Chapter Text
“Remember my friend, that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.” —Dracula
Aziraphale wakes up in her new office, disoriented from the move. Boxes of her things are scattered high around the small dwelling, and she rises from her bed, her locket bouncing against her chest.
It's beginning to dawn, although it doesn’t look like it, grey mist rolling through the village as dark clouds hang heavy and low, the change of the season making itself known.
Moving quickly, she bustles around the small space, putting off fully unpacking yet again, as she has something much more exciting planned, and she doesn’t want to waste a moment.
Tucking her journal to her satchel, she climbs into the waiting carriage, her movements distant, as if in a dream, so consumed as she was by her plans: for today she was venturing to Eden Manor, the estate of the widowed Lady Crowley.
She has been invited, of course. As the town’s newest physician she is supposed to make a house call and become acquainted with the widow; but her reasons for accepting were multi-layered.
Her library, Aziraphale writes in her journal as the carriage floats through the morning mist, is rumored to have no equal. A collection of carefully curated treasures made of paper and ink. As her late Husband was a doctor himself, they say nothing is more prized to her than the medical journals— some of which he had written! I am eager to see what I may learn, but I am also cautious of overstaying my welcome, as she is still grieving.
She pauses, pen poised as she admits to herself the second facet of her curiosity. The Manor is also rumored to be haunted, and while I don’t like to dismiss people’s fears out of principle, it seems rather unfair to accuse someone of nefarious intent. Many who stay as guests are simply uncomfortable by grief, and I can imagine that must fuel discontent. I would like to see for myself and come to my own conclusions.
Aziraphale is dropped off at the gate, the driver barreling on the moment she’s off, disappearing around the bend.
Eden Manor is— overgrown. The road has patches of green, and the summer grass remains uncut and waist high on either side of her as she walks. The only other living beings in sight are the crows that sit high and pretty in a tree that overlooks the front yard, a natural beacon at the end of the path. Vines climb high up the exposed stonework, a shattered-mirror pattern of green and brown, and Aziraphale can see as she gets closer that the curtains are drawn on all the windows, blocking out anyone and anything.
When she arrives at the door, she expects it to be opened by a butler or housekeeper, but it is opened by none other than the Lady herself.
Aziraphale knows this instinctively, staring at the striking woman in black. The veil is low enough to cover her eyes, but unable to hide her stony expression, trembling lips pursed. In Aziraphale’s mind, there is no one else it could be.
“Lady Crowley, I presume,” she says, inclining slightly as a bow. “I am Dr. Aziraphale Wright. I want to thank you again for extending the invitation to explore your library.”
Crowley nods once, sharply, and her smile holds no amusement, even as her shoulders sag and her voice contains a hint of exhausted mirth. “The library. Of course, it's— what I mean to say is, ah, please come inside.”
The widow's mood seems flighty, jumping from one emotion to the next in a way that Aziraphale can’t quite follow, but she still offers a polite smile as she crosses the threshold.
The Lady pauses to let Aziraphale take in the entry room, almost as if she was seeking approval, waiting a heartbeat too long.
“Would you like a tour?” she offers, and follows it up with: “just a small one, on our way to the library.”
“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale replies, and it is, in fact, genuinely lovely. Aziraphale falls in step with her, matching Crowley’s strides as they stroll through the halls, past a drawing room, and elegant dining room. The house itself it beautiful, although— frozen. Stagnant in time. It seems there is very little of the actual house used, and Aziraphale has not yet seen a single other person.
If anything, Aziraphale feels as if the house is simply haunted by memory, and not actually haunted, as if its better days are behind it since the passing of the Lord.
But then she sees the portraits on the stairwell.
Lady Crowley is gliding past them as if nothing is wrong, as if the faces of its subjects aren’t blurred out of every painting. It’s as if someone smudged them with water, trying to hide the evidence of who had come before, and Aziraphale can’t help but stare as they walk past the unsettling display.
The main table in the library is stacked with thick texts, laid out for her, but Aziraphale is immediately taken with the rest of the collection, roaming past the meticulously organized shelves, beautiful stained windows and plush antique rug. Her eyes settle on a pair of worn armchairs in front of the fire, tilted towards each other in conversation, so obviously loved that Aziraphale’s heart aches in sympathy.
There is another portrait above the mantle of the fireplace, of the Lady and her spouse, the late physicians face and body flaked and melted beyond recognition. Aziraphale studies it, trying to find meaning in its desecration.
