Inside the guest room the witch’s head is tipped back toward the ceiling. A muffled scream of frustration fills the room.

“What on earth is it with everybody today. First Henry crawls into my bed ice-cold. Now Aziraphale decides to be insufferable. There’s no solar eclipse on the calendar.”

Stalking angrily over to the open bag, the witch grabs fresh clothes and toiletries before heading to the bathroom. There’s a hiss from the bed and the boa constrictor slides out from under the covers, off the bed and over to the witch. He nudges the back of the witch’s ankle.

“What? You want a steam bath now? Fine, I guess. Though you just had one three days ago and you’re not shedding.”

So, the other articles get deposited on the floor, while the serpent is picked up with careful hands and finds its place around the witch’s middle.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale is just as confused about what’s unfolding. He blinks at the closed wooden door – mumbles, “That was rather rude.” Then looks down on the book and carries it carefully downstairs.

“I need better light to examine this. At least the witch didn’t pick one of the ancient texts to read in bed. I have perfectly good armchairs for reading.”

“Yeah, but they’re not as comfortable to sleep in,” sounds Crowley’s voice from behind.

Aziraphale jumps a bit and frowns at him, his friend giving him a concerned look.

“Have you forgotten I was here, Aziraphale?”

“No, certainly not. And after your...insistence last night how could I?”

“But something is off today,” Crowley taps his sunglasses. “It’s like the shop’s energy is...foggy.”

“There is absolutely nothing foggy about my bookshop!” he gives the other man a glare.

“Well, maybe it’s just you. Yesterday was...a lot.,” he tilts his head, “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Crowley. You should know me better,” his hands go to straighten his bow tie, freezing when he realizes it’s not there.

“That’s why I’m asking.”

“Leave it,” Aziraphale orders and presses the book to his chest.

“If you insist?” Crowley’s voice is soft, missing the usual snark.

“I do, thank you,” and on those words he heads over to the counter.

The bell on the shop door jangles harder than usual, the sound echoing all the way to the upper landing. Crowley is first to glance over. A man in a brown jacket with a sun-bleached UPS patch and a matching beanie is visible through the glass of the closed door.

Aziraphale goes over and unlocks the door. The delivery guy has a package under one arm. He stands at the threshold, scanning the shop with his mouth open.

“Uh,” he says, “delivery for... A-Z Fell and Co.?” His eyes flick from the ceiling to the bookshelves, then back to Aziraphale. “You run, like, a funeral home on the side, or something?”

Aziraphale smooths his waistcoat, the book still in hand. “No, only a bookshop. You have a parcel?”

The man sets the box down with a thud and to the rattle of metal from inside, “Sure, and you’re hosting a seance or what? I mean – those are a lot of grave lights.”

“Grave lights? Who sent them?” Crowley asks, while approaching the door.

The UPS man squints at the return address. “It’s from a C. Valentine, St. Michael’s.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, “I did not order those. Nor do I know the supplier. But let me sign your papers so you can be on your way.”

To a “Thanks.” Aziraphale signs on the scanner and the man is out of the shop. The keys rattle as he locks the door behind the delivery driver.

“Grave lights – Aziraphale? Something is off.”

“It’s one delivery gone wrong. It happens. I didn’t know you were this sensitive.”

 Crowley picks up the box.

“Where are you taking these?”

“To the trash. They’re not staying in here.”

“I need to send those back.”

“You didn’t order them. So, you don’t.”

“Crowley, this is my shop. And my parcel.”

“Then I’ll put it in the courtyard.”

“If you insist.”

The witch clatters down the narrow staircase, wearing the old hoodie from earlier and a pair of loose sweatpants. The boa constrictor is looped around the hips like a low-slung sash, his head angled forward in a posture of dignified expectation. At the bottom of the stairs, the witch pauses – gaze zeroing in on Crowley and the parcel he carries.

He is already halfway out the back door, the box held out ahead of him at arm’s length, his long strides stiff and deliberate—as though whatever is inside might be contagious. There’s the rustling of papers from the front of the shop, where Aziraphale is sorting through a stack of papers. He notices the witch and the serpent, then pointedly goes back to his shuffling.

“Ugh, Crowley? Henry’s asking for a mouse?”

He pauses in the doorway and locks eyes with the snake, wondering, “Already hungry again? What where you up to, Herny?”

The boa hisses at him and he holds up his hands. “Yeah, I know something’s wrong with the energy in here this morning. And no, it’s not me. Or him,” he nods towards Aziraphale. “A backflow effect? Hm. Possible.” His fingers tap against the parcel.

