Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Oh, COME ON! Really?” Crowley very loudly complained, followed by some very expressive vowel sounds and a stomp of his foot.

He had finally turned a corner and gone from sulking to brooding, which was much better suited to his whole aesthetic, and he was really getting very good at it, too. He’d just been in the middle of some truly high-calibre brooding a moment ago, and now he was here.

Inside a bloody¹ summoning circle.

He clenched his fists and his jaw and let out a rumbly growling sort of noise, just to drive home the point that he was annoyed. “Right! Let’s get this over with. First off, fair warning, I am a retired demon and I do have standards, so if this has anything to do with blood sacrifices or first born kids you can sod right o—” He stopped mid-rant as he actually regarded his summoner for the first time.

He closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. He furrowed his brow and cocked his head to one side. Then he pointed at the woman.

“I know you. Don’t I know you?” he said. “I’ve seen you before… somewhere.”

The woman standing before him was draped in some colourful clothing, wearing a wig and bright red lipstick. Her eyes had been getting wider and her eyebrows had been creeping up higher since Crowley had appeared in her circle, and the effect was fairly comical at this point. (The heavy makeup probably didn’t help with that.) “Oh, my,” she said, and she nodded. “Yes, we do know each other, in a way. Although I don’t think we ever made formal introductions.” Her expression was now making a very smooth transition from shocked to smug. “You were the one at the airbase to help us stop Armageddon. Showed up in a flaming car.”

“Airbase! Yes!” Crowley said triumphantly. “You’re the one who, uh… Well I mean, you were, uh… you hosted… Aziraphale. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Oh, no need to thank me,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I had a delightful time, really.”

“...Right,” said Crowley. He could think of lots of words he would use to describe that whole Armageddon thing, but ‘delightful’ was absolutely nowhere on that list. “...So, uh…” He gestured to the summoning circle he was stuck in and raised an eyebrow at her.

“...Oh, yes! Where was I,” she said. She cleared her throat, drew herself up, and spread her arms wide in a very dramatic pose. “Foul demon!” she said in a deeper, more theatrical voice that was probably meant to be intimidating.

“Ufsh.” Crowley dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Small wonder that this was the human who’d managed to host Aziraphale.

The woman continued with that theatrical voice, “I have summoned you from the darkest depths of Hell—”

“Pub.”

“What’s that?” she asked, instantly switching from scary-demon-summoner-mode to sweet-old-lady-mode.

“I was at a pub,” Crowley said, picking his head up to give her a flat look. “You did not summon me from Hell. You summoned me from a pub. I didn’t even get to finish my Talisker.”

“...Oh,” she said, frowning. “Oh, well I’m sorry. That was terribly rude of me.”

Crowley shrugged. “You’re summoning a demon…? Don’t think manners really play much into it.”

“...Hmm.” She nodded, apparently conceding the point.

“Look… can we get on with this? Whatever this is,” Crowley said, gesturing again to the summoning circle. “Really no need for all the—” It occurred to him that she did technically have some power over him right now, and calling her behaviour ‘cheap theatrics’ wasn’t likely to earn him any points. “...formalities,” he said instead. “Just… Whaddaya want?”

“...Oh.” The woman dropped her hands to her sides. “Well, if I’m being perfectly blunt… I was hoping you could help me exact a bit of petty revenge.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. Then he smirked at the glint in her eyes. “Sure. I’m in.”

~ ~ ~

Since they had a history with the whole Armageddon thing, the woman decided to let Crowley out of the circle. “You can call me Madame Tracy. Or, well, just Tracy is fine,” she said as she strategically erased a few key glyphs.² “And I know you’re Crowley. Aziraphale told me,” she added with a conspiratory grin.

“I’m sure he did,” Crowley mumbled as he watched her work. “You do know that letting pretty much any demon other than me out of a summoning circle is a really, really bad idea, right?”

She huffed and gave him a very condescending look. “I didn’t get to be my age by being a fool.”

“Mm. Fair enough.” He made a satisfied little hum as the bindings around him eased, and he delicately stepped out of the circle. “Yeah, that’s better,” he sighed, and he shook out his arms and stretched his neck.

“Now, to business!” Madame Tracy said. “Come have a seat, and I’ll get you all filled in. Would you like some tea?” She started bustling around, opening shutters to illuminate the cosy little kitchen they were in. “And don’t worry about Mr S. I’ve sent him out for the day. Although I think he still believes Aziraphale is the one who’s a demon, so you’d probably be safe. Last we discussed it, he still thought you were mafia.”

It took a beat for Crowley to parse who ‘Mr S’ was. “Sergeant Shadwell. The witchfinder,” he said incredulously. “He lives here?” He’d never thought much about where that particular human would live, but he certainly wouldn’t have guessed the man’s home looked this… homey.

“Well, I couldn’t just leave him all alone in London when I retired,” Madame Tracy said as she started extinguishing the candles and the incense she’d placed around the room. “He’s hardly capable of looking after himself, you know. Tea and condensed milk do not a balanced diet make.” She paused beside her kettle. “Did you say you wanted tea?”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m more interested in the petty revenge, honestly.”

“Ooh, yes! Right this way, then!” She took him by the hand and led him into the sitting room, where two sofas faced each other from opposite sides of a coffee table. They each picked one to lounge on while Tracy explained her issue.

It all came down to petunias, apparently.

In the four years since she’d bought this bungalow, Madame Tracy had developed something of a little rivalry with the neighbour down the road. Miss Wendy Stewart had apparently never liked Tracy or Shadwell to begin with, but on a surface level, she acted very friendly — so friendly, in fact, that she’d invited Tracy to join in the weekly card game. Just under the surface, according to Tracy, Wendy was a very jealous, judgemental woman with a competitive streak a mile wide.

“Oh, she never would have invited me to the group if she’d known how good I am at cards,” Tracy said. “She keeps suggesting different games for us to try, and you know she’s hoping to find something she can beat me at. Everyone else is really only there to chat, and the game is just a fun excuse to get together. But Wendy! Oh, she tries very hard to keep it in, but every time she loses you can see that she is just seething… and, well…” She demurely smoothed out her skirt. “With that sort of reaction, why wouldn’t I study up on all the best strategies for each new game?” She smirked and looked at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Ooh-hoo, I like you!” Crowley declared with a grin, and she acknowledged the praise with a nod.

Wendy Stewart’s competitive streak was hardly limited to cards. She was also the reigning champion at the village’s annual summer fête in more than a few competitions, including — most importantly — Best Bunch of Petunias, which she had won for ten consecutive years now.

