Chapter Text
“That’s how she looked when I was little,” said Anathema. “But I – I’ve never seen these books before. She never said anything about writing. She read, but – not this sort of thing. Books on botany. Traditional medicine. Technical magazines.”
They were in Aziraphale’s sunny kitchen, the noonday light picking out the bright covers of Fatal Frailties and A Sensible Shroud. Anathema had arrived on a gearless bicycle about an hour after their call (“I only use the car when I have to. Do you know the annual carbon footprint of the average Briton?”).
“Well, that seems to match up,” said Aziraphale. “The amateur sleuth looks like a self-insert, that’s a term I’ve just learned. Honoria Spruce – that’s the character’s name – is a spinster who seems magically around forty-five or fifty throughout thirty years of publication. Solves at least one poisoning disguised as a natural death, susses out another murder with what she knows about the language of flowers, and knows about livor mortis, and so on.”
“Liver?” said Anthony, involved in an indescribable way with one of the kitchen chairs and speaking through a third slice of eggy bread.
“Livor. It’s a discoloration that occurs after death and gives some idea of the elapsed time. I’m learning rather more than I ever expected to about the sort of thing.”
“And I don’t remember her ever mentioning a Mrs. Ormerod.”
“I’m sure she would have referred to her as Lucinda.”
Anathema shook her head. “But then she didn’t talk that much about her personal life. She was more concerned with teaching me – herblore, how to cast a chart, account-keeping, data security.” In answer to Aziraphale’s slightly raised eyebrows she added: “She said that the first job of a witch, after being a witch that is, was financial and technical competence. And that there are always secrets to keep.”
“It looks as if she kept a rather large one,” said Aziraphale. “So well that her heirs knew nothing about it. That would be you, presumably, or – your mother –?”
Anathema shook her head. “She died when I was still in my twenties. Dad’s been gone since I was fifteen, I don’t mean gone gone, he met an American heiress with a clifftop mansion in Monterey. It was just before I remember meeting you, out at the allotments,” she said, glancing at Anthony.
“Oh dear.”
“So it was just the two of us, and Nan helping out, especially after he didn’t have to pay maintenance any longer. I remember wondering as I got a little older how she could afford to be so generous when she didn’t even live with us. She always said she needed to close the door behind her at the end of the day. This explains a lot.”
“If you go back several years there are regular withdrawals from the account,” Aziraphale nodded. “After that it looks as if it were just left to build up.”
“She passed a year after – after Mum. Her heart.” She glanced up through the swimmy, outsized eyeglasses. “You expect your parents to die before you, but not your children.”
“To the memory of,” murmured Aziraphale. “That’s how the very last one is dedicated. I’m afraid I left it with Mrs. Ormerod’s solicitor.” Inadequately: “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I think she – saw it. She even wiped her computer the night before they found her. She left me enough to buy Jasmine Cottage outright.”
“Thought it was a commune,” said Anthony.
“We handle the day-to-day as a collective because those are our values,” said Anathema rather primly. “But someone with good sense has to prevent really stupid decisions.”
“Well, it seems that she may have left you a little more.” Aziraphale pushed over the dogeared manila folder. “Most authors don’t become rich, exactly, but there’s enough there for a good number of rainy days.”
“I don’t see how, actually,” said Anathema, flipping through the statements. “Her real name isn’t on this account.”
“Mr. White is looking into that,” said Aziraphale. “Those deposits are almost certainly royalties from Julia Bex’s novels. Meaning that your Nan conjured the entire value of this account from thin air – a feat of witchcraft not to be sneezed at.” He took Anathema’s hand and laid it on the pile of papers. “Her relationship to my great-aunt notwithstanding – whatever it may have been – I think that money should justly go to you.”
“This is a lot all at once, Mr. Fell. I think I’d like to go home and cast the runes.”
“Of course. I sent an e-mail to Mr. White. I’ll call you when I hear from him. You might want to keep this altogether to yourself in the meantime.”
“That’s one of the things Nan taught me,” said Anathema.
“That wos big of you,” said Anthony as Anathema pedaled off down the lane, her progress commentated by the piercing yips of R. P. Tyler’s dachshund.
