

“Good-bye, my dears. I’ll see you next week, when I’m back. Give me your blessings.” His eyes were pleading and even a bit teary.

"I wish nothing but happiness for you, Aziraphale," Maggie said softly, kissing his cheek. Nina hugged him fiercely, but could not bring herself to speak. Aziraphale noticed the misgivings in her expression, but said nothing. He forgave his friends for their rather lukewarm well-wishes. He knew that he did not sound like a man in love, and indeed, he was not a man in love. All the same, he would be a good husband to Baroness Shax; he would escort her to events, accompany her to whatever restaurants she chose, spend evenings at entertainments with her friends. He would be devoted and faithful.

Aziraphale gave a final wave to his friends from the compartment window, watching them fade into the distance as the train pulled away. He sat by the window, contemplative, sipping a warm cup of tea. 

The small compartment was perfectly appointed: a double bed with a downy duvet, and walls covered in a handsome herringbone tweed, adding to the overall cosiness. Aziraphale gazed out the window lost in thought as the train departed the station. He pulled the itinerary out of its leather envelope and studied it:

Itinerary of Mr. Fell’s Journey to Tadfield Isle, Scotland

• Arrive Manchester 1:10 am change trains to Glasgow
• Arrive Glasgow 6:30 am (Mr. Lucius will meet Mr. Fell with a car to convey him to Buchanan Street Station)
• Buchanan Street Station, Glasgow (1st class compartment reserved. This train will wait for Mr. Fell should he be late) 
• Ferry Terminal 12:15 pm (Mr. Hastur will meet Mr. Fell and introduce him to the purser aboard the MS Lochinvar)
• 1:15 pm Sail for Western Isles (Captain has been notified to give Mr. Fell every attention)

Aziraphale put away the travel documents and prepared for sleep, knowing he needed to look his best for the wedding day. His looks were, after all, part of the bargain, and he must do his best to keep them. As he adjusted the eiderdown quilt he realised that this was the sort of accommodation he would become accustomed to once he married Shax. He soon fell into a troubled sleep.

In his strange and ominous dreams, the Highland Chieftain chugged along the tartan covered hills of Scotland. He did so like tartan. It was quite stylish. There were many voices calling out to him. The voices of people unknown to him, but also the voices of Nina and Maggie.

“ Are you in love? Are you in lust?”

“Have you found your soulmate?”

“Everything’s arranged.”

“ Train will wait for Mr. Fell should he be late.” 

“First Class compartment has been reserved. ”

“ Give Mr. Fell every attention, ”

Most disturbingly, the voice of the boy he once was echoed in his dreams.

“ I…have no proclivities of any kind, Father. ”

Finally, his own voice now—sounding hoarse, nearly silent, and lacking conviction. “I know what I’m doing.”

He jolted awake and lay in the double bed hearing the echo of his words in the rhythm of the moving train

I know what I’m doing…I know what I’m doing…I know what I’m doing , as the Highland Chieftain clattered through the Scottish countryside. 

Chapter Six

The Highland Chieftain (A Man)

Aziraphale had not slept well and was up and ready for the steward’s knock at six o’clock. The man let Aziraphale know that he had thirty minutes to dress, pack, and make his next connection, which would take him to the docks.

The ferry ride itself was short and uneventful, punctuated by the stunning green of wildlands and tans of half-ruined castle towers draped in dark ivy. The dramatic landscape matched his mood perfectly. After all, this was a dramatic circumstance in which he found himself. 

Upon disembarking the ferry, Aziraphale was greeted by the driver that Baroness Shax had arranged for him. The driver would take him to the jetty at Port Aran where he was to be met by Shax’s boat, which would carry him on the last leg of his journey to Tadfield Isle. As they left Tobermory behind, the road narrowed and the landscape became wilder. Blooming yellow gorse, sage highland grasses, and thorny purple thistles grew closer to the road with each mile, marking their increasing distance from the small city.

Upon reaching the jetty at Port Aran, Aziraphale quickly exited the car. His mood was as unsettled as the wild landscape around him. Gathering his baggage, he made his way down the cement path to the boat landing. A tall man at the dock shouted something unintelligible, likely urging him to hurry as he realised he was delaying the boat.

Aziraphale waved and quickened his pace, though the port was quite foggy and he could only make out outlines of figures on the quay. The fog gave a pervasive grey look to the day. Although Aziraphale, who lived in London, was quite used to fog, he had never seen such a dense mist. Its tendrils crept up the hill as he headed down toward the water. The fog parted as he set foot on the jetty, revealing a flame-haired man with a contagious grin.

“No crossing today,” the man said in a rueful tone. Aziraphale studied his sharp-angled features for a moment, unexpectedly fascinated. Emerging from the mist in this wild highland landscape, the man looked like something out of a fairy story.

“Erm…What?” 

“I was shouting for you to hold your car. The ferry won’t be crossing today. It’s much too foggy.” The man, tall and lean with striking auburn hair, had a half-smile on his face. Aziraphale blinked, finally registering his words. 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter if the ferry crosses or not. A boat from Tadfield Isle is being sent for me.” Aziraphale spoke firmly.

“Not today it isn’t,” came a grating voice from behind him. “I’m Furfur, the boatman in these parts, and I can tell ye that nae boats will be running today. There is tae much fog.”

“Oh, they must!” Aziraphale’s voice sounded overly fervent, “I am meant to be going to Tadfield Isle. I must be there by tomorrow!”

“Ye’ll nae be going to Tadfield, as there’ll be nae boat today,” the boatman said, packing his gear. “Maybe the fog will blow off by tomorrow,” he allowed.

Aziraphale looked concerned. He must get to Tadfield Isle today. For he was to be married tomorrow. 

The tall stranger touched his arm. “I’m heading up to the house,” he said, gesturing toward a large manor house perched on a nearby hill. “I know the people–they’re my good friends. You’re welcome to wait there until the fog clears,” His voice was low, deep and soothing. His tweed suit was trim and well-fitted. Aziraphale, ever one to appreciate aesthetic beauty, noted the man’s classical looks, but quickly recovered his sense of purpose.

“Thank you. No. Only, it’s been arranged for the boat to meet me here and I’d better be here to meet it,” he replied, determined. 

The stranger nodded, turning slowly away, as if reluctant to leave Aziraphale alone in the dark mist. Aziraphale, for his part, turned resolutely toward the water. His thumb absently rubbed the spot on his coat where the stranger had touched him, the warmth momentarily easing his anxious thoughts. 

“Right. Well, it’s the big house up the slope if you change your mind,” the man called back as he walked away.

Aziraphale said nothing, staring out toward where he imagined Tadfield Isle to be, still watching for Shax’s boat.

“If my boat doesn’t come,” he called to the departing boatman, “will you take me?”

“Nae, sir, I will not.” With that Furfur nodded, gathered his oars, and headed quickly up the jetty.

Aziraphale sighed and sat himself down on one of his suitcases. He impatiently pulled the itinerary from his jacket pocket, eager to be on his way. But as he unfolded the paper, a sudden gust of wind snatched it from his hand, carrying it into the dark waters below. 

“Oh bother!” 

This was not, he told himself firmly, any kind of omen. Still, as the afternoon darkened further, it seemed less and less likely that a boat from Tadfield Isle would arrive today. Eventually, with a sigh, he gathered his suitcases and began the walk up toward the house the handsome stranger had mentioned. He shook his head, irritated at his own use of the word handsome , and with determined steps he approached the manor, which looked as if it had seen better days.