“I’ve never intended to participate in any garden-related competitions, myself, but I’ve very much been enjoying getting to finally have a garden,” Tracy explained. “I spent years on a waiting list for an allotment in London, but nothing ever came of that. I suppose it probably didn’t help my case that I may have broken a few hearts that were in charge of assigning… Well, never mind that. The point is I do have a garden now, and I’ve put a fair bit of work into it, with some help from Mr S. You should have seen the place when we moved in here, Mr Crowley. It was completely in shambles. More of a rubbish heap than a garden. It’s only this year that I’ve finally got it about how I want my garden to look, and I’m very proud of how it’s turned out. And it just so happens that my petunias came up looking even better than Wendy’s did.”

“Mmm, well done,” Crowley said with a nod. He was very curious to see this garden now.

“Thank you,” Tracy said, sitting up a little more proudly. “And as I said, I have no interest at all in participating in any competition for the fête. It’s all much too cutthroat, and I’m just an old lady enjoying puttering around in the dirt.” She raised her eyebrows. “But apparently, Miss Wendy Stewart decided not to take any chances.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Ooh, she didn’t.”

“She did,” Tracy said icily. “And I know it was her, because I have video footage of it. Mr S wanted to try his hand at giant marrows, you see. It didn’t go well and he's abandoned it now, at least for this year, but he was a bit paranoid about the competition aspect and he installed one of those video surveillance systems. And there’s Wendy, right there on the screen, plain as anything, pouring herbicide all over my petunias at two in the morning!”

Crowley groaned. He knew what it was to put work into something beautiful for the sake of working on something beautiful, only to have someone come along and end it too soon. “Right, so there’s the motive for fully justified revenge. What sort of plan have you hatched that involves summoning a demon?”

Tracy gave him an almost evil grin. “I wasn’t going to enter the contest… but now she went and sabotaged my petunias. So I think perhaps I will enter that contest, after all. And win.” She casually examined her manicure. “Nothing too drastic, I don’t think. I just need my petunias back how they were before she poisoned them… just in time for me to win.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. He let out a thoughtful hum and tilted his head to one side as he considered it. “No big confrontation where you make her confess or something?”

“Oh, no. I’d like to remain civil with her on the surface level,” Tracy said with a mischievous grin. “Much more fun that way. She still has to play nice.”

Something about her made Crowley think of a very smug cat that was toying with her prey. He nodded. “Yeah. That’s reasonable,” he mused. “Classy approach. Bit of gaslighting in there.” But the gears of his own mind started turning. “...Why stop there?” he asked lightly.

Tracy watched him with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “You have other ideas?”

“Plenty.” He sat up and rubbed his hands together. “How long do we have before this contest?”

“Two weeks.”

And he grinned. “Perfect.”

~ ~ ~

The first step was to survey the damage, so Tracy led Crowley outside to have a look.

She gave him a full tour of her garden, pointing out the many places she’d put in a great deal of work. She had put just as much work into the outdoor furniture as she had put into the actual plants, apparently. She told him all about how she’d found the table and chairs, plus the bench tucked away in a little nook, and she had sanded and refinished them herself (although Shadwell had apparently helped a little with the sanding). She showed him the trellis she’d had Shadwell build for her, which she had then painted and installed herself, and she cooed with excitement about the vines starting to grow along the frame. She pointed out a sapling tree she had planted — apparently the second sapling she’d planted in that spot — to replace the dead tree that had stood there before. Then she dragged him over to the tree she’d thought was dead, but had been able to revive. She was particularly proud of her rose bushes, and she was delighted when Crowley nodded appreciatively over them. She also showed off her vegetable patch, which was very impressive except for the giant marrows Shadwell had apparently tried to grow, which looked like they’d missed the ‘giant’ part of the memo.

It was a lovely little garden, except for the obvious centrepiece: a round, raised bed of flowers that were shrivelled, wilted, and brown. There was just enough colour left in the faded blooms to hint that there had been a wide variety when they’d been healthy.

“And this is what’s left of my petunias,” Tracy said with a heavy sigh. She leaned forward and reached in among the drooping stems and leaves. “See, there’s still some green in here,” she said, pushing aside some of the brown bits. “I don’t think they’re completely dead…”

Crowley let out a thoughtful hum as he crouched down to get a closer look. He sniffed. “Nah, not dead yet,” he agreed. “Would y’mind leavin’ me alone with ‘em for a bit?”

She gave him a long, wary look. “...Whatever you need,” she decided. “I can go put the roast in. You will stay for dinner, won’t you?”

“Uh—”

It hadn’t entirely sounded like a question, and she was gone before he could answer anyway. Crowley suspected that saying ‘no’ to Tracy was about as viable an option as buying a signed first edition from Aziraphale.

He let out a resigned sigh before he turned his attention to the half-dead petunias. He examined the stems and leaves, and he poked the soil with his finger in a few different spots. He crept his way around the raised bed, assessing the petunias from every angle.

With a snap of his fingers, the herbicide was removed from both the soil and the plants. The effects remained, but at least the poison wouldn’t do any more damage. He vaguely wondered if the flowers felt something akin to what he felt when he used a miracle to sober up. Herbicide seemed like it would be a less pleasant experience than alcohol, though.

“Alright, you lot,” he rumbled as he leaned his hands on the edge of the raised bed. “No more excuses. You will get yourselves back in proper order. Is that clear?”

The petunias did not respond, but Crowley wasn’t surprised. These plants didn’t know him… yet.

Plants could not technically see, but Crowley still took his sunglasses off to make sure he looked as menacing as possible. “You will not disappoint me. Do you know what happens to plants that disappoint me?” He slowly stalked his way around the raised bed. “They don’t live to tell about it. If you thought the herbicide was bad? That was nothing compared to what you will suffer if you disappoint me.” He leaned in closer. “You’ll be hearing things soon, very soon, about what’s happening in the garden down the road. And I want you to know that everything you’re going to hear will be my doing, and it’s just a tiny sampling of what you will endure if you disappoint me. Do you know what I’m going to do to that garden?”

He quietly told the petunias all of his plans, in gruesome detail. By the time he was done, the petunias were trembling ever so slightly, and they were desperately trying to perk themselves up.

“You have two weeks,” he warned the flowers. “If you are not absolutely flawless within two weeks, well… It. Will not. Be pleasant.” He straightened up and slid his sunglasses back on. “Grow better,” he growled, and he turned back towards the bungalow.

Tracy re-emerged just as Crowley started to walk away from the petunias. “Oh!” she said excitedly, looking past him at her flower bed. “Oh, they look better already! What on earth did you do?” she asked, bustling past him for a closer look.