“It seems the only decent thing,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve come into a house and a comfortable retirement through no action of my own, just because Mrs. Ormerod hadn’t anyone else to leave it to.” He took Anathema’s teacup over to the basin. “I’d like you to come with us.”
“Come where?”
“To Mr. White’s. I hope he’ll see us tomorrow.”
“S’posed to be talkin’ to someone in Seaford about a room, but –”
“My dear.” Aziraphale turned from the counter. “I thought we were settled. At least stay until you can find something that isn’t on the other side of Brighton. Besides,” he went on, picking up the basil from the windowsill, “I think there are some parties in residence who could profit from your – direction.”
The crooked grin bloomed after a moment. “You got it, angel,” said Anthony. “ ‘Cept right now, just need to get my head down again. ’Kay if I go back to bed?”
“I’’ll come with you,” said Aziraphale.
The mobile dragged him back to the present. He’d been dreaming about a book signing where Anathema’s Nan autographed stacks of the Gardener’s Almanac, while Anthony hooked a finger in the choker around his neck and told him to keep quiet about who she really was; then he came to consciousness, to find the real Anthony engulfing him like an invasive vine.
“Mr. Fell? Sable White. Well, this is unexpected.”
Aziraphale felt unaccountably mortified as he became aware of a pronounced state of arousal, and tried to sound as if he’d not just woken up. Anthony, behind him, uttered a string of sleepy consonants and demonstrated that he was in a parallel condition.
“I – ah, yes, my –” what? “My – partner recognised the jacket photo, and Miss Device confirmed it. I think she ought to talk to you. You can” – Anthony had found that shivery spot at the back of his neck – “bill me, uh, for –”
“Let’s wait to see if we recover anything. I’ve been getting bored with reading my family’s Facebook posts and throwing away direct-mail adverts. I was starting to think seriously about kelp recovery.”
“Have you – ah! – found anything out?”
“I’ve already made some progress with the bank. I should be hearing from them in the morning, so – say two tomorrow afternoon?”
“We’ll – be there.” As he broke the connection Anthony’s sharp little teeth closed just enough on the cord of his neck to raise all the hairs on that arm in a shivery, squirmy ripple of sensation.
“Partner?” he husked in a sleep-rough voice, the outbreath tickling Aziraphale’s throat.
“Anthony –”
“Shhh.”
Anthony’s hand stopped his as he shifted onto his back and moved to wriggle out of his boxers; Anthony’s fingertip stroked lazily over his stiff length through the poplin, tracing the ridge of the underside without letting him seek any friction. He went on wordlessly, pushing up Aziraphale’s vest to lean in and tongue his nipples, his throat, the notch behind his ear.
“You know how that –”
“Shhh. Hands over your head.”
Anthony knelt up to cross one wrist over the other, circled them with one long-fingered hand; Aziraphale hissed in a breath, then another, sharper one – “shhh” – as Anthony dragged his free thumb over lips and tightened nipples, kneaded the little roll of his stomach. Every so often there was a brief fingerprint of pressure against the crossroad of nerves below the finial of his prick, soft and slow, until he was working his hips against the mattress and whimpering.
Time seemed to have paused again. He was drifting on an ebb and flow of sensation, gradual and tender, with only Anthony’s light grip at his wrist to remind him who was in control; that tone that was every pitch and none played at his core, that stately dance of stars that was always the same and always new. Arousal grew heavy between his legs, a delicious ache that crested in little waves, till finally there was the please yes moment when Anthony pushed the boxers down to trap his thighs, and settled that long weight over him.
Angel, whispered Anthony, thrusting against his belly and his seeping cock in a lazy measure. The thin lips traced the shape of his jaw, his cheek, lingered to breathe angel into the shell of his ear; memorised the thick slope of his shoulder, the ridge of his collarbones, until they were spilling against each other – Aziraphale first as Anthony’s grip on his wrists tightened, Anthony going rigid a moment later with a long shuddering sigh, and who was making that noise, oh, that was him, a long rise and fall of quavering wails that fell away to slowing breaths as Anthony released his wrists, mouthing angel beside his ear again, angel against his lips, his cheek wet against Aziraphale’s, angel, angel.