A rather scattered looking older man opened the door to Aziraphale’s firm knock.

“Hello,” Aziraphale began politely, “I was told that I could wait here for the boat to Tadfield Isle.”

“Ye’ll be waitin’ a long time w’this fog!” the man replied brusquely, motioning for Aziraphale to follow him into a blessedly warm sitting room. The room, much like the man himself, had a shabby charm. Aziraphale gratefully stepped inside, moving toward the fireplace to warm himself. 

He noticed the man from the dock seated on a lumpy tweed sofa and introduced himself politely. 

“I’m Aziraphale Fell,” he said, extending his hand.

“Anthony Crowley, but just Crowley will do” the man replied, shaking his hand before gesturing to the older man, “And this is Sergeant Shadwell.”

Aziraphale shook hands with the sergeant, who scrutinised him with narrowed eyes.

“Are yeh a witch?” Shadwell asked abruptly.

“Erm…no,” Aziraphale replied, taken aback.

“How menny nipples do yeh have?!” the sergeant challenged.

“Just the two,” Aziraphale answered, bemused. He glanced at Crowley who gave a small shrug as he quietly lit a pipe.

“All-right then.” The sergeant nodded, apparently satisfied, and shuffled out of the room, heading to what appeared to be the kitchen.

Crowley leaned back on the sofa, eyes resting on Aziraphale. “Are you having a holiday on Tadfield?” 

“No. I am to be married on the island tomorrow,” Aziraphale replied, settling into a soft corduroy chair snuggled up close to the hearth. “I was rather hoping to arrive today.” 

A flicker of something—disappointment?---crossed Crowley’s eyes, but he continued smoothly. “Married? Congratulations and a thousand blessings to you both. Is it the Baroness herself that you’ll be marrying?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes. Do you know the island?”

“Uh-huh.” Crowley nodded, “Born and raised there. It’s the best place on this earth.”

“Yes, I have heard it is,” Aziraphale replied, though without much conviction.

“I have an eight day holiday and I intend to spend every one of them there—fishing, hiking, stargazing.”

“Hmmm…” Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to respond; none of these activities held much appeal for him. But he noted the way Crowley’s features softened as he spoke, a look of longing on his face as he glanced at a wall map of Tadfield Isle. 

“I can see it means a great deal to you,” Aziraphale said.

“It’s home. Best place in the world.” Crowley smiled, “but I repeat myself.”

Just then, Sergeant Shadwell returned to ask if they’d like some tea. Both men gladly accepted. The sergeant muttered something about witches as he retreated back to the kitchen.

“He’s rather odd, isn’t he?” Aziraphale observed mildly.

“Who isn't?” Crowley countered, with a shrug.

I’m not , Aziraphale thought with a quiet sigh. He rarely allowed himself an unusual thought, let alone an action. He quite liked how accepting Crowley seemed of his friend’s eccentricities. In contrast, his father’s words of scorn and disapproval still lingered in Aziraphale’s mind, even after all these years. It frustrated him no end that he still felt bound by the expectations of the Eastgates, even though they had not been a part of his life these ten years.

Suddenly, the quiet conversation was interrupted by a whirlwind of excitement as a young, dark-haired woman burst into the room.

“Crowley!” she cried, arms outstretched for an embrace.

“Anathema!” He mirrored her energy, standing to meet her. The two embraced warmly, smiles on their faces.

“What are you doing here, lad?”

“I have an eight day holiday,” he replied, “and I’m spending as much of it as I can on Tadfield.”

“Ah, so the fog’s stopped you? Furfur wouldn’t take you across?”

“Yep,” Crowley nodded, making a rueful face. “Anathema, this is Mr. Fell,” he gestured to Aziraphale. “A fellow traveller. Mr. Fell, this is Mrs. Pulsifer.”

“Aziraphale,” he said, shaking hands with Mrs. Pulsifer.

“Anathema, please! And I hope you’re both planning to stay while you wait! Guests don’t even have to worry about sleeping on the floor!” she teased with a grin nudging Crowley.

***

Anathema led Aziraphale up several flights of spiral stone stairs that were as biting and draughty as the winds outside. The cold air sent a chill down his spine as they climbed. At the fourth landing, she pushed open a heavy wooden door, and the scent of aged wood and herbs greeted them, as if the room itself were steeped in history. The beamed bedroom was snug and warm, a perfect refuge from the chill, with a fire crackling faintly in the corner. 

“Rest for a while, if you like.” She gently touched his arm, “I’ll have Crowley come and get you for dinner.” He smiled his thanks. 

Aziraphale sat on the soft flowered counterpane and looked around the room. It had two beautiful windows, through which, at the moment, he could see nothing but a thick veil of fog rolling against the glass, obscuring any sign of the world beyond. There was a writing desk, a wardrobe, and the magical beams that met at the centre of the ceiling capped off by the face of a pagan god. The carved god had his tongue stuck out at Aziraphale, as if it were mocking the foolishness of human actions. 

Aziraphale absently stroked the bit of sleeve that Crowley had touched earlier. His touch had been strangely soothing, a quiet anchor in the storm of Aziraphale’s thoughts. The warmth it left on his sleeve unsettled him, as if reminding him of something he couldn’t yet put into words. The calm brought with it an unsettling doubt—this was no ordinary decision he faced, and Crowley’s presence seemed somehow to create uncertainty. He lay back for a while trying not to think. He had hardly slept on the train. His dreams had been disturbing and surreal. He needed some rest. With that thought he fell into a shallow, uneasy sleep. 

He was awakened by a soft knock on the door and, then, it quietly opened. 

“I thought you might have conked out,” Crowley’s voice came in a low, teasing murmur. It had a way of both settling Aziraphale’s nerves and pricking them at the same time. “You don’t want to miss dinner. Anathema’s a great cook.”

Aziraphale smiled and rose to wash his face and hands in preparation for dinner.

***

Aziraphale sat down with his hostess and fellow guests. Anathema’s husband, Newt, was currently working in Edinburgh; their son was away at school. The sergeant, now retired, had come to fish with Crowley. Crowley was on holiday from some sort of hush-hush home office position. He was there for eight days, coincidentally the same amount of time that Aziraphale would be visiting the island. 

Dinner turned out to be a simple, hearty rabbit stew. The stew’s scent rose up, earthy and robust, the wild garlic mingling with the savoury aroma of tender rabbit. The steam curled from the potatoes, warming his face as he took in the comforting meal before him—a far cry from the luxurious, polished dinners to which he was accustomed. Yet here, there was something more real, more grounding. It looked mouth-wateringly good for such a homely meal. Aziraphale was struck both by its plainness and its warm, nourishing goodness. What a contrast to his elegant caviar and cream laden meals with Shax, and yet, the spare plainness of the room and the camaraderie of the chatty company made the simple meal a most pleasant one. 

“You said you and the Baroness Daemon are getting married on Tadfield Isle?” asked Crowley. 

“Do you know her?” said Aziraphale. 

“I’ve never met her. Is she nice?”

“She’s… well, she’s very important.” Aziraphale hesitated, his fork hovering in mid-air. The word was heavy in his mouth, as though it didn’t quite capture the truth. He forced a smile, hoping no one noticed how much thought had gone into the simple statement.

Crowley’s only reply to that was a half-smile and a tilt of his head. 

“It’s super romantic, your coming all the way up here from London to be married in the Highlands. You must be so in love,” Anathema observed.