He watched over his shoulder as she leaned in close to examine the flowers. “...Just a bit of a pep talk,” he said casually. With Tracy’s back to him, he gave the petunias one more menacing glare, which they apparently sensed just fine despite the sunglasses, if the trembling was anything to go on. “What do you use on them?” he asked.

“Oh, I’d be happy to show you!” she said. “Right this way, please!” and she led him to the little shed beside the cottage. Once inside the shed, she happily told him all about the careful blend of fertiliser she’d come up with, and how she tailored it to each plant in her garden. “See, this is why I don’t usually want to participate in the competitions,” she said. “Everyone keeps all their personal strategies under lock and key, and I’m all too quick to share mine because why shouldn’t everyone get to have a beautiful garden?”

He made a non-committal sort of noise and picked up a carton with an ominous label on it. “What is this?”

“Oh, that’s my dried blood!” Tracy said, confirming that the label was accurate. “...Animal blood,” she clarified, seeing his blank stare. “Oh, it’s very good for plants. Some plants, at least. It adds lots of nitrogen to the soil.”

Crowley looked at the carton in his hand. “...And… you buy this. In a shop.”

“Mm-hm!”

Crowley opened the carton and peered into it, and another thought occurred to him. “...It wasn’t chalk.”

“What’s that?”

“The summoning circle. You didn’t use red chalk, did you?” He held up the carton³. “You used this.”

She lifted her chin. “Just for the broad strokes. It’s expensive,” she said defensively. “And besides, I would never get all those squiggly little symbols right by just sprinkling that. So some of it was red chalk.”

“...Y’know you would think, at some point, the whole ‘human ingenuity’ thing would stop surprising me,” he said resignedly, and he put the carton back in its place while Tracy giggled at him.

“Would you rather I use fresh blood?” she teased.

“I would rather you use a phone,” he said dryly. “Less messy and less risky for you, and I don’t have to get yanked away from a perfectly good Talisker.”

“In that case, you had better give me your number,” she said. “And I did apologise about the Talisker, but really, it was much too early to be drinking yet, anyway. How did you even find a pub that was open?”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at her. “I said I was at a pub. I never said it was open.”

Tracy looked like she wanted to chide him for that. She broke out in giggles instead. “Oh, I bet you and I could swap all sorts of stories,” she said, and she put her hand on his arm to start guiding him into the cottage. “I haven’t got any Talisker, and it’s still too early for that, besides, but I can at least fix us up some lunch. And I want to hear all about everything you and Aziraphale have been up to! You’ll have to give him my regards. Oh, will he be looking for you? Do you need to let him know you’re here?”

“Er, uh…” Crowley had slowed to a stop, and now she was watching him with concern. He glanced around at the garden to avoid her gaze. “...We’re not talking,” he said.

She stared at him. “...You and Aziraphale?” she said incredulously. “You and Aziraphale are not talking? Whyever not?”

He gave her a hard glare. “Do. Not. Ask.”

Madame Tracy merely raised her eyebrow.

~ ~ ~

A turkey sandwich, three cups of tea, and two bottles of wine later, she had the whole story out of him.⁴

She took a moment to think it all over, and then she huffed as she set her empty wine glass down. “Well, that is just ridiculous,” she decided. “I’ve been in that angel’s head. Or technically, I suppose he was in my head. Either way.” She dismissively waved her hand. “I know that angel’s mind, and I think it’s just ridiculous that he would leave you here on your own.”

“Nyerf, well… he is ridiculous, so…” Crowley reached for the wine bottle.

“Well that’s hardly an excuse!” Tracy folded her arms.

“Mmm.” Crowley tried very hard to pour more wine into his glass, but the bottle seemed to think it was empty. Holding it upside down and shaking it over his glass did nothing to persuade it otherwise. He turned it right-side-up again and glared at it until it suddenly realised that actually, it was still completely full, after all. Then he filled his glass without any problem.

Tracy watched all of this intently. “You need to visit more often,” she decided.

“You have my number now. That can be arranged,” he said as he refilled her glass. “Especially if that roast tastes as good as it smells.”

“Oh, I do hope it won’t disappoint,” she said demurely. “You will come to the fête, of course, won’t you? With all the work you’re putting in, I would hate for you to miss the look on Wendy Stewart’s face when I win.”

“I will be there with bells on,” he promised, and they clinked their glasses.

She took a sip of her wine. “Perhaps you could take a bit of petty revenge of your own,” she mused.

He furrowed his brow. “On who?”

“Aziraphale, of course. Running off like that.”

Crowley scoffed. “He’ll have enough to deal with, Up There. He thinks he can fix it,” he said morosely.

“Do you think he can?” she asked.

“No.” He shifted and settled a little more into the sofa. “I mean if anyone can, it’s him, but… No. I think it’s beyond fixing.”

“...Mm.” Tracy straightened up a little and smoothed out her skirt. “Well, I did say petty revenge. Nothing major,” she murmured. “Might be worth letting him know you’re thinking of him.”

Crowley tilted his head, letting the idea roll around in his mind. “...Huh.”

That was when the front door of the bungalow banged open. “There’s nae anything worth catching in tha’ bloody godforsaken—”

“Wipe your feet, Mr S!” Tracy called cheerfully.

Shadwell grumbled as he complied, and then turned the corner to actually enter the living room. He was fully decked out in fishing gear, with a fishing pole in his hand and a very grouchy look on his face, but he straightened up and stared in shock when he saw the visitor lounging on the sofa. “...Mr Crowley!”

“Sergeant Shadwell!” Crowley said with a grin, remembering that Tracy said this man thought he was some sort of mafia. “Good to see you again!”

Shadwell nervously stepped closer. “I dinnae know if I can be of any service to ye, sir. I’m retired…”

“Me too!” Crowley said, lifting his glass in a toast. “Just stopping by to visit an old friend.” He gestured to Tracy with his glass.

“He’s helping me deal with Wendy Stewart,” Tracy added.

And apparently, that was enough to start Shadwell on a whole tirade about the evils of Wendy Stewart, which he only paused long enough to ask Crowley how his ‘father’ was doing (Tracy managed not to laugh), obediently go wash his hands, and grunt something vaguely complimentary about the food Tracy served for dinner.

~ ~ ~

It was past midnight that night when Wendy Stewart thought she heard something odd out in her garden. She went to investigate and found herself facing a scene out of her worst nightmares.

The entire garden was completely overrun with rats.

Wendy shrieked and grabbed her broom to start swinging it at the invaders, yelling and screaming as she tried to scare them off.

The rats were not impressed. They darted around just enough to avoid the broom, but it barely slowed them down from feasting on her prized vegetables. The ones who weren’t able to reach the vegetables actually seemed to gather around her and make a game out of the whole thing, moving just close enough for her to swing her broom at them and jumping away before she could actually make contact. Even when she did manage to hit them, it never seemed to do anything more than knock them over for a second.