“You really thought I was lookin’ for it with some other bloke?” said Anthony some time later, when the light outside had shifted.
“My dear. You had told me an untruth. Several. In fact.”
“Just -- didn't want you to think --”
"Look what I did think."
"Should've known I wos daft for you."
"I'm afraid I judged you by past history." Aziraphale snugged back into Anthony's embrace, little spoon, and wrapped arms over his. “I'm sorry. Only promise I won’t have to use my word again.”
“Not for that,” said Anthony.
“We shall upend our schedules irreparably.”
Supper had been a forage when the evening was already advanced, the shared work of the washing-up – where d’ye keep these little plates, angel? – filling Aziraphale with an unexpected warmth.
“Says you,” answered Anthony, scrolling his phone. “Got the Exton place again on Tuesday. First thing in the morning.”
“I’ll be done with this chapter in a trice.” Aziraphale was almost to the end of Unholy Unction, though he kept pausing to contemplate Anthony’s length – encased in a set of Aziraphale’s pyjamas that was too roomy in the seat and too short in the leg – enveloping Mrs. Ormerod’s chintz settee. Every so often he would doze, his dark eyelids speaking of nights of disrupted sleep, and then pretend he hadn’t.
“What’re you writing?”
“Just notes. It’s become a habit.”
We live here together, he remembered wishing, and when he’s done up like this, I look after him.
He glanced back at Anthony, whose eyes had closed again.
Please.
“What d’ye wear to go see lawyers?”
“Clothes,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure those will do. Mr. White himself seems to favour a slightly moth-eaten cardigan.”
“Thought they went in for fancy suits ‘n’ all.”
“He’s retired, dear. Rather like me. We need to get a bit of a wiggle on, Ana should be here already.”
“A wiggle?”
Aziraphale paused in the act of tying his tie in front of the ormolu mirror. “It means to move briskly.”
Anthony stepped close behind him, slipping one finger under his collar. “D’ye still have –?” He gave a little tug.
“I.” Aziraphale dropped his eyes with a little pang. “I put it away. When I thought I – wasn’t going to see you again.”
“Think it’s time we put it back on you.” A deeper shiver down his spine as a twist of Anthony’s finger made the collar just snug enough.
“It’s in Mrs. Ormerod’s jewelry box. The inlaid one, on the dresser. The necklaces are on the bottom.”
There was a light, floating feeling as he let the necktie dangle, thumbed his collar open, already feeling the soft confinement of the velvet band at his throat. “Must’ve been her grandmother’s, this stuff’s all like you’d see on Masterpiece.” A few scrapes and chinks, sounding oddly far away, as Anthony poked through the lockets and collars. “Wot’s this?”
“What’s what?”
Aziraphale turned. Anthony held up, of all things, a blue plastic thumb drive with a paper label on one side. “Wos stuffed back under that little folding shelf. With the rings in it.”
Aziraphale turned, squinted at the small, neat lettering; tilted his head back, finally fumbling his reading glasses off the bedside table. There was a single word on the label, in green fountain-pen ink: Julia.
Downstairs, there was a sharp knock on the door.
“There’s just time for a look,” said Anathema. Aziraphale was already booting up his laptop. “Did she even have a computer?”
“I believe Mr. White took custody as her executor. He didn’t mention finding anything unusual on it.”
“I’m assuming you have a good virus program.” She popped the drive in and waited for a progress bar to jog-trot its way several times across the screen. “All right, let’s see.”
“Wot’s that?” said Anthony. A succession of rectangles, symbols and random punctuation marks filled the screen in a configuration of short bulleted lines that suggested some sort of list, or perhaps a powerpoint presentation.
“Text, but it’s corrupted,” she said. “How long has that drive been lying round?”
“Years. I can’t say how many.”
Her cascade of dark hair fell around her face as she leaned into the keyboard, battering it more quickly than Aziraphale could follow. “I can probably get it back, but it’ll take a little time.”
“We’re already a bit late.”
“Bring it along,” she said, highlighting the Shut Down command. “I‘ll work on it when we get there.”