Aziraphale gave a half-smile of his own. Dissembling was getting to be a habit with him, and not a terribly good one. He hoped that there would be no further questions on the topic of Shax. Then, Sergeant Shadwell came to his rescue.

“Are ye looking forward to the fishing on Tadfield?” the sergeant inquired of Crowley.

“Weeelll, yes…but mostly as an excuse to catch up on my reading.”

“Oh…oh. Are you much of a reader, Mr. Crowley?” Aziraphale asked between bites. Was it possible that Crowley was also interested in books?

“I do love a good read. Something spooky on a cold night. Big fan of spooky, me.”

“What do you like for a spooky read?” Maybe Aziraphale could recommend something or get a recommendation. Maybe they had novels they liked in common?

“Let’s see… The Picture of Dorian Gray is a favourite.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up, the gloom from earlier lifting for a moment. “That’s a particular favourite of mine as well! Every time I read it, I find myself wishing for some other fate for Dorian.” His excitement was palpable now, the familiar comfort of talking about literature softening the edges of his inner turmoil.

Crowley leaned back, swirling the wine in his glass thoughtfully. “Dorian’s downfall was inevitable. Hedonism and shallow values is a deadly combination.” 

The dark cloud returned to Aziraphale’s features. Shallow values . He knew that. He knew that Dorian Gray was too interested in the ostentatious and superficial side of life. That had brought about his tragic end. Aziraphale realised, with a sinking feeling, that his own values were just as shallow as Dorian’s.

Aziraphale’s smile faltered, his stomach knotting with sudden unease. “I… must excuse myself,” he said, rising hastily from his seat. “Tomorrow’s a big day, after all. Beauty sleep and all that.” His tone was light, but there was a crack in his voice, a hint of something unsaid, as if the weight of the impending ceremony had begun to weigh upon his very spirit.

Anathema’s voice came to him softly as he reached the door, her tone almost playful but with a trace of something else—earnestness, perhaps. “Before you turn in, count the beams on the ceiling and make a wish. They say the first night in a new room holds a certain magic.” Her eyes flickered with a knowing smile, as though she believed in the superstition more than she let on, “It only works the first night that you sleep in a room.”

Aziraphale paused for a moment, caught off guard by her sincerity. He managed a small smile, but as he closed the door behind him, her words lingered, and he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps… just maybe… there was something to that old superstition.

***

As Aziraphale closed the dining room door he heard Anathema say quietly, “I recognize that look on your face. I saw it in the mirror when I first met Newt. It wouldn’t be wise for you to fall for a married man… and one who is to be newly wed, no less.” Anathema’s voice held a teasing edge, though there was a seriousness behind her words.

“What a thing to say, Ana! Still ‘f I’m being honest,” Crowley added with a smile in his voice, “He is a rather beautiful man. And he has such an easy charm—it’s hard not to like him.” 

Aziraphale silently closed the door the rest of the way, feeling a curious blend of confusion and a quiet sense of flattery. If he was being truthful with himself, it was Crowley who was truly striking. Tall and lean, with sharp, angular features and deep auburn hair that caught the light in the most distracting way. He had a tattoo of a snake on his face! A bold marking that seemed perfectly at home against his pale skin. It was startling, yes; but undeniably captivating. At dinner, Crowley had told him about serving in the navy during the war, and getting that tattoo in some obscure port where only the boldest sailors dared. The story was thrilling and mysterious—just like Crowley himself. That he had spent an absurd amount of time pondering Crowley’s tattoo was merely out of curiosity, of course—nothing more. It wasn’t that the snake was intriguing in its artistry, nor that it highlighted Crowley’s already sharp features in a… fascinating way. Aziraphale told himself it was simply the story behind it that held his interest—the how and why of Crowley’s decision to get such a tattoo on his (admittedly striking) face. Yes, that was all.

With a deep sigh, he got into his pyjamas and lay down. Looking up he counted the beams.

“One, two, three, four, five. I wish…” for a fleeting moment, Crowley's handsome features and his disarmingly casual charm slipped uninvited into Aziraphale’s thoughts. What on earth? Aziraphale shook his head. 

“I wish for a wind to blow the fog away,” he whispered, willing the strange thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to focus on something more sensible, more practical. Exhausted by the weight of the day, he turned off the light, pulled the blankets tightly around himself, and slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

Aziraphale surfaced from sleep in slow, hazy increments, first he noticed the warmth of the unfamiliar bedding, then the rustic beams above him—a sharp reminder that he wasn’t in his own room. The memories trickled back, starting with the long, winding train ride to the far north of Scotland, and the, now somewhat unsettling, truth behind it all—he was here to be married. He remembered the thick fog which had rolled in, effectively preventing him from marrying today, as planned. The soft voices from the previous night’s overheard conversation echoed in his mind, bringing with them an odd mix of confusion and something more elusive that he couldn’t quite name. Once his mind had finished piecing together the fragments of yesterday’s events, Aziraphale felt the tug of reality and resolved to rise from bed. When he finally stood and peered out the window, he was greeted by a perfect, cloudless blue sky. The fog, it seemed, had been completely blown away by a strong easterly wind.

“Seems like you wished a little too hard last night,” Crowley quipped as he leaned back in his chair at breakfast, a grin tugging at his lips. "We're not going anywhere today—now there’s a gale warning.”

“Not leaving today? Is there any way that I can contact the island?” Aziraphale asked.

“We can catch the bus to Tobermory and hit the Telephone & Telegraph Office. Shouldn’t be too much trouble.” Crowley drained the remainder of his coffee in one swift motion. He stood, already reaching for his jacket to make ready for their trek across the island.

The two men made their way up and down the hills in easy companionship, heading toward the bus stop. Their conversation flowed effortlessly. The clear morning sunshine mingled with the scent of briny sea, cast a hushed, almost sacred quality over their walk, as though it were just the two of them to the ends of the earth. 

“I grew up fishing on the streams here and on Tadfield,” Crowley was saying. “The salmon are so plentiful you can catch your day's meal in half an hour. The air is fresh and clean, as you can see for yourself.” Aziraphale listened closely, observing the way Crowley’s expression brightened with joy as he spoke about the island where he had grown up, recounting tales of his boyhood.

“And here you are wasting your holiday not on Tadfield Isle.”

“I hope to make it there for a few days at least. Doesn’t take much to keep me happy, really.”

“Happy?” Aziraphale mused.

“That is the goal of life, after all. Isn’t it?”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale thought about that. Happiness had never seemed a worthy goal to him. Advancement was a goal. Success was a goal. Comfort was certainly a goal. Happiness? It had never occurred to him. It was not for someone like him. He might have a sort of contentment, perhaps.

“Weeeeell, you must be happy to be marrying tomorrow.”

“Are you married, Crowley?” Aziraphale questioned. 

“No.” Crowley looked at him gravely for a few seconds. “I am not so inclined.”

Aziraphale pondered his words, turning them over carefully in his mind.

“Isn’t that…” he began, but stopped, not wanting to pry.

“Lonely?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Sometimes, but better to be alone,” Crowley said quietly, “than to live in a way that isn't true to yourself.”

Aziraphale paused, meeting Crowley’s caramel brown eyes, and for a moment, something shifted within him—a loosening, a softening he hadn’t expected. It was as if his heart had expanded in his chest. He could not breathe properly. He continued walking down the hill. 

“That’s…that’s rather wise. An interesting take on ‘to be or not to be,’” he mused.