Lady Crowley clears her throat. “Doctor?” She asks cautiously.
“Oh,” Aziraphale turns away from the portrait, “I forgot myself for a moment, forgive me.”
The quirk of the widow's lips is strained. “It’s quite alright,” she assures her, leading Aziraphale back towards the medical texts. “The library is yours, with exception to the desk in the corner.”
She points towards it, and Aziraphale can see diagrams and pinned to the wall, dust-covered books stacked high, and the bag of medical supplies tucked into the corner. Her late husband’s desk.
You’re also free to explore the rest of the Manor as well, except for the Garden.”
“Thank you, my Lady, but I’m sure I’ll be quite content in the library,” Aziraphale says, distracting herself as she examines one of the anatomy texts.
“Please just… call me Crowley.” She says after a moment's hesitation, and Aziraphale feels a strange sense of camaraderie.
“Of course,” she says. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, but I do prefer to go by my given name.”
“Excellent,” Crowley nods once, drawing up to her full height. “I’ll come collect you when nuncheon is ready.”
“Oh I couldn’t possibly—“
“Nonsense,” and the duties of a hostess seem to bring Crowley confidence, and Aziraphale reflects that she must not have entertained guests in quite some time. “I won’t allow the journals to leave the library, but you are more than welcome to stay as long as you wish. I could put together a spare bed as well if you would like, if you would like to stay through dinner as well.”
Aziraphale stares at the widow, touched in a way that she cannot name, and finds that her token protest has died before it could reach her lips. “I suppose one night would be enough to finish my notes.”
And there is a smile, small and pleased and oddly knowing on Crowley’s face, and it makes warmth curl in Aziraphale’s ribs at the sight of it. “I’ll come collect you soon then, Aziraphale.”
The way she says her name shouldn’t make Aziraphale blush, but still she feels the flustered glow creep up on her.
The widow's puzzling moods and touching hospitality are soon forgotten, however, as Aziraphale eagerly begins pouring over the first of the medical journals. The detailed diagrams and humorous footnotes indicate the late physician was both incredibly dedicated and relentlessly charming, and Aziraphale loses herself in the finer points of head trauma.
It is only when the sun hits her eyes that Aziraphale realizes that time has passed, and she looks up to find a serving platter has been set out, cooled tea, meat and fruit waiting for her to notice them.
Aziraphale, mortified at her own rudeness at missing what was, surely, her host’s attempts to collect her, drops her head in her hands with a heated curse.
Her stomach growls, and she peeks out to look properly at the platter. The blackberries looked freshly picked, and Aziraphale’s mouth waters. When she reaches for one, it tastes like a memory of a home long-left behind, bright and bold with summer nostalgia.
My first morning passed without incident, she writes in her journal, as a way to take a small break. I am more certain now that Crowley’s few initial months grieving probably brought out erratic behavior, such as the destruction of the portraits. Pushing away loved ones and the desertion of her staff in this time must have been the cause of the rumors.
Now that she’s more adjusted, I’m sure that she is nothing more than a perfectly lovely woman, if a bit lonely. I’d have to know the cause of death of her partner to be sure, but I doubt it’s anything out of the ordinary.
____________________________________________________________________________
“I’m sure you’ll excuse the breach in decorum,” Crowley says as she presents them dinner in the library. “I don’t have the patience for it these days, and I am not a woman of much regard anymore anyway.”
“You won’t offend me,” Aziraphale replies, “not when your cooking is this good.”
“Scotch?”
“Oh, please.”
“So. Tell me what you think of the library,” Crowley says as she pours them two tumblers, and she offers one to Aziraphale before taking a seat in an armchair by the fire, the end table between them laden high.
“You truly have an amazing collection,” Aziraphale immediately gushes, “your husband’s journals are incredibly detailed.”
Crowley's mouth parts, faltering, and Aziraphale rushes to correct herself for bringing up an obviously sore subject. “I- what I mean to say is—“
“Sit,” Crowley gestures towards the opposite armchair, and her voice trembles a little. “Please.”
“You must miss him terribly,” Aziraphale whispers as she does as ordered, and she doesn’t quite know what to do with the feeling of sitting in a dead man's armchair.
“More than anything in the world,” the widow replies, an odd tone to her voice, “we traveled the world together, and spent every summer evening in the garden.”
Something else in Aziraphale’s chest aches as well and, as soon as she recognizes it as jealousy, she swiftly tamps it down.