She needed a better weapon.

Wendy wailed and threw her broom at the rats, who crawled all over it without a care. She ran back inside and came out again with a shovel, and she yelled and screamed all manner of profanity as she started swinging again.

This time, when the rats dodged the shovel, it hit the ground with a loud, reverberating sort of crash, and that seemed to finally scare the rodents. They started to scurry away, scattering to the edges of the garden and skittering off into the shadows while Wendy kept swinging her shovel and shouting and screaming.

By the time she thought they were all gone, she was gasping for breath, her throat was sore from yelling so much, and tears were streaming down her face. Still, she didn’t dare go back inside and leave her garden unguarded. She stayed out there in her pyjamas, patrolling her precious garden with her shovel, for the rest of the night.

The rats all reconvened well beyond Wendy Stewart’s garden, where Crowley was waiting for them in a patch of trees. One of the rats was proudly dragging along a very large carrot, although she kept having to stop and dissuade the other rats from trying to steal any bites of it. Crowley smirked at these antics for a moment, and then he quietly applauded them. “Well done, everyone. Well done,” he said. “That bit with the taunting? That was top-notch. Very nice touch there.” He gave them a thumbs up to emphasise the point. “Right, so the garden up the road is off-limits, but you’re welcome to anything you find in any other gardens. Just keep an eye out. They’re all… y’know, protective, obsessive, competitive gardener types. Try not to eat poison or anything. But if it’s unguarded, hey, it’s yours for the taking. You’ve earned it. And then tomorrow night, come on back here and let that human see you eating more of her garden.” He glanced around. “Alright, dismissed.”

His little army of evil minions all bobbed their heads at him, which he was pretty sure they meant as a gesture of respect, and then went their separate ways to find more food. (The rat with the prize carrot stayed right where she was to enjoy her feast first.) Crowley grinned as he got in his Bentley and drove away.

As dawn broke, an exhausted and paranoid Wendy Stewart was finally able to assess the damage to her garden.

The tomatoes were a lost cause; there was nothing left of them but a few trampled, mangled bits of greenery. Her biggest, roundest, orangest pumpkin, which she’d been sure would at least be in the top three for ‘largest pumpkin’ at the fête, was nothing more than part of a pumpkin shell now. Most of the remaining pumpkins had noticeable holes and pieces missing, and the few that were still intact were tiny. With all of the intact pumpkins combined, she thought she might still be able to make one of her award-winning pumpkin pies.

All of the aubergines had been destroyed. The ripe strawberries were gone, but the plants were still intact enough that the unripe ones would be able to develop, so that wasn’t as much of a loss. She couldn’t really judge yet how the carrots and the potatoes had fared, but she certainly had her work cut out for her. Even the plants that weren’t in season looked like they’d taken some heavy damage.

The good news was that the rats hadn’t been very interested in her flowers. Oh, they had nibbled some, here and there, and they’d certainly trampled a bit, but the damage here didn’t seem to be catastrophic. Most of the hydrangeas still looked alright. The snapdragons seemed to be fine. The roses, surely with thanks to their thorns, were unscathed. Best of all, her petunias hadn’t even been touched.

The rats had dealt a heavy blow, to be sure. She would have to tighten her security somehow to keep any more rats out, and it would take a lot of work to salvage what was left of her vegetable patch, but Wendy Stewart was certain that this would not be a complete loss.

Wendy Stewart did not know that her troubles had only just begun.

~ ~ ~

It was Jack and Henry’s turn to host the card game that week, which meant the snacks were as adorable as they were delicious, the drinks were wonderfully refreshing, and every deck of cards had some sort of novelty theme to it. Wendy Stewart arrived looking exhausted and slightly haunted, and she requested that they choose a fairly mindless game to play this week. For once, she did not care very much about winning; she was far more interested in venting about her gardening woes, starting with the nightmare of the rats.

“I read up on how to get rid of them, and everything I’m reading says they hate mint. Well, mint is infamous for overrunning everything, so I want to keep it contained, if I can help it. I went out and bought these big trough planters, you know the ones? I’ve got them all around my garden now, all filled with mint.”

Tracy politely raised her eyebrows and did not smirk. Crowley had specifically said that he hoped Wendy would plant mint — something to do with an internet rumour he enjoyed spreading.

“And did it work?” Edith asked.

Wendy scoffed and pulled out her phone. “See for yourselves!” she said bitterly. She pulled up footage from her home surveillance system and set it out for everyone to see.

Several of them peered over at the phone screen.

“...Are they… eating the mint?” Dot asked.

“Feasting on it,” Wendy seethed. “And I swear, they are looking right at me while they do!”

“Oh, surely they’re not that intelligent as to be spiteful,” Jack said. Then he looked at the surveillance footage. “Oh my god. They are.”

“See?” Wendy said. “And as if the rats weren’t bad enough, now I have slugs to deal with, too!”

Edith — ever the dramatic listener — gasped. “Not slugs!”

“Yes, slugs!” Wendy lamented. “Their trails are everywhere. They’ve demolished my potatoes. And it’s hardly as if I can go out and try to catch them at night with those rats all over everything!”

“But rats eat slugs! Don’t they?” Henry asked. “I was sure that they did.”

Wendy scoffed. “I can assure you that these rats are most certainly not eating these slugs,” she said. “And so of course, I’ve called every exterminator and pest control expert I can find, which was a complete waste of time. Every single one is booked solid! Can you imagine? I finally found one who would at least talk to me, so I explained about the slugs and I showed him a video of the rats, and do you know what he said to me?” She stared at the group with her eyebrows raised. “He said, ‘Madam, the best advice I can give you is to pray.’”

It was a good thing that Tracy had only taken a small sip of her drink, because that sip now sprayed out of her mouth.

“Exactly!” Wendy said, thinking Tracy’s reaction was an echo of her own indignation. “Well, you can be sure I told him exactly what I thought of him giving advice like that and calling himself a professional.”

George grunted. “Spoken like someone who’s never tried to get rid of rats,” he said. “You should call him back and apologise.”

Wendy was appalled at the very notion. “What sort of expert would give advice like that?”

“Probably one who has more experience than the genius who planted mint,” George said. He took his pipe⁵ out of his mouth and pointed it at her. “Which is probably why you have your slugs, by the way,” he added. “Slugs love mint, and they probably won’t bother climbing up those planters. They’ll make do with everything else you’ve got instead.”

