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Names had a peculiar sort of power. Naming something formed its nature, in a way. There had been no angel of the eastern gate before the Almighty spoke the name “Aziraphale;” a fallen angel had not become a creeping serpent until he heard the name “Crawly.”
But nature also informed the connotations of a name. The thousands of cheated merchants, scandalized priests and scathingly-reviewed poets who had uttered the name “Crowley!” in anger throughout the years had given the name its dark and bitter taste.
Anthonys, however, remained relentlessly ordinary. Anthonys were greengrocers, maths teachers, nervous and lovestruck young men who wore glasses and could hardly speak to the objects of their affections.
If “Crowley” was ninety percent pure cacao, “Anthony” was at best milk chocolate.
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