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Ann knows that Mrs Lawton is absolutely sincere when she invites both her and Anne to stay for tea. But Ann understands that what the two old friends really need is a moment alone to make amends, to address old wounds and clarify new beginnings. And so, instead, Ann politely excuses herself and sets off down the street unaccompanied (as Anne Lister has always done, as Ann Walker would never have dared only a few months ago).
London is not usually so blustery this season, but today the sky is a blur of ominous clouds and gusts of wind that make the carriage horses snort and stamp. Ann wanders idly past shop windows, glancing over a hat here, a dress there, clutching her gloves so they don't blow away. Strolling down the street without the infamous and attention-grabbing Anne Lister bestows upon Ann a sense of invisibility that she had almost forgotten. No heads turn to stare when she travels alone, and while that once would have been a tremendous relief to Ann, instead she finds her temporary anonymity somewhat amusing.
After all, she, Ann Walker, is just as worthy of care and attention and note as any other woman. That was one of the very first lessons she learned from the exhilarating, breathtaking, astonishing process of being loved by a force of nature like Anne Lister.
Eventually, Ann pulls herself from her musings and finds herself before a curious bookshop, established a few decades earlier by one A.Z. Fell. Intrigued, Ann steps inside to the tinkling of a small bell, and peers about at the stacks of leather-bound tomes that teeter across the shelves.
"Oh, hello there!" says the bright-eyed gentleman behind the till. "May I help you?"
"Oh, yes," stammers Ann. "You see, I'm looking for a book, as a present, for... for a very special friend of mine."
"Ah," says Mr Fell, a smile flickering across his face. "Excellent, well. What sorts of books does your friend like?"
"I should imagine books about a variety of rather unconventional topics," Ann replies. "Have you anything on, perhaps, anatomy? Or coal mining?"
"Anatomy or coal mining," repeats Mr Fell, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "I'm afraid I can't say that we do, at the moment. Is there anything else?"
"Architecture?" offers Ann. "Or travel—Russia, perhaps."
"Travel. Yes." Mr Fell turns to peruse a stack of books tumbled onto a nearby shelf. "Or architecture. Very good, I'm sure we can find something perfect for him..."
"Her," Ann corrects him, before she can stop herself.
"Her, of course," Mr Fell says, still clearly distracted.
But even when the curious man finally seems to register what Ann has said, he asks no questions, merely quirks his head to one side for a moment, then continues rummaging through the shelf. Ann finds herself oddly grateful for this.
"Must be a very singular mind, this friend of yours," Mr Fell adds, finally reappearing from the depths of the bookshelf with several tomes in his arms. "Quite a broad array of interests."
"Yes," replies Ann. "She's quite the cleverest person I've ever met. I learn so much from her, all the time."
"Well, you're lucky to have her for a very special friend, then," says Mr Fell kindly, and Ann looks down at the stack of books that Mr Fell is holding out to her so that her blush isn't too apparent.
It's about then that the first crack of thunder sounds outside and the rain starts coming down in sheets, so Mr Fell asks Ann (the only customer inside the bookshop) if she wouldn't like to stay for tea while they wait out the tempest.
"You really don't mind?" Ann asks, delighted.
"Oh, heavens, I don't think it'll be a problem, not unless Gabriel decides to pop down on official business," Mr Fell reassures Ann as he bustles about spooning fresh tea leaves into a much-loved teapot. "Sugar? And here, have a cake as well—they're marvelous."
"Thank you," Ann says, accepting a teacup. "I suppose there's nothing to be done until the rain lets up, but I do hope that Anne doesn't worry."
"Your very special friend?" Mr Fell asks with a small and understanding smile, as he selects a tea cake for himself.
"Yes," says Ann, her face radiating adoration. "I try not to give her reason to worry, but I know that I do. She's ever so patient with me, you know, seeing as I’m so fretful and she’s anything but. She'd drive a carriage straight through the fires of Hell, if she needed to—she's daring and fearless like that. I've never met anyone else like her."
"Ah," says Mr Fell softly.