Her car was a dented and scarred wagon, which issued alarming squeaks and creaks from deep beneath the upholstery as they settled into the seats. Aziraphale held the laptop case gingerly, as if it might contain something explosive. “You want the turnoff to Lyminster.”
White had Rosemary For Remembrance in hand when he answered the door. “I can see the resemblance,” he said as Aziraphale introduced Anathema, looking down at the jacket photo.
“People used to say that.”
“The bank account is still active, and still receiving deposits,” said White, settling behind his desk. “But Mrs. Ormerod’s appears to be the only insurance number associated with it. It was far enough back that Julia Bex’s name could be added without the proof of identity you’d have to give nowadays. Probably someone should have updated that, but you’d be surprised how many things just slide.”
He toggled to another tab on his computer. “Wilberforce Holdings is the corporate identity of Clue Press, a publisher specialising in what are known as ‘cosies.’ No big names, but they’ve carved out a niche. I think the first person I contacted there imagined I wanted to submit a manuscript – she sent back a fact sheet on the sort of thing they want. Repeating cast, no coarse language, no graphic violence.”
“The formula,” said Aziraphale.
“I called their public relations department, and they confirmed Julia Bex as one of their authors – not that that was in question – but got a bit shirty when I pressed for any information beyond that. There seem to be instructions to confirm or deny nothing else about her, even whether she’s alive or dead. Someone else is supposed to get back to me, but before I burn through any billable hours documenting our standing, we should see what Miss Device has there.”
“Just a moment. I’ve almost got it.” She flicked the Enter key. “Document files. Nothing financial. I don’t think. About fifteen separate – all dated six or seven years ago – this one is the newest.” She drew arabesques on the touchpad, hit the Enter key again. “It’s a letter. Or maybe a journal entry. I’m not sure.”
She adjusted her glasses and angled the screen toward Aziraphale.
“I do not know for certain who will read this, if anyone,’ “ he read. “ ‘Perhaps, nonetheless, it will help me to find my way if I set it down; as with so many of the things that have gone into my books, it will clear my mind to write it through.
‘I find that I can no longer write these characters after the death of my much loved husband –’ “
“What?”
“ – ‘followed by the cruel loss of my equally beloved Agnes…’ “
“Well, fuck me,” breathed Anthony.
“Dear, ” said Aziraphale in a stage whisper, then continued: “ ‘without whom Julia Bex would have never lived.’ ”
Ronald Ormerod was an ordinary man, and it was for his ordinariness that I chose him – his reliability, his responsibility, his old-fashioned honour. I had never felt towards a man as the world seemed to expect, and remained at home well into my thirties, supplementing the family income with a string of dull situations; but he courted me with politeness and persistence, and by degrees, I softened to him.
He made it clear that I should want for nothing. I had written two rather flimsy novels, more as diversion than anything, and sold them outright to the kind of press that publishes light reading between overly sensational covers. But if we were to marry, he told me, he would not have it said that his wife wrote potboilers for butter-and-egg money; he would provide, and there would be no more novel-writing. It seemed a small thing to give up; but as years passed, I found myself scribbling notes on the backs of invitations, the programmes of pantomimes, and finally into notebooks that I hid, not wishing to seem ungrateful for all he had given me.
And then I met Agnes – a connection formed in that great women’s freemasonry of garden lore, that bloomed into a confiding friendship. It was Agnes who said there was a way around, without breaking the peace of my marriage or smothering the instinct that threatened to burst from me.
And so, Julia Bex was born. Publicly, we were merely two women who shared a love of growing things. Privately, Agnes managed the finances and acted as my agent; when the publisher asked for a photograph, she sat for it. The books were our common creation, in some ways the children I had not had with my husband. Our bond deepened with each one; every dedication was to her – the keeper of the secret, the guardian of the treasure. I treated the small but steady proceeds as ours in common; over the years, she turned her share into a modest fortune, with which, she said, she intended to see her descendants safe.
Meanwhile, Ron was blissfully unaware of the hours I spent, tapping away at his typewriter and, later, his computer while he was at work or on the links; the giddy fact of our deception made the ideas swarm in my head, as the years passed and we all grew grey.