“Prob’ly not quite what the Bard had in mind,” Crowley chuckled, and Aziraphale found himself laughing too, feeling lighter than he had in a long time.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked as they passed a lone castle tower halfway up a hillside, overgrown with ivy and climbing red roses.

“That’s old Moy Castle. Been in ruins for centuries now. They say there’s a curse for any laird of Tadfield who dares to enter.”

“Cursed?! That sounds exciting! Shall we peek in?” Aziraphale smiled eagerly and began to head toward the small wooden door at the foot of the tower.

“Not me, but you go ahead.” He smiled. “I’ll wait.”

“Why not? Are you afraid? I’m not afraid even though I shall soon be laird of Tadfield Isle.”

“Weeelll. Not exactly. I mean. About that. Perhaps I should introduce myself properly. I am Anthony J. Crowley,” he said, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. “I am the laird of Tadfield Isle. Baroness Daemon has leased it from me.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured, feeling a tad deflated. The island was not Shax’s island, after all, merely a place that she had rented for a holiday. “I see.”

“I mean, it is hers for the duration of the lease,” Crowley assured him. “So practically the same thing as her owning it. I haven’t been home properly in years anyway. Not since the war. My work with the navy and then the home office has kept me in the south. Hell only knows that I need money for Tadfield’s upkeep. Renting out Tadfield, allows me to save money so I can someday live on it again.” 

“And Shax has been renting your place since the war?” 

Crowley nodded. “There were lots of wealthy families from London who were all too happy to escape the blitz and enjoy playing country squire in the Highlands. She’s one of the ones who liked it well enough to stay. At least during the summers. I wouldn’t be living there now anyway; no sense in the house sitting empty when it can help pay for itself.”

Aziraphale nodded uncertainly. It couldn’t be easy for Crowley, renting out his ancestral home, a place that he loved so deeply. As he thought, he looked down the road and saw a light bus slowly heading up the hill.

“Ah, here’s our bus,” Crowley said, raising his arm to signal the driver. They ran to get in.

Chapter Seven

A Gentleman’s Dilemma

The autobus was small and dark, seating perhaps twenty people, though today it carried only ten or so, mostly men with their fishing tackle. One of them greeted Crowley effusively.

“Ye’re Tadfield himself, aren’t ye?” the man said, a question that was more a statement.

“Yes,” Crowley grinned. “Yes, I am.”

“Ah,” the man smiled in return. “My wife’s from the island. I’m John McIntosh,” he said, extending his hand. Crowley shook it. Aziraphale marvelled at how effortlessly Crowley put everyone at ease, his warmth evident in every gesture. 

“Your wife must be Katie Sothern?” he said, after a moment’s thought.

“Yes, yes! You have a great memory, Tadfield!” The man’s eyes twinkled, clearly delighted that the Laird remembered his wife.

Crowley's smile became wider. “How is everyone on Tadfield?”

“Fine. Fine! They’re all fine!” John assured cheerily.

“I’m hoping to get there myself during my holiday. As soon as this gale dies down.”

John nodded sympathetically and then leaned over to impart interesting island gossip. 

“My brother-in-law just made a tidy sum by building a swimming pond for the rich woman who lets Tadfield house.”

“Yes, yes,” answered another of the fishermen, “She wants to swim in an artificial pond, with the entire ocean to be swimming in. I hear she also buys her salmon from the mainland! And here we are fishing the best salmon in the world!”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale with a knowing smile. “Weeeeelll, those who ship fish also deserve to make a living, eh.” 

Aziraphale looked ahead resolutely. 

“Yes, yes!” The men all laughed in agreement.

A very elderly man carefully leaned over to ask in a quiet voice, “Is there a handsome man in your life these days, lad?” 

Crowley looked at him and answered softly, “No. No, it’s just me.”

“Ah well. Someday, laddie. Wi’all that ye’ve done for the people of these islands ye deserve a bit’o’happiness yerself.” He touched Crowley’s hand and Crowley held it gently in his for a moment.

Crowley caught Aziraphale’s gaze, his smile softening as their eyes lingered for a moment longer than usual. Aziraphale was surprised by how casually Crowley and others mentioned his preference for “handsome men.” Aziraphale had grown up with the idea that such things were to be kept hidden deep inside the family closets. He wondered how Crowley had found such peace with himself. 

The fishermen all filed off the bus at the next loch with boisterous good-bye’s and good wishes to Crowley. After they left, the bus was quiet without their banter.

Finally, Aziraphale broke the silence. “What’s wrong with wanting to purchase one’s salmon from a purveyor known to oneself?” he said, archly.

“Nothing at all, Angel,” Crowley replied with a small smirk on his face.

“Angel, huh?”

“You arrived at the jetty yesterday, wearing a white suit and with your golden hair the only bright thing to be seen in the grey fog. The boatman said you looked like an angel coming down to give us a message. The image stuck with me. It just slipped out. But, I’ll stop if it offends you.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m not offended.” If you only knew how terribly not angelic I am, he thought. “While we’re on the subject, what’s wrong with wanting to swim in a warm pool rather than the icy ocean?”

“Nothing at all.” Another half-smile.

“Do you always discuss your…your…your…’preferences’ so openly? In public?” Aziraphale could barely look up when asking this question.

“The people of the Highlands, and particularly the people of Tadfield, are my people, Angel. They know me and have known me since I was a babe in arms. There is no hiding from those who know you. Those who are your friends and love you. This is home, Angel, where I am always most my true self.”

Home, Aziraphale thought, where one is always most one’s true self. A small part of him was beginning to think that he wanted such a life for himself. Would he have that? With Shax?

They rode the rest of the way to Tobermory in a thoughtful silence, the rhythm of the bus and the weight of their unspoken thoughts keeping them company.

***

Once they arrived in Tobermory, Aziraphale took in his surroundings. The high street had a village store, a tearoom, and The Telephone & Telegraph Office. The Office had intricate Victorian filigree ironwork and dark green walls, the building seemingly lost in time. It seemed rooted in the early 1900s, rather than in the atomic era of the 1950s. They placed their calls to Tadfield Isle. 

Aziraphale was finally able to speak with Baroness Shax. He realised he had not drawn a truly deep breath in days, the pressure of missed connections, unending mishaps and the looming wedding tightening his chest. 

“Well,” he began, taking another shallow breath, “it would seem as though the weather itself is against us.”

“So, it would,” Shax’s voice rang out, loud and full of bluster, easy to overhear. “Never mind, my pet. It’ll blow over soon enough! Listen, Aziraphale, have you got a pencil? Write down this telephone number. Are you ready? Two, three, six. Two thirty-six. You got it? It’s Jim and Bee Diavangelo’s number. They’ve rented the Castle at Sorne. Jim has done a lot of work for me one way or another. He’s one of the best. So’s his wife. Ring them up. They’ll be glad to put you up. They’re the only people worth knowing around here. I’ll send someone to fetch you as soon as the gale blows out.”

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eye and was embarrassed by the thoughtless words. He almost spoke sharply to let Shax know that he thought quite differently, but Crowley just laughed and gave a small half-shrug as if to say what can you do? 

“I’ve got the number and I’ll phone them. But,” Aziraphale began tentatively, “I would actually rather...that is, if you don’t mind...stay at the manor house with Anathema Pulsifer. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Do just as you like, my dear,” Shax effused. Laughter, like a party in full swing, burst through the phone. “I have plenty of company to entertain myself with until you arrive…if you know what I mean,” she said with an unexplained laugh.

“Yes, of course. I’ll see you soon. Please don’t hang up the phone as Crowley has business with his steward, who is waiting there at the Telephone & Telegraph Office on the island.”