Wendy Stewart accepted being wrong about as well as anybody ever does — which is to say, rather poorly. “Well, he still wasn’t any help,” she said stubbornly. “I put out a bunch of rat traps to try to do something, but the rats won’t go anywhere near the traps, no matter what sort of bait I use! And with as many rats as there are, I doubt the traps would really make any difference, anyway.” She sighed. “I’ve ordered one of those ultrasonic deterrent devices. It’s my last hope, at this point. And even that won’t do anything about the slugs.”

“Oh, you poor thing, Wendy. That sounds just awful,” Tracy said sympathetically. “I was wondering what was happening, you know. It just hasn’t looked up to your usual standards lately. But,” and she consolingly patted Wendy’s hand, “at least you still have your petunias.”

“Thank you, Tracy,” Wendy said, mustering up a smile. “And you’re right. I do still have my petunias and my roses. Oh, petunias!” She straightened up and suddenly looked very worried as she faced Tracy. “I meant to ask about your petunias, Tracy! You’ve worked so hard on those! Do you have any idea what happened to them?”

Tracy looked her dead in the eye. “I have no idea,” she lied emphatically. “If I were participating in any contests at the fête, I would think someone had poisoned them, but that can’t possibly be it. I was sure I’d made it clear to everyone that I have no interest at all in competing.”

To Wendy’s credit, her face betrayed nothing.

If anyone else noticed the significance of that little exchange, it was Dot. The old woman straightened up in her seat. “Tracy, what’s wrong with your petunias? They were stunning when I saw them last week!”

Tracy made eye contact with Dot and saw the understanding there. She sighed heavily. “All I know for sure is they were gorgeous one day, and all but dead the next,” she said despondently.

“Oh, that’s terrible!” Dot said. She glanced at Wendy and looked at Tracy again, with her eyebrows ever so subtly raised in a question.

“Oh, it’s unfortunate, certainly, but I do think there’s a bit of hope for them yet. And if not, there’s always next year,” Tracy said with a demure little shrug. “Practically nothing compared to what poor Wendy here is dealing with…”

Dot’s eyes widened ever so slightly as she looked back and forth between the two neighbours.

“Wendy, if you do manage to catch any of those slugs, feel free to bring them our way,” Jack said. “They do wonderful things for a compost heap.”

“And there’s plants that do well with slugs around, too,” Henry chimed in. “Mint is one of them, although I guess you probably don’t want to keep the mint, what with the rats.”

For the rest of the evening, conversation centred around whether slugs were a gardener’s friend or foe, how to attract or repel them, and the evils of slug pellets. There was also a fair bit of discussion about what could possibly do anything at all to mitigate rats, and the sort of damage those rodents could do to a garden.

Wendy took notes on some of the advice that was shared. As for the card game, she only managed to muster up a faint scowl when Tracy inevitably won.

~ ~ ~

Humans tend to be a violent lot, especially when they feel threatened, so Crowley figured it was only a matter of time before the target human tried something that could actually harm his army of evil minions. Evil minions are of no use to anyone when they’re dead or injured, and for that purely practical reason, Crowley had spent most of the last week hanging around in the area, particularly at night, so that he was available if his evil minions came up against anything they couldn’t handle. He spent the time scrolling on his phone, or admiring the stars, or subtly rearranging some of the tools and supplies in Wendy’s gardening shed.

He was just finishing up the delicate task of super-glueing Wendy’s watering can in place⁶ when one of the rats joined him in the shed, sat up on its hind legs, and squeaked to get his attention.

He arched his eyebrow at the rat. “Something wrong?” he asked.

The rat bobbed in something that was probably meant to resemble a nod. Then it scurried out of the shed and stopped to see if he would follow.

Crowley checked his watch and figured that Wendy was probably asleep, and thus wouldn’t notice a strange man-shaped-being in her garden. He shrugged, carefully closed his glue bottle, and followed the rat.

As soon as he stepped out of the shed, it was clear that something had changed. Only about half the usual number of his evil minions were raiding the garden, with many of them lingering towards the outer edges. Some of them seemed bothered, almost disoriented, and kept scratching at their ears. Crowley looked around and spotted the missing rats all cowering behind the big planters of mint, most of them also rubbing and scratching at their ears.

He turned to address the rat that had sought him out. “What’s going on?” he asked.

The rat bobbed once and turned to lead him straight to the wall of the house, where it stretched up on its hind legs and was just able to reach a white plastic device that had been mounted there.

Crowley crouched down to inspect it. “Ultrasonic Pest Repellent,” he read, and he turned to address the rat. “So this thing is making noise?”

The rat nodded.

“And you can hear it, but humans can’t.”

The rat nodded again.

“Bad noise,” Crowley said.

The rat nodded emphatically.

Crowley looked around at the garden. “And some of you are fine with it, but some of you…”

The rat squeaked miserably and lowered its head to scratch at its ears.

“It’s like torture,” Crowley translated.

The rat straightened up and nodded fervently.

“...Well, that won’t do,” Crowley muttered under his breath. He stood up and quickly started walking to the edge of the garden. “Right, everybody, gather ‘round, uh… past that planter there,” he said, pointing to the one that seemed farthest from the repellent. He reached the indicated point and waited for the bulk of his evil army to surround him. “Alright, great work here, everyone,” he told them. “You’ve done enough now. No need to subject yourselves to the noise thing. I’ve got a few waves of reinforcements planned, but you lot? You’ve done your duty. Above and beyond, even. You’re all free to go home now.”

The rats all bobbed in acknowledgement and scurried away. And if all of them happened to find some yummy malt paste in whatever little hidey-hole they called home, well, Crowley didn’t know anything about that, obviously.

He went back to the side of the house, crouched down, and studied the little white device. Then he snapped his fingers and disabled the thing.

One rat had followed him back, and now it sat up on its hind legs and curiously tilted its head at him.

He shrugged at it. “No reason the local rats shouldn’t enjoy the feast, too, right?” he said. “She’ll probably fix it soon, anyway. She’ll have a sonic… fixy thing, I dunno. Sonic… screwdriver, maybe? Is that a thing? I think it’s a thing.” He shrugged again. “Really, I’m just enjoying making life difficult for her.”

The rat squeaked its approval, bobbed its head in respect, and scurried off to dig up one more potato before it went home.

The next morning, Wendy woke up to find that her garden was now covered in locusts.

~ ~ ~

The entire village was whispering about Wendy Stewart’s garden.

Not everyone knew about the rats or the slugs, although the rumours were starting to circulate. But it was hard not to notice the swarm of locusts that had descended on Wendy Stewart’s garden, and only on Wendy Stewart’s garden. The swarm was so thick that it was hard to judge how much of her garden was even left anymore.

“Her own personal plague,” they whispered.

“It’s odd how they’re not eating anything else, isn’t it?” they whispered.