“I would do anything to have her back,” Lady Crowley says, looking directly at Aziraphale with the admission, and even through the veil Aziraphale wilts under the gaze.
“I apologize,” she says. “I did not mean to presume. I’m sure your wife was very lovely.”
Crowley looks away quickly, almost guilty, and Aziraphale wonders about all the hints and hidden meanings that like-minded women like them have when it comes to expressing desire.
She also wonders at the guilt she feels herself, for her suspicions of foul play are still present, albeit dulled— but the Lady looks so beautiful like this, framed by the light of the fire, comfortable in her grief like an old friend, and Aziraphale can not push herself to probe further.
“May I ask why you don’t seem to have any staff?” She asks instead. “The Manor must be difficult to maintain on your own.”
“Most left of their own volition,” the Lady explains, “the housekeepers were terribly superstitious, and were afraid the grounds were haunted.” Aziraphale notices very suddenly that Crowley did not voice her own opinion on the matter.
“Besides,” Crowley continues, suddenly wry, “I am not entirely alone. There is an excellent mouser that makes up the last of my staff. Mercury isn’t the friendliest feline, but he has a soft spot for women.”
“How quaint,” Aziraphale comments tightly.
Even with the veil, she has the distinct impression that Crowley’s eyes are sparkling. “Not a fan of cats?”
“Rather, I would say they’re not a fan of me,” she gripes, and Crowley lets out a rather unladylike snort that turns into a giggle, and Aziraphale smiles. “It’s rather silly, I know.”
“It’s not,” Crowley insists, but her voice is still light with mirth. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem avoiding each other.”
“I’ve made a habit to avoid most men in my life anyway,” Aziraphale quips, and that sends both of them into a fit of giggles, warm from the fire and drink.
Crowley launches into a story from her youth, of the trouble her and her family dog got into, and Aziraphale remains enchanted throughout the night, barely even noticing when Crowley fills her glass again.
“Why don’t I show you to your room,” Crowley says eventually as they finish their second (third) nightcap, “you’re free to come back to the library after, but I’m afraid I must retire for the evening.”
“That would be ideal,” Aziraphale says, thinking of the bouts of insomnia that would’ve had her sneaking back to the shelves anyway. It was better to have permission. “Thank you again for your hospitality.”
“It’s my pleasure,” the widow says, and the odd tone is back, something tight having entered her tone, making Aziraphale frown. “This way.”
Aziraphale is left with a soft farewell at the door of the guest room, and she can’t help but stare as Lady Crowley walks away, unsure of what had triggered the woman’s mood back into being so detached.
Still, Aziraphale goes about a vague approximation of her nightly routine, washing with soap of rose-hips and lavender, and sheds a few of her outer layers, replacing it with a robe. Thick slippers peek out from the turned-over bed, and she gratefully steps into them, thinking of the cool floors leading to the library.
Out of the corner of her eye, Aziraphale spots movement from the window, and ventures closer.
Again! Light! The flickering of a lantern in the garden below.
Aziraphale watches as a figure donned in brown leather stalks through the garden, casting impressive shadows in the night. The shock of red hair is illuminated in the warm glow, and Aziraphale spots intimidating sheers clutched in Lady Crowley’s other hand.
Images of freshly dug earth in a forbidden garden, and portraits smudged in bouts of guilt assault her mind.
It is a haunting idea, one that makes her shiver, even as she scolds herself for an overactive imagination.
The widow carries the light of the lantern further into the expansive garden property, until she is naught but a silhouette in the distance, and Doctor Aziraphale knows now that she will not be leaving in the morning.
She will stay until Crowley’s patience wears thin, or Aziraphale’s curiosity is satisfied, whichever comes first.
____________________________________________________________________________
I expected some sort of issue with housing me for longer than the agreed day, Aziraphale writes in her journal on the third morning of her stay. But Crowley seems to anticipate my needs at every turn, going above and beyond and never once growing tired of my company. Yet, despite talking long into the evening, there is something that stops us from having a true connection, and I am unsure if it is her unwillingness to grow close to another woman during her period of mourning, or perhaps something darker. Her wife’s desk in the study remains a mystery, as does her garden and nightly excursions to God knows where. The portraits are another issue entirely—
Aziraphale jumps back from her journal with a startled cry as a shape lunges for her, and it takes a few seconds too long for her to realize that it’s just a little black cat that has jumped onto the table, it’s eyes milky white and unseeing, yet they stare straight through her, the tip of a single fang protruding from its muzzle.