Aziraphale handed the phone’s handset to Crowley and stepped away to allow for privacy. In all the excitement of the exotic travel and the pretty ring, he had forgotten just how indifferent Shax could be, her sharp edges masked by charm and laughter. He had to remind himself that marrying Baroness Shax would elevate him to a lifestyle to which he had hitherto only aspired. He would have respect and position. He had worked his way from a penniless clerk into a successful manager, always chasing a future where he could command respect. He had worked hard at his job and learned the running of a bookshop. Never stopped for fun. Never stopped for love. He was now about to marry into the upper class and, once he did, he would command respect. Yet, the more he approached that future, the more he wondered if it was what he truly wanted. Would he have time to stop? To rest? To read? To feel at peace and at home? Aziraphale looked at Crowley, wearing his clan's kilt, lightheartedly laughing at something his steward said. Crowley was poor, yet he brimmed with a vibrant joy that seemed to fill the room, his red hair glowing like embers in the sunlight. Crowley was lovely; all angles and lines and energy. Crowley was kind to everyone, Aziraphale thought. He gave people his time and his undivided attention, whether they were an old friend, a group of fishermen from the isles, or an outsider like Aziraphale. Crowley was so authentically himself, even the parts of himself which were downright against the law. Yet he was accepted and respected by everyone he met. Aziraphale blinked, realising he’d been staring at Crowley far longer than he intended and, indeed, that Crowley was looking back at him, a puzzled smile on his face. He looked as if he were debating something quite serious with himself. 

Crowley seemed to consider before breaking the silence. “Can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?” he asked, gesturing to the tea house.

Aziraphale hesitated, his heart pulling him in one direction, his practicality in another. “No. Absolutely not. I am to be married tomorrow. You must see that I cannot let myself be seen with a man of your…well your…your…” he gestured vaguely with both hands encompassing Crowley himself.

Crowley’s smile thinned. “My... reduced circumstances? My…Savoir faire? My… exceptionally good looks?” There was a bit of bite in Crowley’s comment. “That’s fine, Angel. You certainly are the most proper of bridegrooms.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale watched as Crowley strode away, his kilt swaying in time with his steps, exuding a charm that seemed both distant and dangerously close. Crowley stopped to chat with the young woman who seated him in the tea room and then the elderly woman who came by his table. 

Only once he saw that Crowley was seated, did Aziraphale enter the restaurant. It was the only one in town and he had not eaten breakfast. He primly requested a table for one. He had a perfect view of Crowley’s back. The other man had invited the elderly woman to sit at his table. They were ordering their meals, and they were close enough for Aziraphale to overhear her words.

“Ah my dear Laird, it does my heart good to see you hale and hearty, lad!”

“‘Tis good to be back! Tell me, how is himself? And your Catriona?” He sprawled comfortably over his chair and the one next to him; his arms draped over the table itself. Crowley settled in, ready to listen and give his full attention to the woman before him. 

For a moment, Aziraphale imagined himself at their table, as Crowley's young man, proudly introduced to the elderly woman as his companion. She would pat Aziraphale’s arm and say he was quite a catch. They would laugh, eat, and talk. Crowley would surreptitiously move his foot so that it was beside Aziraphale’s and the sides of their feet, perhaps even their calves would touch. Aziraphale once again collected his unruly thoughts. He could not understand why his mind was wandering to such places. He was to be married tomorrow. He reminded himself again that he had never before experienced any sort of physical or romantic attraction. Because of that it didn’t matter who he married and he planned to marry someone who would help him to have a better life. A wealthy life. A life filled with the things he wanted. That would make him happy. Even if, for the first time in his life, he did feel an odd attraction to this tall, handsome, Scottish laird, what kind of life could they possibly have together? His mind wandered down that path. There could be swims in the icy loch with much yelling and laughter. Crowley could teach him to fish for salmon. They would take long walks on the steep braes and spend cosy nights by the fireside reading books aloud and discussing them. Oh, for heaven’s sake! He stood up quickly leaving his food untouched and his money on the table and left the restaurant. 

He would head up to meet Shax’s friends, the Diavangelos. He would be with the sorts of people that were “worth knowing.” Soon, he too, would be “worth knowing.”

Chapter Eight

Never Noticed Anyone Until…

The butler of the Castle at Sorne ushered Aziraphale into the vast foyer and took his name. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Diavangelo will be down shortly. Please make yourself comfortable,” the butler said, bowing and withdrawing from the room.

Aziraphale circled the room noting the thick tapestries on stone walls, crystal chandeliers gleaming from the ceiling, and the long wooden table set with silver candelabra. He climbed a short set of steps to an intramural stone window seat and sat, admiring the luxury of the room. There was a huge inglenook fireplace with a roaring fire, giving the room a substantial, cosy feel. This was the sort of enduring, timeless house he wanted to call his own. This castle had stood here for hundreds of years and would be here for hundreds more. He longed for the rich tapestries, the bookcases filled with linen and leather volumes going back centuries, the heavy carved mahogany furniture. This, he reminded himself, was the reason he was marrying Shax. This grand house, this weighty furniture, these sparkling adornments that felt solid and secure.

“My goodness,” a loud American voice interrupted his reverie, “Shax said she’d caught herself a handsome one! And she wasn’t kidding!” A gentleman, good looking in a charmingly brash American way, came to introduce himself, hand extended. “I’m Jim. You must be Aziraphale. No wonder Shax has been keeping you to herself. You’re quite angelic…if a little soft. Know what I mean?” Jim winked, nudging Aziraphale’s stomach with a gentle fist.

“Darling,” came a softer voice, “We are to be at Lady Dagon’s in just a few minutes. Whatever are you up to now?” Mrs. Diavangelo was petite, dark, and beautiful in a somewhat spooky way. After they were properly introduced, Jim informed him that they were headed to visit with Lady Dagon and that he was welcome to join them. Aziraphale agreed with a smile. Anything was better than waiting around for the ferryboat with too much time for thinking about…just, for thinking.

“In all honesty, though, I don’t play bridge,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Oh, that’s too bad!” Jim exclaimed, “Come anyway! It’ll be fun!”

Aziraphale agreed and after they had piled into the Diavangelos’ Bentley, Bee turned and addressed Aziraphale.

“Marrying the Baroness Shax? You must be so in love. Are you wild about her?”

“Erm…”

“Mind you,” Bee went on without waiting for Aziraphale’s answer. “I know next to nothing about love. I was never really attracted in any way to anyone ever.” Aziraphale suddenly was keenly listening to Bee. What she had to say seemed quite important to him, as he had also never been attracted to anyone ever, until he met…

“Well, until I met my sweet angel boy,” Bee turned starry eyes toward Jim. Jim turned to smile at her, disconcertingly taking his eyes off the rutted dirt road. Aziraphale glanced up the narrow road ahead. The sun had set and shadows played across the gorse and grasses.

“Is that really so?” Aziraphale asked with a tone of interest in his voice. Bee and Jim were so deeply in love. They truly had eyes only for each other. It was interesting that Bee’s pet name for Jim was “angel,” as this was what Crowley called him more often than not. Aziraphale and Shax had no pet names for each other…just a standard and very polite “my dear.”

“Oh yeah! It’s absolutely all true!” Jim said over his shoulder toward the back seat. “It was exactly the same for me. Never even noticed anyone until this little demon looked at me with those big brown eyes. I fell hard and fast! I knew instantly that my only chance at happiness in this life was with Bee.” They exchanged adoring glances for long enough that Aziraphale’s unease grew as Jim’s eyes lingered on Bee’s and not on the road.