Then he died. I had made my peace with the prospect of surviving him; our life together was long, our quarrels few, and my love for him genuine. But another deep love remained in my life: a quiet, faithful love full of wisdom and comfort, offered by one whose own recent loss had aged her before my eyes. I considered whether it was time to ask for – not her hand, as is done nowadays; I am not that modern – but her companionship, in a common habitation where we might share the years left to us.
And now she is gone – the secret, guiding star of my existence –
Aziraphale glanced up at Sable White. “To the memory of my beloved Stella,” he said softly. “And Flora, and Violet, and all the rest.”
I had already planned my next book, only to find that now, when I sit before the keyboard, the words will not come. Half the delight of writing was the sweet deception we practised, that spared my husband’s pride yet preserved my joy; the other half, the creation of a character that embodied everything that I loved, and now cruelly miss, about my friend. I am left with my garden, and every growing thing there reminds me of Agnes.
I cobbled together a volume of short pieces that I had written over the years, and told my publishers that another novel will come, but every day that seems less likely. Nonetheless, I am not ready to end the career of Julia Bex, or – now that I can – own her work under my name. She belonged to us both, and so long as her readers still look forward to the next book, and the royalties are paid to her, a part of Agnes is still with me.
My late husband’s family was not prolific, but there are those I judge have at least a chance of surviving me; and while I was never close to my sister, the few times I met her grandson he seemed a promising young man. I shall go to see Mr. White, and amend my will, and store Julia Bex in the attic for my heirs to find. If I do not, as the saying is, take up my pen again, let that be my final mystery.
“The rest looks like an outline,” said Aziraphale, toggling through documents. “That last book that she never wrote.”
“So.” said White, “legally, it is your money. By the time she died, you were her sole surviving beneficiary.”
“It’s all right,” said Anathema. “Agnes took good care of me.”
Aziraphale pondered. “Would you accept a small retainer nonetheless?”
“What for?”
“I’m considering an investment,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps Mr. White can recommend someone to draw up the papers, but you’re uniquely qualified to advise the business. I propose to buy into Subtle Serpent Garden Services.” He turned toward Anthony: “If you’re amenable.”
“Angel, I told you –”
“An investment,” repeated Aziraphale, “with shared risk and return. We can set it up any way you like, though, well, partner does have a good sound to it. You could hire help, buy another van, expand. Think it over.
“And – Mr. White, since you seem to be representing me to Clue Press –”
White crossed sweatered forearms on the blotter. “How else can I help?”
“I may need someone to read a contract over for me,” said Aziraphale. “I gather that, so far as her readers know, Julia Bex is still living. And Mrs. Ormerod did leave me the house and everything in it." He extracted the flash drive and tucked it into his shirt pocket. "There seems to be a full outline here, and I think I have a feel for her style. What if I offered to become Julia Bex?”
“You sure about this, angel?” said Anthony after Anathema drove off.
“As sure as I can be of anything,” said Aziraphale. “I mean, I can’t be sure how your business will prosper, or what sorts of guaranties either of us are expected to make, but that’s for Mr. White’s colleague to explain. Take some time thinking about how much you’d need. To pay off the van, and get another, and take on help until things start to turn a profit.”
“You're talkin' about jumping into something big.”
“Like living together?”
“Uh. Yeah. Just -- don't wanna get you into anything you'll be sorry about."
"Dear. You didn't have such reservations on -- another occasion I could mention."
The crooked grin. "Knew you wouldn't be sorry 'bout that."
Aziraphale reached to take Anthony’s hands in his, a brief squeeze. “You taught me how to take a chance. Let me do it again.”
He turned to gaze out the kitchen window, as if at the remembered Anthony pacing between the shrubberies.
“I understand that being in control is important to you,” he said. “Just as having someone else tell me what to do – frees me. I don’t want to change that between us, in the matter of the – the business agreement, or – anything else. I only want you to let me give – no, let me share with you. The way Agnes and Lucinda shared. What did you think I wished for, with all those stars falling above us out there on the Dyke?”