“Hello,” she sighs, wearily. “Mercury, was it?”
The cat yawns, showing its rows of sharp yellow teeth.
“Right.” Aziraphale says. “If you would be so kind as to move away from my journal—“
She attempts to shoo him away with a small flap of her pen, but the cat merely glares, fixing its discolored gaze on her.
“Yes well,” Aziraphale straightens her spine, “we’ve become acquainted now, yes? I believe it’s time for you to move along.”
The cat lets out a croaking sound that might’ve been a reply, and jumps down from the table.
Aziraphale humphs and raises her pen, only to be interrupted by a wavering mournful meow.
Aziraphale gives him a baleful glare. “That’s quite enough.”
His garbled cry pitches louder, more insistent as he pads towards the entryway, and Aziraphale, despite herself, gets up to follow. “You’re either asking for food or about to tell me more about your mistress,” she tells the cat, “and it better be the later, you ghastly beast.”
It’s cries continue as they venture further from the library, and Aziraphale becomes more confident that she’s being led on a goose chase as Mercury stops in front of a door, his front paws stretching up to claw over existing scratches in the wood.
“Fine,” she says as she opens the door, “but this is the end of our relationship, do you understand—“
Mercury let’s out a self-satisfied purr as he darts out into the garden, and Aziraphale is left to stare after him, the open door as enticing as any forbidden fruit.
“As Eve looked upon the Apple,” she mutters after a long moment. “God help me.” And Aziraphale steps into the garden, lifting her skirts as she follows the overgrown path.
Mercury is nowhere to be seen, but still Aziraphale ventures farther into the estate, passing lush plants and flowering trees, blossoming flowers seeming to strain towards her as she passes.
It’s the most beautiful thing Aziraphale has ever seen.
So caught up in the beauty, she doesn’t notice how deep into the labyrinth she has gotten until she turns around and realizes she has no bloody idea which path leads back to the Manor. The frustrating part is that she can very much see the building, but every path seems to lead her to another dead end.
It’s only inevitable that she’d turn a corner and find Crowley at the other end, her hostess in coveralls and gardeners’ gloves. Aziraphale takes a sharp inhale; both at being caught, and finally being able to see the stunning gold eyes, reflecting sunflower bright without her veil.
“What are you—“
Aziraphale is privately relieved that she doesn’t sound angry, but her voice does pitch up on a broken note of concern. “You can’t, you must leave—“
“I’m sorry— your cat— he, um, got out?” Aziraphale tries to explain, living comfortably in that half-truth.
“He knows what he can and can not be near,” Crowley dismisses it with a wave of her sheers. “You on the other hand—“
“I didn’t touch anything,” Aziraphale interrupts, “if that helps my case at all. I am sorry, if you want me to leave I understand—“
Crowley holds up a hand but then falters, starting and stopping, and Aziraphale realizes that she has never seen the woman so flustered.
“It’s the plants,” Crowley explains after a moment. “Some are medicinal, from my wife, but others are lethal to humans. Poisonous to touch.”
Aziraphale freezes, ice dripping down her spine at the realization. “Oh,” she says simply.
“Yes,” Crowley exhales through her nose, and something about the way she slumps her shoulder makes Aziraphale’s heart stumble inside her chest. “We grew a wide array of plants together, but of course absolutely nothing is labeled.”
Aziraphale thinks back on the fresh vegetables that made up her meals. “And er—your vegetable garden?”
“Off to the side,” Crowley says, and her grin, now that Aziraphale can see her face, is just as mischievous as she anticipated. “Separated by a wall, in case you were worried. I haven’t killed anyone yet.”
Aziraphale pales. “Quite right,” she squeaks.
“Come on then,” Crowley offers the arm that isn’t holding the shears. “Let me lead you back?”
Aziraphale can see that a smudge of dirt had stuck to her face, her fly-away red hair illuminated by the afternoon light, and she wants nothing more than to reach forward and brush her thumb over Crowley’s cheek and wipe it away.
“Could— could I have a tour?” She asks instead, and leans forward a bit, earnest in her request. “Even if it’s just the medicinal herbs you mentioned.”
Crowley’s face softens, and Aziraphale is close enough to see freckles dotting over the bridge of her nose.
“As you wish,” Crowley murmurs, and Aziraphale allows herself to be guided through the rows of plants.