“And, I knew that I could not be happy with anyone but my sweet angel,” Bee said, with another soulful glance at Jim.

Aziraphale absently returned Bee’s smile. He, also, had never seen a woman who interested him, neither romantically nor sexually. For that matter, he’d never felt that way about a man either. Until…Crowley. Aziraphale sighed. Crowley was different to anyone Aziraphale had ever met. So light in heart. So uncompromisingly genuine. So handsome in a kilt. And, that , right there, was the issue; when had he ever thought about someone’s looks? Or the timbre of their voice? The crinkles at the edge of his eyes when he smiled? It seemed that was all he could think about now!

“We’re here!” Jim announced, “Let’s get a move on! Cards won’t play themselves!”

***

Lady Dagon Pulsifer welcomed them to Achnacroich, her ancestral home. 

“Come in, come in. Tea is being brought to the sitting room and I’m eager to get started with our game of bridge.” 

Jim made the introductions. As Aziraphale sat to chat with Lady Dagon, he noticed a tall swaying figure in a kilt entering the room, bearing a large tea tray. 

“Here we all are,” Crowley said, setting the tea service down and smiling warmly at everyone in the room. “Ah, Aziraphale, I see you’ve found your friends!”

“And yours as well, so it would seem.”

“Oh, yes! Dagon and I go way back! It’s her son that’s married to Anathema. The two of us grew up together.” He gave Dagon’s shoulders a squeeze. She touched his cheek lightly, then began counting up the number of people and preparing the teapot.

“It does my heart good to see you, dear boy. We have missed you in these parts,” she sighed.

“It’s difficult to get work around here,” Crowley explained to Aziraphale. “These grand houses take so much upkeep and we just haven’t the money. Rather than let them go to ruin, some of us rent them out and take work far away. Don’t worry, Dagon, I had a letter from Newt saying that he would be home this Christmas!” He gave her another gentle squeeze before assisting with the pouring of the tea. 

“I’ll be mother.” He indicated the teapot with a nod and a wink.

“Will you be joining us for bridge, dear lad?” Dagon asked.

“I don’t play bridge,” Crowley said with a shrug.

“What about you, Baron Daemon?”

“He’s not Baron Daemon yet,” Crowley pointed out softly.

“Oh, yes, of course. But will you?” Lady Dagon pressed.

“I’m afraid that I don’t play either,” Aziraphale admitted. 

“With just three of us perhaps we’ll play hearts, instead,” she mused.

“I came here to visit with Dagon’s gardener,” Crowley explained. “When I was a boy he taught me everything I know about plants. He and his wife are having a ceilidh for their anniversary. You can join me on my visit, Angel. Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald have been married seventy-five years!” 

“I would not wish to intrude on their…ceilidh, is it?” Aziraphale said.

“You would not be intruding, I assure you. A ceilidh is a gathering for dancing, storytelling, and getting to know people. You would be welcome!”

“Oh yes,” Lady Dagon interjected, “the more the merrier. I will stop by later in the evening to give my good wishes.”

“What do you say?” Crowley asked as the other three began their card game. 

Aziraphale nodded with a small smile. 

“After you,” he signalled with a bow.

Chapter Nine

The Ceilidh

As soon as they stepped outside, they heard the pipers playing in the distance, at the Ceilidh, a half mile or so up the lane from Achnacroich. 

“The beauty of this country makes me want to write again,” Aziraphale murmured, gazing at the hazy green hills, fingers of fog rising off the clear loch, and the brilliant blue sky darkening in the gloaming.

“Write what?”

“Poetry. Short prose. Travelogues. Simply playing with language to capture the beauty of all this. The trees and the loch and the sea and the castles.”

“Are you a writer?”

“I am not,” Aziraphale admitted, “but I have always wanted to express myself in that way, other than in my personal journals.”

“You should do it,” Crowley encouraged. “It sounds like a passion of yours.”

“I cannot possibly make a living at it,” Aziraphale said, his voice filled with practicality.

“Money isn’t everything,” Crowley replied quietly, drawing into himself. For a moment, Aziraphale sensed that he might say more on the subject, but instead, Crowley took his elbow and guided him down the darkening lane. “In any case, once you’re married to the baroness, you’ll have the time to write all you want.”

“Hmm…” Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hand on his arm through the layers of his clothing. Yes, Aziraphale thought, I want to walk down this dark country lane with you, feeling your skin against mine. This new feeling twisted him in knots. He had never experienced desires like these before. He was about to attain everything he had ever wanted for his entire life; comfort, a house, significance…it was almost as though the universe itself was recalcitrantly keeping him from making his appointed wedding date just so he could be tempted away from his purpose. 

They continued their walk to the gardener’s cottage. Yellow gorse bloomed along the lane, its colour deepening in the dusk. The emerald grass extended into a meadow of purple flowers and a softly sloping hill. The air was crisp and sharp in his lungs. A man approached them from the opposite direction.

“Is that you, Tadfield?”

“Aye, it is! George MacDonald!” Crowley extended his hand for a shake.

“Come, join our ceilidh,” George invited. “Mother and Father will be so happy to see you. Come dance! You and your gentleman friend.”

“Oh, he’s not my friend,” Aziraphale hastened to say. “We’ve only just met. We don’t know each other.”

“All the same, come dance! You’ll be welcome!” George raced back to the cottage.

Crowley and Aziraphale followed closely at his heels to offer their good wishes to the anniversary couple. The elderly pair were sitting on a dais tapping their feet and holding each other’s hands. Their faces were tanned, wrinkled and filled with joy as they gazed about the room brimming with friends and family from throughout the islands come here to celebrate them. 

Crowley gave his blessing to the anniversary couple. “Length of good life to you, Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald.”

“Congratulations to you both,” Aziraphale said as he was introduced.

“You and your gentleman friend are always welcome at my house, Tadfield,” MacDonald said graciously. Aziraphale started to speak, but caught Crowley’s frowning headshake. Perhaps he did not need to rehearse his “we are not friends” speech with the elderly MacDonalds.

“Have a dance!” Mrs. MacDonald said. “We have pipers that had been hired for the rich woman’s wedding, but they cannot make the crossing. Their loss is our gain! Dance please!” 

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale as the small candle-lit room buzzed with dancers and lively conversations. He extended his hand to the dance floor, inviting Aziraphale to join him.

“Dance? With…with…you?”

“Yes, and we shall ask two ladies to make our foursome. After all, your intended bride paid for these pipers.” Crowley rolled his eyes teasingly. They approached a pair of middle-aged ladies who were sitting out the dance in the corner.

“Would you ladies care to join us for the Reel of Tulloch?” Crowley swept a very creditable bow and Aziraphale admired his grace and form. The ladies smiled and took the gentlemen’s proffered hands. 

“Follow my lead. Do what I do,” Crowley whispered as the two couples took their places for the square dance. 