“And that’s after she had rats and slugs,” they whispered.

“It almost makes you wonder what gods she’s offended,” they whispered.

“Suppose the rest of us have a chance at actually winning something at the fête this year,” they whispered.

“I certainly hope her luck doesn’t spread,” they whispered.

It didn’t seem possible for such a large swarm to stay in one place for so long and still have anything left to eat, but the swarm of locusts didn’t diminish in any noticeable way until the crows showed up.

If she had been thinking logically, Wendy Stewart might have been grateful for the crows. They were more interested in eating the locusts than bothering with any of her plants. If she had been thinking logically, Wendy Stewart might have decided that in fact, the crows were doing her a favour.

Wendy Stewart was past the point of thinking logically.

In her defence, nothing logical had helped her so far. After the rats, the slugs, and the locusts, there was something undeniably ominous about a murder of crows taking up residence in what was left of her garden, with their caws filling the air and all those beady eyes watching her every move. And when the locusts were gone, the crows did seem to be going after what little remained of her precious plants.

Wendy Stewart was not a religious woman, and she had certainly never thought of herself as being superstitious, but her world (her garden) was being destroyed, logic didn’t seem to be working, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Clearly, something supernatural was afoot, and so she needed to call upon the supernatural world for a solution. She set aside her terror as best she could and stepped into her garden, wielding a metal cross, intending to banish the crows and any other lingering curses.

There was one major flaw in Wendy Stewart’s thinking. Specifically, although the rats, slugs, locusts, and crows had all been sent by a demon, none of them were actually demonic.

The crows watched curiously as the human stepped outside and raised something Shiny above her head.

“Be gone!” Wendy shouted to the crows. “By the power of… uh… God! …or, uh… Christ… or something…”

“Caw,” said one of the crows.

“...Virgin Mary?” Wendy squeaked. She took a deep breath and drew herself up. “I compel you to—”

“Caw,” said a crow.

“Caw!” said another.

“Be… be GONE!” Wendy shakily cried, and she waved her cross at the crows. “Leave!”

The crows tracked the Shiny that the screamy human was waving at them.

“LEAVE!” Wendy yelled. “Leave, and — and never—”

Several of the crows swooped down and perched a little closer to the screamy human and the Shiny, and they cawed at each other.

“NO!” Wendy shrieked and skittered backwards. “That’s not how this works!” she wailed, and she held the cross up higher. “BE GONE! The… THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!”

“Caw!” said a crow, and it swooped in to take the Shiny that the screamy human kept waving around.

The screamy human screamed, dropped the Shiny, and ran back inside, leaving the crows to gather around the Shiny on the ground to inspect it and caw amongst themselves about which one of them got to keep the Shiny.

~ ~ ~

Dot, being Dot, had learned what Tracy’s previous professions were nearly as soon as Tracy had moved in. Ever since then, Dot had come to visit every week or two for tea and a tarot reading. Tracy was more than happy to host. Today, they were sitting in Tracy’s garden, where they could clearly hear the nearby cacophony of crows.

“It looks like your petunias are recovering nicely,” Dot said.

“They are!” Tracy said proudly. “It’s nearly miraculous, really.”

“Mmm.” Dot nodded. “If you can keep them going like this, they probably could win at the fête… if you wanted to participate.”

“You know… I’ve been thinking about that,” Tracy murmured. “Oh, not that I expect to win, of course, but I’m so proud of the comeback they’ve made… I’m toying with the idea of entering the contest just to show them off.”

Dot chuckled knowingly. “Well, I certainly can’t think of any reason why you shouldn’t,” she said.

Tracy eyed her guest. “Oh, but whatever you do… please don’t let poor Wendy hear about how well my petunias are doing,” she said. “She’s had so many things go wrong lately. I would hate to make her feel bad.”

Dot raised her eyebrows, and then she grinned. “Oh, I shan’t breathe a word of it to anyone,” she promised. She leaned across the table. “Between you and me, it’s about time someone put that woman in her place,” she whispered.

“Oh. Well. It does seem like someone has been doing exactly that lately, doesn’t it?” Tracy said coyly.

“Oh, yes,” Dot said smugly. “Someone most certainly is.”

And the two women continued enjoying their tea.

~ ~ ~

Three days before the fête, Wendy Stewart forlornly went out into her garden.

There had been hardly any sign of the rats since she had installed the ultrasonic repellent. The slugs seemed to be under control. The locusts were gone. The crows still lingered, but they left the few remains of the plants alone now.

Even after the locusts, there had been a few petunias left that were nearly as beautiful as Wendy usually grew them. Even after the locusts, she had thought she still had a chance of scraping together a bouquet and winning Best Bunch of Petunias again. But now, as she went to check on her precious petunias and nurture them as best she could, the last bit of hope crumbled away. The leaves of the petunias were twisted, curled, and yellow. The plants were covered with tiny bugs.

Aphids.

They clearly hadn’t just started, either. If she’d caught them early, aphids were easy enough to get rid of, but with everything else… she must have missed them somehow, because now, it was too late.

Her petunias were beyond saving.

And as Wendy looked, she realised that it was not just the petunias.

The aphids were everywhere.

Every single bit of greenery that had managed to survive was now thoroughly infested with aphids. Even the plants that weren’t in season hadn’t been spared.

The crows cawed to each other about the human’s odd behaviour as Wendy crawled around inspecting every last bit of her garden, fighting back tears as the realisation sank in.

There was nothing to be done.

Her entire garden was completely ruined. There was nothing that could be salvaged, except perhaps a few pots and planters. She wasn’t sure that she even trusted the soil now.

Wendy Stewart finally collapsed in the dirt of what had once been a flourishing vegetable patch, and she wept to the sound of the crows.

Just up the road, Tracy was out in her garden, sipping a cup of tea as she admired her petunias, when she heard her neighbour’s mournful cries.

And she grinned.

~ ~ ~

Jack and Henry had never been overly fond of Wendy Stewart, but they adored Dot, so when Dot told them she was worried about Wendy Stewart, Jack and Henry took it upon themselves to check on poor Wendy.

On the morning of the fête, they found Wendy in her garden, covered in dirt and sweat. She was already a solid hour into her third day of digging up every single bed, turning over the soil, and casting every last scrap of plant matter into a pile to be burned.

“I tested the soil. The soil is fine,” she told them as she kept working. “But aerating can’t hurt. I have to start from scratch, anyway.”

Jack and Henry looked at each other, and then at the vacant-eyed woman before them.

“That sounds like a wonderful opportunity!” Jack enthused. “Think how much fun you’ll have planning it all out!”

“It’s good to rotate crops, anyway,” Henry chimed in.

Wendy nodded numbly.