"And it's still so strange and wonderful to suddenly remember that she's mine... that she's my very special friend, that is," Ann corrects herself. "Do you know, Mr Fell, I spent my entire life quietly doing as I was told, until I met Miss Lister? And she made me feel that I wasn't simply the passive, dull person that I had always imagined I was. She taught me how to stand up for myself, how to say no to the people who always claimed to be on my side, but never actually were. Thanks to her, I finally have the courage to be myself, and to trust that the people who matter will still accept me for who I am, no matter what I do and who I choose to associate myself with."
Ann stops, suddenly self-conscious for having said so much. She glances at Mr Fell, but he doesn't look aghast or disapproving or even bored. Instead, something almost like regret is playing about the bookshop owner's eyes.
"Well, she sounds like a very special friend, indeed," he replies finally, dropping his gaze down towards his tea. "As I said, you're quite lucky to have found each other."
The door of the bookshop bangs open, and for a moment, Ann is afraid that the storm has broken the locks off. But in from the downpour strides a figure clad all in black, dripping water from top hat to boots, and all down the long black cloak in between.
"Crowley!" exclaims Mr Fell joyfully as the newcomer nudges the door closed with one end of a handsome walking stick.
"Don't mind if I take refuge in your shop for the evening, do you?" replies the gentleman. He flings off his top hat and it practically lands in Ann's lap, which is when Mr Crowley seems to take stock of the fact that she is there. (She can't be entirely sure, on account of the tinted spectacles that hide his eyes.)
"Hello, who're you?" he asks, his dripping cloak slung halfway off his shoulders. "She's not...?"
"Oh, no, not at all," Mr Fell confirms hastily, twitching an apologetic smile at Ann. "She got caught in my bookshop when the storm whipped up."
"Got it, didn't think I recognised her." Mr Crowley finally slings the rest of his cloak off and hangs it on a coatrack near the door, giving Ann the impression that this is quite a normal routine. "Just, the look of her is very... you know. Like one of your lot."
"Ah, yes, I can see why you might have been worried, but never fear." Mr Fell smiles as Mr Crowley flings himself into the adjacent couch with a sigh. "We're quite safe here with Miss Walker. Although I will have to ask you to be somewhat discreet, my dear," Mr Fell adds to Ann. "If you could avoid mentioning that my... associate was here this evening, we would be much obliged."
"Your associate," scoffs Mr Crowley from where he is sprawled across the couch. "I'd find a better word to describe me, angel, if I were you."
Ann still can't see Mr Crowley's eyes behind his glasses, but she has the odd sensation that Mr Crowley just winked at her. And suddenly the code cracks and everything makes sense to her—why this gentleman seems so at home in Mr Fell's bookshop, why they don't want their association (as it were) widespread. Ann's stomach clenches slightly when she recalls what the consequences for two such gentlemen would be, should their affiliation become public.
"I won't say a word," Ann promises. "I understand completely."
Mr Crowley's eyebrows edge up over the tops of his spectacles.
"Thanks, love, although I really don't think you do," he says.
"No, I do," Ann insists, thinking frantically for a way to convey the depths of her understanding in a similarly discreet manner. "I... I took the sacrament with the friend I was just telling Mr Fell about. Miss Lister."
Ann worries for a moment that she's said too much. Thankfully, Mr Fell looks utterly charmed by this.
"Well, that's just lovely," he tells Ann, taking her hand. "Bless you both, my dear. And I hope that you're very, very happy together."
Something about the way that Mr Fell says this does indeed make Ann feel, well, blessed. Like she never should have worried for a moment about the sanctity and holiness of her love for Anne, let alone become consumed in months of nightmarish doubt. And Mr Fell understands every word she says, no matter how indirect. They speak the same language of allusion and omission. Ann beams at Mr Fell, and he smiles beatifically back.
Mr Crowley, however, makes a face.
"Not Anne Lister, of Shibden Hall?" he asks.
"Yes," Ann says defensively.
"Oh, bloody heaven," Mr Crowley mutters to himself.
"You know her, Crowley?" Mr Fell turns to his associate with a look of amazement.