He glanced back over his shoulder, then back at the row of herbs in the window, the velvety leaves of the sage, the reviving fronds of the dill.
“I won’t be thirty again, or forty," he went on. "And in my old job, I used to see how often people had less time than they’d imagined. Look at Lucinda and Agnes. They lived so long, and still never really got their chance. Or Sable White, who I suspect might have consoled Lucinda’s last years – if his scruples hadn’t held him back. If being without you for only a few days taught me anything, it’s that I’d like to spend” – his voice caught, and he paused. “I would like to spend however long I do have with you."
He touched the opal basil, which had unfolded a new, tender leaf at its top. "We can take it a day at a time. And maybe – if it works out – I can find a way to make it up to you for doubting you.”
After a few seconds he remembered to add: "Please?"
Anthony stayed silent for a long moment.
“Turn around,” he said.
Christmas Eve
“Angel, come look. It’s snowing.”
White flakes glinted on Anthony’s hair and the shoulders of his jacket as he banged into the parlour. Aziraphale looked up from the laptop.
“In a moment. Let me save this – eep! ”
“Gotta warm my hands on something.”
“You almost made me delete a whole paragraph.”
“You can write ‘nother one. Miss Bex. How’s it coming?”
“I should have the proofs of A Dissembled Death by next week. I told them that that would have to be the last book featuring Honoria Spruce - really, she belonged to Lucinda. But they’re enthusiastic about my new detective character, the one who inherits a house near the shore and finds her neighbours up to all sorts of secretive things. I sent a sample chapter, and they especially liked the supporting cast – the busybody across the lane, and the local curmudgeon, and the young gardener. The working title is A Baffling Bequest.”
“Put a pin in it and come out. Can’t remember last time we got snow. Don’t wanna miss it.”
“How’s Adam working out?” said Aziraphale as they walked along the grass verge, plumes of breath mingling in the cold air.
“Quick study,” said Anthony. “Has his own way with the plants. Sounds like the Voice Of God when he reads ’em the rules. You heard him out back with the Christmas roses."
"Mrs. Potts says the cottage has become quite the showplace again. She's handed out your card twice this week."
Anthony crammed his hands into his pockets, tugging the winter jacket snug around him. "He's turning off enough work, I might be able to carve out time to do some astronomy stuff. There's this amateurs' group in Chichester has lectures 'n' that, if they won't mind a yob like me turnin' up."
"Ah, then I believe I've made a lucky guess."
"What's that mean?"
"That would be telling, dear."
There were festoons of string lights everywhere, and a projector that threw a moving display onto a housefront, like stars in a stately dance. There were carolers somewhere out of sight, and a slightly alarming illuminated wire reindeer sculpture that dipped its head to the whitening turf in an automated grazing motion. A pair of headlamps showed as they turned back toward the house.
“Looks like International Express up at ours.”
Ours, Aziraphale found himself echoing silently, and slipped his hand into Anthony’s pocket, twining their fingers.
The lights from inside the van threw an oblique rectangle on the pavement as Lesley, in brown coveralls and baseball cap, stepped out of the cab with a large box. “It’s for Mr. Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “Merry Christmas, dear.”
Anthony tested the weight, the brief slide of a smaller box inside the shipping box.
“Come back up in the porch.”
Anthony slit the packing tape with a end of a key and folded back the flaps. “Bloody hell, angel,” he said. “These cost a thousand quid.”
“I had to do something with my advance,” said Aziraphale mildly. “It’s got some sort of computer thingy with star maps, and automated tracking, like those dash screens in the modern cars. You’ll be able to make sense of it. I must have spent a whole afternoon looking at telescopes.”
“Not got anything like this for you.”
“Well. Perhaps it can do double duty then. If you like.”
“How so?”
“Well, it could also be an engagement gift.”
He laid his hand over Anthony's.
"Saying -- we could be guiding stars to one another."
“Angel –”
Anthony’s embrace was long, and fierce. It lasted until a little gale came up, blowing snow against their cheeks and into their hair.
“I think,” said Anthony, “that it’s time to go in.”
“I’ll make us some mint tea,” said Aziraphale.