The dance was straightforward and Aziraphale picked it up with ease. They bowed to their partners and stood, while the ladies spun about. They twirled with their partners and then it was the gentlemen's turn to spin about the centre. When Crowley’s hand touched his arm, Aziraphale felt a warmth radiate from that spot and a surge of joy filled his heart. That was a rather dramatic way to put it, but he smiled his first genuine smile in ages. His heart rose with the piped music. As they finished up the dance the ladies thanked them and gestured discreetly to a couple of their friends who had not yet been asked to dance. Aziraphale knew well that so many of the men had not returned from the war, leaving many of the ladies without partners. Crowley and Aziraphale were happy to oblige and they danced and danced through the late hours of the night, always together as part of a foursome. The wooden floor of the humble cottage bounced and bent to the stomping steps of the dancers. Aziraphale had never had a better time. He knew this was no exaggeration. Each time Crowley touched him a surge of emotion welled up inside Aziraphale leaving him breathless and trembling. Crowley smiled, so bright, and gazed at him with such love. Aziraphale stopped mid-step as he realised that it was, indeed, love that he saw in those beautiful eyes. He felt an overwhelming rush of warmth and vulnerability, as if his entire being had been laid bare. His eyes widened and a shiver ran through him. The depth of his emotions was staggering, leaving him dizzy as he grappled with the intensity of his feelings. Suddenly, he dropped Crowley’s arm and ran outside, leaving his partners on the dance floor. 

He ran through the front door, stopping at the garden gate to breathe deeply of the evening air. His mind whirled with the loveliness of the lights, the music, and the finery; with the joyful dancing and twirling. What on earth was he doing? Why did everything that had before seemed so straightforward, now seem so confusing? He had spent the evening laughing with Crowley, drinking from the same bottle of whiskey, holding each other up back-to-back on a hay bale during a rest period for the pipers. He had started to imagine a life of carefree joy in the Highlands, dancing with Crowley and gentle-voiced middle-aged ladies who appreciated them both greatly. Gentle-voiced, middle-aged ladies all of whom assumed, Aziraphale now realised with certainty, that he was Crowley’s Gentleman Friend. 

The music faded into the background, replaced by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant song of crickets in the tall grass. Aziraphale felt as though he had suddenly lost control of his own mind. These silly fantasy scenarios kept popping into his head and if he allowed this to continue he would do something that he might regret for the rest of his life. He was to marry tomorrow! All his dreams and plans since he was a boy were coming to fruition. He would finally have the security, wealth, and consequence that he had always wanted. What was he doing daydreaming about Crowley? Generous, gracious Crowley. The first person ever to have asked him to dance. And yet heading down this path would mean that he would lose everything he’d ever wanted all over a man who was a…a… deviant . His father’s word came to his mind unbidden across the years, causing a sudden bout of nausea to come upon him. 

Aziraphale, in the garden, looked in through the cottage window to watch this same man bow to the venerable Mrs. MacDonald and lead her gently onto the dance floor for a sedate waltz, flirting outrageously with her all the while. She playfully slapped his shoulder as they threw their heads back and laughed. No. Not a deviant. A dear, kind-hearted, gentle man. The past few days, since meeting Crowley, he had realised that much of what he thought he knew about himself was false. He thought that he was incapable of love. But now, he recognised that the very thing he felt was love. Love. He was In Love . He was in love . With a man. With Anthony J. Crowley, the impoverished Laird of Tadfield Isle. In love with the very laird who was, at that moment, coming out the door in search of him. Aziraphale raised his arm to make his location known.

“There you are. Needed fresh air? I brought you some water…thought maybe you’d had enough whiskey for a while,” Crowley handed Aziraphale a glass of cool water, his gaze steady but with a trace of soft worry. Aziraphale took the water with a trembling hand, drinking slow, deliberate sips as if trying to ground himself. Crowley stood closer than strictly necessary while Aziraphale drank his water. The night air was chill and the garden smelled of white blossoms that were showy even in darkness. Crowley gently took Aziraphale’s hand in his. The soft touch on his hand was warm, comforting, and exciting all at once. The evening air seemed charged with the unspoken connection between the two men.

“Anathema and her husband seem to barely be able to make ends meet,” Aziraphale noted, this thought seemingly coming from nowhere.

“A fair, but rather odd observation at the moment,” Crowley commented with a puzzled look.

“You and your friends must rent your houses out and live in reduced circumstances. This cottage itself belongs to a gardener…a servant who lives humbly and has rare times to celebrate.”

“Your point?”

“Is everyone on the islands so very poor?”

“Ah, they’re not poor, Angel,” came the soft reply, “they just don’t have any money.” With this, Crowley gave the hand he held a gentle kiss and made his way back to the house. Through the window, Aziraphale saw him ask the elderly Mr. MacDonald for a dance this time and the two of them stomped around dancing joyfully without inhibition. Aziraphale smiled softly into the darkness. What a joyous, lovely man Crowley was. The very thought of him made Aziraphale feel alive with happiness.

Chapter Ten

Moonlit Realisations

Aziraphale gazed at the house for a few minutes and then began to walk back down the lane. He was not exactly sure where he was going. He just needed to walk and think. The full moon kept him company, casting a soft glow on his thoughts. 

He had agreed to marry Shax because she could offer him so much. If he were honest with himself, it was her wealth that held the most appeal. To himself he had justified marrying in such a mercenary manner, because he believed that he would never marry for love. His decisions and his actions had been motivated by a desire for security and wealth. He knew this. But now, those things no longer seemed so important. He saw the ugliness of the truth underlying his actions; his acceptance of Shax’s proposal... perhaps even his acceptance of her invitations to the Ritz and the Ivy Room. He now realised that this, of course, was the reason behind Nina’s and Maggie’s concern for him. He suddenly felt deeply remorseful that he had planned, coldly and calculatingly, to marry for money and status. He sank onto a stump by the path, head bowed, as tears traced silent paths down his cheeks.

Now, he knew with certainty that he did feel romantic love. That he did feel... desire. His father was right. Inexplicably, this struck Aziraphale as funny. The irony of his father’s words, juxtaposed with his current situation, amused him. He laughed aloud, even as his tears lingered. 

“Angel?” came a voice a short way down the path.

“I’m here,” he called.

“Do you want to tell me why you're laughing, alone out here in the darkness?” Crowley joined him on the stump.

“My father was right about me seemingly. I do have homosexual proclivities. I’ll be damned,” he jokingly mused.

“It’s not that bad when you get used to it,” Crowley teased, but then became serious, “Is there anything I can do?”

“You? This is all your fault.” Tentatively, he reached out and laid his hand on Crowley’s. There was a stillness between them, as if the world had paused, holding its breath. Aziraphale felt the steady warmth of Crowley’s hand beneath his, grounding him.

 “Will you do something for me?” Aziraphale requested gently. Crowley nodded instantly. “Will you kiss me?” He raised his eyes. Crowley did not hesitate. He gently lifted his hands to cradle Aziraphale’s face. The quiet of the night enveloped them, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze as Crowley’s lips pressed softly against his. It started as a soft touch, then deepened into a fierce embrace as Crowley pulled Aziraphale into his arms. Aziraphale shivered at the sweet, delicate brush of Crowley’s tongue against his lower lip, parting his lips in response as warmth flooded through him. His heart thundered in his chest, overwhelming emotion spilling from his eyes in quiet tears. Reluctantly, he drew back, breathless. He raised his fingers to his lips as though to hold on to the kiss a moment longer.

“That... that was my first kiss," he whispered, his voice trembling in wonder and disbelief. Crowley pulled him close in the quiet shadows of the trees, his arms a silent promise of comfort and protection. Aziraphale knew, in that moment, that Crowley would hold him for all eternity if that’s what it took to heal the cracks in his heart. Crowley wiped away the tears from Aziraphale’s pale cheeks, his touch as tender as the affection in his gaze.

“What happens now?” Crowley’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with quiet trepidation.

Aziraphale sighed, the weight of unspoken words heavy in the air.