"I once lost fifty quid to her in a hand of cards, at some lodging house in Halifax," Mr Crowley groans. "She would've won the boots off of the entire 33rd, if one of her relatives hadn't charged over and dragged her home at some ungodly hour."
"Commonly subject to your influence, then?" Mr Fell asks disapprovingly.
"Well, hardly, if she's taken the sacrament with Miss Walker," Mr Crowley says with a flail of one hand in Ann's direction.
Ann suppresses a giggle at the thought of her Anne ever falling under the influence of someone like this very strange gentleman—or any gentleman at all, for that matter.
The storm is finally beginning to let up, and so Ann asks Mr Fell if she might purchase a beautiful book on the major cities of Russia, complete with a detailed set of engravings and maps.
"Do come back and see us again, when you're next in London?" Mr Fell requests, as Ann takes the book from him.
"And bring Miss Lister with you," Mr Crowley adds.
"If your intention is to try to win back your fifty pounds, Mr Crowley, then I can't very well bring Miss Lister here in good conscience," Ann informs him earnestly.
"Oh, believe me, I don't intend to try," Mr Crowley grumbles. "No, I’ve heard some rumours flying about, regarding coal mining at and around Shibden. It sounds like your Miss Lister is doing rather well for herself, but given her particular business competitors in Halifax, I suspect that she can and should be playing quite a bit dirtier..."
Mr Fell clears his throat pointedly.
"Should be playing quite a bit savvier than she has been, to date," Mr Crowley corrects himself. "Anyway, let her know that I'd be happy to give her some free advice, if nothing else?"
Ann agrees, then takes her leave of the two strange gentlemen with a curtsey. The downpour has softened to a drizzle, and Ann smiles as she hastens back to Anne and Mrs Lawton. Somehow, meeting Messrs Fell and Crowley has made her feel a little less alone in the wide, unfriendly world that she and Anne navigate together. The knowledge that she now has two such friends buoys her the whole walk back to where a concerned Anne is waiting for her with yet another cup of tea.
"What was all that about the sacrament?" Crowley asks, yawning.
"Oh!" Aziraphale smiles as he watches Ann Walker retreat from view down the street. "Well, it sounded rather like your typical Anglican wedding. I assumed that’s what she meant."
"A wedding, eh?" Crowley repeats, coming to stand beside Aziraphale at the window. "You allowed to bless something like that?"
"Well, of course," the angel replies, his tone implying that even demons should know that typical Anglican weddings tend to be all about blessings. "Why ever not?”
"Oh, you know." Crowley shrugs. "Humans seem to get a bit touchy about this sort of thing, when it's between two ladies or two gents."
"Humans do," Aziraphale clarifies. "I can assure you that Upstairs doesn't care in the slightest."
"Hmm." Crowley exhales slowly and leans against the window frame. "I admire Miss Lister, I have to say. Bold personality, excellent fashion sense. Not a bit afraid to ask for what she wants, as soon as she's aware that the other party might be interested."
"Oh, yes," stammers Aziraphale. "Yes, from what you were saying, it does sound like she's quite an adept businesswoman."
He smiles tremulously at Crowley, whose expression is inscrutable behind his dark spectacles.
"Yeah, that she is," the demon replies finally, something like an exasperated sigh rushing out alongside the words. "Well, now that the storm's passed, I'm off. See you around, Aziraphale."
"Oh! Crowley!" Aziraphale smiles sheepishly as the demon pauses halfway through the door and turns to lean against the frame in a surprisingly serpentine manner. "Er, since you don't have time to stay for tea, I don't want to keep you, but... what word besides 'associate' did you have in mind?"
Crowley remains coiled motionless against the doorframe for a moment, then finally shrugs.
" 'Friend', maybe?" he suggests, and, with a tip of his top hat to Aziraphale, the demon swaggers off into the twilight.
Friend, thinks Aziraphale to himself as he cleans up the teacups. He quite likes the sound of that, even if he's very certain that Gabriel and Michael and all of his other supervisors wouldn't. Crowley the demon, his friend.
"And a very special friend, indeed," mutters Mr A.Z. Fell, as he deems the bookshop officially closed for the evening and locks the doors securely.