They stay arm in arm the whole afternoon, sharing their individual knowledge of the plants’ properties and uses, and Crowley does not wear her veil again.
____________________________________________________________________________
Aziraphale doesn’t believe it to be possible to fall in love this quickly, and she also knows logically a weeks’ stay is too long—she has an office to open, patients in the village to treat—but she’s comfortable here, more comfortable than she has any right to be.
I am under no impression that I could ever possibly replace her wife. Aziraphale writes, and is stubborn enough to believe what she puts to paper. And I might not want to, for the fate of her wife is still something of a mystery. She is charming and persuasive, and distracts from the topic in a way that is almost natural, except in her continued persistence in avoiding it.
Aziraphale knows that they cannot continue on like this, and tells herself that this would be her last night, even as she folds herself into an armchair that she cannot define as ‘hers’ no matter how badly she wants to.
Crowley is laying out tea for them, the afternoon sun spilling warm and heavy across the floor, but Aziraphale stares up at the portrait and is struck suddenly by a wave of grief for a woman she’ll never know.
“Tell me about her,” Aziraphale requests, not looking away from the melted visage, and knows from the sudden lack of sound that Crowley has frozen next to her. “Please.”
The sound of pouring tea returns, Crowley taking the time to think through her response.
“She saw the best in people,” is her first answer, deliberate in its gentleness. “But never flinched from the worst. Steadfast, kind—“ and Crowley’s voice hitched on a laugh that holds no amusement. “With a naughty streak that got her into trouble more often than not. Could beat me in chess blindfolded and still cheated anyway.”
“And how did she die?” Aziraphale asks, and holds nothing back, voice of silk and steel.
“I can’t tell you that,” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale’s eyes shut tight with its implication, shutting out the damnation that threatens to consume her.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley implores, “please look at me.”
She shouldn’t, Aziraphale knows this implicitly— if she does she might do something horrible, something impulsive and dangerous like forgive this woman she barely knows but recklessly trusts—
And she turns to look at this sulphur-brimstone woman, this radiant tempter, and grapples with a longing so intense she feels faint.
Crowley’s whole body is begging, yearning within the confines of her chair for Aziraphale to be a little bit reckless. It’s bitten apple-red lips and wildfire hair and lonely-desperate eyes.
Aziraphale isn’t sure who leans forward first, their lips all but a breath away from each other, tilting together like something natural, like Aziraphale has been made to feel those lips on hers and no one else’s but—
But she is the first to pull away, the aching under her ribs outweighed by her suspicions growing black in her heart.
“I cannot,” Aziraphale says softly. “These are not the best circumstances to start something like this.”
Aziraphale watches as Crowley swallows her rejection, her golden gaze nearly molten. “I understand,” she says as she stands, long and elegant and dignified, even as she moves to leave, to recover her pride in private. “It is probably better this way.”
“Crowley,” she calls from her armchair, and she feels sick to her stomach suddenly, voice a shaking echo. “I’m sorry, I truly am, but I need to know— how did your wife die?”
Crowley pauses at the door. She looks behind her shoulder, but doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes, her gaze distant. She remains poised, suspended for a moment like an ornament about to shatter.
“She fell,” Crowley whispers the secret to her, and Aziraphale grips the arms of the chair, feeling like she’s about to fly apart at any moment and she, for some reason does not, can not, respond.
“Goodbye, Aziraphale.” Crowley says after a moment, somber, resigned— and she doesn’t look back as she leaves, which is the one blessing Aziraphale has as her whole being begins to tremble, and she rises and stumbles towards the desk in the corner, breaking the last barrier of privacy the widow had.
Aziraphale doesn’t understand why it takes her so long to reach the desk, and her panic as her body fails her grips her throat in its icy claws, the bitter aftertaste of tea as damning on her tongue as the petals of nightshade blooming in the summer sun.
The truth dawns bright and painful in her chest, and she knows the answer is near— near— so close to the flame of truth she willingly thrusts her hand into the fire to reach it as she scrambles through the desk, opens a small drawer, and her fingers brush against the cool metal chain of a locket, its twin burning hot around her neck.
She picks up the locket, and stares, and stares and stares, her heart beating like the thundering hooves of a pale horse, the reaper himself looming above her, and she looks up at the mantle to confirm.
Where there once was melted color, Aziraphale can see that the oil painting above the fireplace is now whole again.
And her own face is staring back.