“I will do the right thing. Place a call to Shax and tell her that the circumstances have changed. I cannot go through with the marriage. And for us... what happens now?” Aziraphale murmured, resting his head against Crowley’s shoulder, as though the answer lay in the steady rhythm of Crowley’s heartbeat.

“Let me take you to my island. Weather permitting.”

“I would like that very much indeed.” Aziraphale smiled softly, his heart lighter than it had been in years.

They rose from the log in silent unison, their breath visible in the cold evening air. As though bound by a tacit understanding, they began walking the long distance back toward the Pulsifer’s house, near the jetty where it had all begun. Their walk stretched long into the night, boots crunching against the frosty earth. their laughter and softly spoken words weaving a tapestry of shared memories and newfound understandings.

***

“You’re a spy?!” Aziraphale exclaimed. His voice filled with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. 

“Nothing quite that romantic.” Crowley chuckled, launching into tales of his wartime adventures, each one more outrageous than the last.

***

“How did you become so comfortable just being…yourself?” Aziraphale asked in the relative darkness of the moonlight. 

“I had an uncle who was homosexual.” Crowley understood exactly what Aziraphale meant by ‘being yourself.’ “My family adored him and he doted on all of us kids. He and his ‘best friend’ brought us gifts, told us stories, and took us on fantastic outings to the highlands. With someone like that to look up to, it was easy to accept myself. As I grew older, I was embraced by this magical Highland community. I was one of their own, and therefore, cared for and supported.” 

***

As they strolled past vine-covered Moy Castle, Aziraphale glanced over and reminded Crowley of their earlier conversation.

“You never finished telling me about the curse on Moy Castle. You said that a laird of Tadfield Isle must not enter the castle—so, you don’t know what the curse says? Don’t you ever wonder?”

“I know what the curse says. My old nanny used to spin tales, and this one was a favourite—mostly to keep me out of that old ruin.“

Aziraphale raised his eyebrow in question. Crowley tucked his hands deeper into his coat pockets, the cold seeping through the fabric as he launched into the tale.

“Long ago, a Crowley of Tadfield Isle took a beautiful bride from the mainland. But her heart belonged to another—a man of the Device clan, who held Moy Castle. After a year and a day, while her husband was away ravaging the mainland, she escaped from Tadfield and took refuge in Moy Castle with her lover. One black night the laird of Tadfield came. He besieged and took the castle, killing every soul except the two lovers. In the dungeon beneath the castle, there’s a deep well, with nine feet of water. A single rounded stone sits just above the surface—barely large enough for a man to stand on and keep from drowning. Tadfield stripped the two lovers, chained them together, and threw them into the dungeon. He feasted in the great hall, laughing and mocking them as they clung to one another, struggling to stay above the water, until at last their strength gave out and they sank into the darkness. Before she died, the woman cursed the laird of Tadfield and all who would come after him, vowing that any future laird who crossed the castle's threshold would feel her curse. The curse is carved in stone on the ramparts of Moy Castle to this day. It’s a terrible, strong curse. It says, ‘This is the curse of Agnes Nutter of Erraig. I lay this curse on Crowley, laird of Tadfield Isle, and every laird after him if he ever dares to cross the threshold of Moy Castle. Never shall he know the loving touch of a woman until the end of his days and he shall die without a woman’s love.’” 

They exchanged a knowing glance before bursting into laughter, the curse meaningless to them. They paused at the edge of the path, the cold air swirling around them.

“I don’t really want to pay for imported salmon if I can catch my own. If you’d teach me how.” Aziraphale hearkened back to the conversation with the fishermen on the bus. 

“I know.” Crowley smiled wide.

“And I don’t really want to swim in a pool instead of a Highland loch. If you’re there to swim with me.”

“I know,” Crowley smiled, taking Aziraphale in his arms. “And I’m not really afraid of that curse!”

“I know,” Aziraphale laughed softly, and, under the silver light of the full moon, they kissed.

***

“Where were you two?” Anathema asked as she opened the door to their pre-dawn knock. “I assumed you spent the night with Dagon at the Castle.Let’s get you inside and into bed—you both look frozen through and utterly exhausted. Crowley, you take my room. Aziraphale, you can keep the same one you’ve been using. I’ll sleep on the couch for the rest of the night and…” she stopped. She studied them closely, wondering how to describe the radiant glow on their faces—far more than just the reflection of the coming sunrise.

“And?” Crowley raised an eyebrow, giving her a questioning look.

Anathema blinked at them, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to process what she saw. 

“And…you both look…smited! Like the Universe just slapped you in the face with love!” Her tone was half teasing, half amused.

“I’ve definitely been smited. Smited? Smote?” Crowley ventured, tilting his head as he considered the words.

“Smitten,” Aziraphale declared softly, with a smile that gleamed brighter than the dawn itself.

***

The next morning dawned clear and windless. Aziraphale sat in the sitting room with Crowley, Anathema, and Sergeant Shadwell. The four waited for the arrival of the autobus, which would take Aziraphale to the Telephone & Telegraph Office. In his new circumstances, he could no longer afford to hire a car to take him such a distance. He needed to call Shax. She deserved an explanation. 

When the time came, Crowley asked Aziraphale if wanted company, but Aziraphale declined. This was something he needed to do by himself. Aziraphale knew Shax was not a villain in this story. She had been honest about what she wanted, what she proposed to give in return, and the compromises involved. Shax had been kind, offering him everything he once thought he wanted; Aziraphale had agreed knowing all the facts. Wealth, prestige, possessions, and status would be his. But that life was not for him, and he could no longer pretend. 

He had begun this journey certain that he knew where he was going and what he wanted. In the end, he hadn’t just changed his mind; he had found a new truth. Riches had been tempting, but what he truly desired was a home—love, joy, warmth, acceptance, and the peace that came with being known for who he really was. He knew that he and Crowley would build their lives together on this magical, misty island, far north of everything he had ever known. 

Epilogue

Lives Entwined

And so, they did just that. The two of them moved into the caretaker’s cottage on Tadfield Isle. Crowley spent his days helping the fishermen with their catch, assisting Furfur, the boatman, with the ferry, and tending to his garden. 

Seeing an opportunity, Shax decided to open a bookshop on the islands, recognising that reading was a beloved pastime of the islanders. She made Aziraphale the manager—purely for business reasons, of course. After all, he was the most qualified, and she was confident that the shop would turn a profit. Shax had a brilliant business mind, and was not wrong about this decision. A.Z. Fell & Co Antiquarian & Unusual Books slowly gained a worldwide reputation, and both the mail-order business and local trade thrived. 

One summer, to everyone’s surprise, including her own, Shax married Sergeant Shadwell. She then made the islands her permanent home, declaring they suited her much better than London. Shax moved out of Tadfield House and into the caretaker’s cottage, insisting upon paying an exorbitant rent. Crowley and Aziraphale moved into the house she had vacated and lived in it for many happy years.

Maggie and Nina visited one particularly beautiful spring and fell in love with the mountain air, the clear lochs, and the magic of the Highlands. They decided to leave London for good and bought the tearoom in Port Aran.

In 2014, when Aziraphale and Crowley were well past their ninetieth birthdays, a historic moment arrived as Scotland’s parliament passed a marriage equality act, giving them the opportunity to make their long union official. 

They were married on New Year’s Eve 2014, surrounded by the loving warmth of dear friends and neighbours. They danced joyfully at their wedding ceilidh, as if their long decades together were only the beginning.