“But why not take a rest from it today?” Jack said. “Today is the fête! You can’t miss the fête.”

Wendy scoffed. “The last thing I want to do is see everyone else’s stunningly gorgeous plants at the fête,” she said bitterly.

“Oh, but there’s so much more to the fête than that!” Jack said. “The horse show! You can’t miss the horse show, Wendy. And the raffles, and the ferret race, and tug-o-war!”

“And the arts-and-crafts tent, and the trade stands,” Henry said. “I saw some of the bird houses George is selling. Very impressive. And Edith always has such lovely beadwork. Don’t you want to buy some of Edith’s jewellery?”

“And only a fool would miss out on Dot’s pastries!” Jack added. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. There you go, into the house now. You won’t be missing the fête on my watch. Chop chop! We’ve got to get there in time to set up Henry’s stall! Oh, you should see the little dolls he’s been making…”

Wendy wasn’t entirely sure how they herded her into her own shower, and she was almost surprised that they left her alone to strip and wash herself. Jack and Henry always seemed so mild-mannered, but if they set their minds to something, there was really no arguing with them. She emerged from her shower to find Jack ready and eager to help her choose her clothes and style her hair while Henry whipped up some sausage and eggs for breakfast. Wendy actually felt pretty, and her stomach was full. The next thing she knew, she was at the fête and taking orders to help Jack and Henry set up their display of knitted dolls in record time. The sun was shining, everyone was smiling, and there was an excited buzz in the air.

Henry stationed himself at his booth, and Jack gave him a kiss before dragging Wendy around to one vendor after another. He cooed over the goods everyone was selling, chatted with everyone, and acted as a bit of a buffer when people started pitying Wendy about her garden. Then the two husbands switched places, and Jack ran the booth so that Henry could lead Wendy all around the fête and do his level best to make sure she was enjoying herself.

After two supervised tours, Wendy managed to convince Jack and Henry that she would be alright to wander on her own for a bit. After all, she had already encountered everyone who was likely to try to talk to her about her garden, and that bit was over with now. The hardest part was done.

Or so she thought.

She couldn’t help but notice when they started announcing the winners of each of the gardening contests. She had carefully avoided all the areas where the contestants had placed their submissions for the judges to consider, but now, as people gathered around to hear the winners, she thought perhaps she would just linger at the back of the crowd. Surely she could find it in herself to celebrate other people’s victories, couldn’t she?

Then she was suddenly face to face with a man she had never seen before. He was tall and thin, with bright red hair and all dark clothes, and despite his sunglasses, his gaze seemed to pierce right through her. He stared at her and arched one eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be at home if you’re sick?” he said.

And here she had been feeling pretty, but clearly the stress of the last two weeks still showed. “I’m not sick,” she said stiffly.

“Oh. My mistake.” He continued to stare at her, and she continued to stare right back.

“Who are you?” Wendy asked, almost feeling defensive. It wasn’t unheard of for people from other villages to attend the fête, but everything about him seemed to scream outsider to her, and she didn’t like it.

“Oh. Name’s Crowley,” he said. “Tracy invited me. She’s an old friend. I’ve got a long history with Shadwell here, too,” he added, and he patted Shadwell’s shoulder. Wendy hadn’t noticed that Shadwell was standing there until now, and she would have preferred to remain oblivious to him. “I used to do business with Shadwell,” Crowley said cheerfully.

“Aye,” Shadwell grunted, and he gave Wendy a hard look that seemed to try to carry some additional meaning. “You’ll nae be wantin’ to cross him, Miss Stewart.”

Wendy suspected that she didn’t want to know whatever Shadwell was trying to tell her, but she nodded politely.

“Stewart! That name rings a bell,” Crowley said brightly, and he fixed her with that uncomfortably piercing gaze again. “Aren’t you the one with the cursed garden?”

Wendy’s stomach churned, and she gulped. Cursed. The word reverberated through her mind, and she glanced around for some sort of escape. “So, ah, so where is Tracy? Is she here?” she asked nervously.

“She certainly is! Take a look,” Crowley said, and he ushered Wendy forward to give her a clear view of the “stage” area… just in time to see Tracy accept a red⁷ ribbon for first place.

Wendy blinked, trying to process what she was seeing.

In one hand, Tracy had the prize ribbon, and in the other, she had a bouquet of the most beautiful petunias Wendy had ever seen.

Wendy’s jaw fell open.

“Oh, thank you so much! I’m ever so honoured, really,” Tracy was saying. “You know I don’t usually care to compete in these things. I certainly wasn’t looking to win. I just wanted to show them off a bit, really!” And she seemed to be looking Wendy right in the eyes as she said, “These were all but dead a fortnight ago! I wouldn’t have entered the contest otherwise. I’m just so proud of how well they’ve recovered.”

The master of ceremonies said something congratulatory, but Wendy didn’t really hear what it was.

“You sure you’re not sick?” Crowley asked, giving Wendy another of those piercing stares.

“I… I think I had better sit down,” Wendy said weakly.

“Yeah, probably best,” Crowley said, nodding emphatically, and he put his hand on her arm like he was trying to keep her steady. He firmly guided her to sit on the nearest bale of hay.

“There you go, Miss Stewart,” he said. “You can see the winners and all their pretty plants from here while you rest.” He plopped down next to her. “You’re sure you’re alright? Do you need water, or something? Shadwell, go get her a drink!”

Shadwell grunted and obeyed, happy to have an excuse to step away.

And so it was that Wendy Stewart found herself numbly watching as everyone else accepted prizes for their lovely gardens while this strange Crowley person sat with her and commented on how appropriate it was that these people were all being recognised for all that honest work they put into their gardens.

Somehow it was even worse when Tracy joined them. “I think it’s terribly brave of you for you to come and watch this, after everything that happened with your garden,” she said as she patted Wendy’s hand. “Here, why don’t you take some of my petunias?” She selected three lovely flowers from her first place bouquet and held them out, but the look in her eyes wasn’t quite as friendly as her tone. “I’m sure they’re not as nice as yours would have been, but at least you could have something pretty to look at.”

The hardness in that gaze made Wendy’s stomach churn, and Crowley’s voice seemed to echo through her head with cursed garden, cursed garden, cursed garden. Her hand trembled as she accepted the gift. “Thank you, Tracy,” she whispered.

Shadwell returned with cider only for Tracy to immediately send him off again to get food for all four of them, so Wendy had to stay and eat the roast pork sandwich he brought back for her before it seemed reasonably polite for her to finally excuse herself and escape from their kindness.

~ ~ ~

A few days after the fête, the murder of crows that had so tortured Wendy Stewart all relocated to Tracy’s garden. It probably had something to do with the feeding stations Tracy put up for them. She always left out food for the crows, and in return, the crows left her plants alone and occasionally helped keep other garden pests in check. In their own way, the crows also took it upon themselves to guard Tracy herself; they developed a habit of terrorising anyone they thought was causing her trouble.

Year after year, Tracy’s garden was the most beautiful and award-worthy in the entire village, but she never competed in the fête again. Whenever anyone else in the village started to worry that Tracy might decide to compete, Dot would be there to remind them that the best way to keep Tracy out of the competition was to leave her and her garden very much alone. Very occasionally, Dot would even go so far as to ominously imply that Tracy might have had something to do with that awful ‘curse’ that happened to Wendy Stewart’s garden.

The fact that Tracy seemed to have a whole murder of crows at her beck and call did little to dissuade that notion.

As for Wendy Stewart, she was certainly humbled by the whole affair. She continued to work very hard on her garden, and she did have a very nice garden to show for her efforts, but it never did seem to be quite as vibrant and flourishing as it had once been. She did eventually get back to competing in the fête, but she rarely did better than second or third place, if even that.

She never sabotaged another gardener’s work again.

Of course, Wendy did continue to participate in the weekly card game, and she continued to get flustered every time she lost, but her reactions were usually more restrained, especially when Madame Tracy won (as she nearly always did).

Wendy would never admit to being afraid of Madame Tracy, of course. There was no reason to fear such a kind and generous woman. The very idea of such a thing was preposterous. However, Wendy was willing to admit to a certain amount of… nervousness… having to do with Madame Tracy’s crows. Wendy hated going to the weekly card game when it was Tracy’s turn to host. The crows would always be there, just watching Wendy as she approached and went into the house.

Wendy had no idea that, for the most part, when the crows were watching her, they were either hoping Screamy Human would give them another Shiny, or wondering why Screamy Human didn’t scream anymore.

Most of the villagers never saw Crowley again. He certainly never attended another fête.⁸ However, that fancy old car of his was sometimes spotted outside Tracy and Shadwell’s home. Dot claimed she occasionally crossed paths with him there, but all she ever said about the mysterious man was that he was ‘certainly an interesting one,’ and that he and Tracy got on like a house on fire.

~ ~ ~

Supreme Archangel Aziraphale was rather perplexed to find himself face-to-face with a delivery man from International Express who was very much human and also very much alive. Had he been on Earth, he would not have batted an eye, but they were very definitely in Heaven.

Lesley had seen some things in his time, and he wasn’t terribly fazed about being in Heaven, but he did look around in amazement at the seemingly endless, pristine surroundings. “Wow,” he said. “Very impressive. Must take a lot of work to keep all of this clean,” he said, facing the Entity he was making the delivery to.

“Ah… Yes. Suppose it must,” Aziraphale said politely. As unprecedented as it was to see a fully-alive human being in Heaven, it still managed to rank fairly low on his list of concerns.

“Special delivery for you, sir,” Lesley said, handing him a box and a clipboard. “I’ll need you to sign for it here, please. And I’m to tell you that you must be alone when you open the package.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Yes, very good. Thank you.” He signed on the dotted line and returned the clipboard.

“It’s not very cosy here, is it?” Lesley mused.

Aziraphale forced himself to give a polite smile. “Well, it is an office space. I don’t know of many offices that are cosy,” he said diplomatically.

“No, I suppose not,” Lesley agreed. He gave a slight tip of his hat. “Have a good day, sir!”

“Thank you. Mind how you go,” Aziraphale said, and he watched as the very-much-alive human delivery man walked away.

Uriel confronted him about it, and then Michael did, too. He brushed each of them off by glancing upwards and saying something about God’s Plans being Ineffable. Neither of them particularly liked that answer, but they were used to it by now, and they knew they wouldn’t get much more than that. Saraqael just paused and gave him a side-eye. “Official business, Aziraphale?”

“Something like that, yes,” Aziraphale replied.

Saraqael smirked and continued on her way.

Aziraphale had no idea what to think about the box, really. The last time he’d seen that delivery man, he’d handed over a box very similar to this one with some decidedly potent contents, including a familiar flaming sword. What would it mean if those items were being returned to him now? And so, when he did finally have a moment of privacy, it was with no small amount of trepidation that he miracled up a table, set the box on it, and carefully opened the mysterious package.

He yelped and jumped back from the resulting explosion of glitter.

He stood there frozen for a moment, catching his breath and watching as the sparkly bits of black and red all settled on the table and the otherwise-pristine floor. And on him.

And then he laughed good and hard.

The glitter had got all over his jacket and waistcoat, and a bit onto his trousers, too. Some of it was even sticking to his face, and when he reached up to touch his hair, he set loose another small shower of black and red glitter, and he laughed again. Then he stepped closer to inspect the box.

There was no note of any kind, nor was there any written indication of who had sent the package, but there didn’t need to be, either.

Aziraphale smiled fondly as he brushed his fingers through some of the glitter that had managed to stay in the box. Oh, the humans had been the ones to develop this type of prank, but glitter itself had been some of Crowley’s best work.

He wondered if there was any proper etiquette about sending a thank-you note for a prank.

And then he had a marvellous idea.

With a snap of his fingers, the mechanism was reset and the box was closed with most of the glitter back inside. (Once glitter has been unleashed, even a miracle is not likely to contain it.) Aziraphale grinned a very mischievous grin as he carefully lifted the box and went off in search of Michael.

^[1] Not literally bloody. Drawing summoning circles with blood had gone out of fashion at some point, probably because humans finally figured out that blood tends to stain things. Chalk seems to be the preferred medium these days. It’s much easier to clean. This particular circle seemed to be drawn with red chalk, perhaps as a nod to the old ways.

^[2] This is another advantage of using chalk instead of blood to draw summoning circles.

^[3] This was an entirely unforeseen development in the blood vs. chalk debate.

^[4] She’d got several other stories out of him, too. To be fair, he’d also got a fair number of stories out of her.

^[5] No one was entirely sure if George had ever actually smoked his pipe, but he always had it with him, and he just didn’t look right without it.

^[6] His goal was not to render the watering can unusable; he just wanted to make it so Wendy would need to use more force than usual to pick it up. It had to be just enough to be frustrating without it being obvious that glue had been involved. Fortunately, Crowley has many, many years of experience with super glue, and he knows how to find that just-right balance with pretty much any non-porous object.

^[7] A note for the Americans: just because your country uses blue ribbons for first place does not mean everybody does.

^[8] This might have something to do with the Incident that is rumoured to have occurred between Crowley and a show horse the one time Crowley did attend the fête, but nobody seems to have actually witnessed the alleged Incident.