The rustling stops. A beat of silence, and then Aziraphale turns around slowly, the stack of papers still held loosely in both hands.

“A backflow effect is always limited to the caster and their spell,” the witch tries to sound confident. “There is no way the original spell could reach beyond the objects, here places, its bound to.”

“Jack changed the spell after we tore his leech network apart. He’s bloody arrogant not brain-dead.”

Before anyone can respond to his statement, the shop door opens. To the chime above the door a broad figure enters. Between the large black oversized coat, the Siberian hat and the opaque sunglasses the face is covered in a surgical mask. The smell of lilies filling the shop is so thick it makes Aziraphale sneeze. Crowley puts the parcel down, whispering, “The door was locked.” Then he closes and locks the backdoor.

Pulling out a tissue Aziraphale blows his nose, eyeing the stranger. After stowing the tissue back in his pants pocket, he addresses the figure, “I am very sorry, but we’re currently closed.”

“The door was open,” the reply is raspy and high pitched.

“It was not supposed to be. My apologies.” The figure makes no move to leave, but scans the interior of the shop – from the cluttered counter to the shelvesfilled to the brim.

Aziraphale tries again, pointing the sign in the door – which is displaying the “OPEN” side to the inside of the shop, “Well, the window sign still informs potential customers we’re closed.”

“According to that sign you’re closed most of the time. How do you get any business like this?”

“Our clients are very agreeable to our opening hours and value our services.”

Crowley strides over to the counter, pinching his nostrils closed, as the odour has gotten even worse. On the surface there’s the lilies but underneath hides something sharp and bitter.

“And what services do they value? Cause I don’t see anything valuable here.”

Aziraphale reals back at that statement but Crowley steps in front of the figure and points to the door, “That’s because this shop is closed. So – leave.”

“Is he working here?” The stranger leans to the side to address Aziraphale again.

“At the moment. If you would now kindly take your leave. You’re welcome to return when we’re open to business,” the smile on Aziraphale’s face is painfully false.

“Guess we’ll see about that.” On those words the stranger finally steps back out.

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All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Footsteps come towards the door. A moment later the witch opens it in a creased nightgown under a faded green hoodie.

“Morning, Aziraphale. So sorry for waking you with the commotion. I read one of your books last night and when Henry’s cold body startled me awake, I must have pushed it from the bed.”

 “You did not wake me up. Did the book take any damage?”

“What?”

“Was my book damaged by the fall? I assume it’s one of the historic ones? Those are delicate.”

The witch turns around and heads back into the room, picking up the leatherbound book on the floor by the bed. On the bed itself just Henry’s snout is visible beneath the blanket. His tongue tasting the air coming through the half open door.

“Here, see for yourself.” And with that the book gets pushed into Aziraphale’s arms and the door closed in his face.

Inside the guest room the witch’s head is tipped back toward the ceiling. A muffled scream of frustration fills the room.

“What on earth is it with everybody today. First Henry crawls into my bed ice-cold. Now Aziraphale decides to be insufferable. There’s no solar eclipse on the calendar.”

Stalking angrily over to the open bag, the witch grabs fresh clothes and toiletries before heading to the bathroom. There’s a hiss from the bed and the boa constrictor slides out from under the covers, off the bed and over to the witch. He nudges the back of the witch’s ankle.

“What? You want a steam bath now? Fine, I guess. Though you just had one three days ago and you’re not shedding.”

So, the other articles get deposited on the floor, while the serpent is picked up with careful hands and finds its place around the witch’s middle.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale is just as confused about what’s unfolding. He blinks at the closed wooden door – mumbles, “That was rather rude.” Then looks down on the book and carries it carefully downstairs.

“I need better light to examine this. At least the witch didn’t pick one of the ancient texts to read in bed. I have perfectly good armchairs for reading.”

“Yeah, but they’re not as comfortable to sleep in,” sounds Crowley’s voice from behind.

Aziraphale jumps a bit and frowns at him, his friend giving him a concerned look.

“Have you forgotten I was here, Aziraphale?”

“No, certainly not. And after your...insistence last night how could I?”

“But something is off today,” Crowley taps his sunglasses. “It’s like the shop’s energy is...foggy.”

“There is absolutely nothing foggy about my bookshop!” he gives the other man a glare.

“Well, maybe it’s just you. Yesterday was...a lot.,” he tilts his head, “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Crowley. You should know me better,” his hands go to straighten his bow tie, freezing when he realizes it’s not there.

“That’s why I’m asking.”

“Leave it,” Aziraphale orders and presses the book to his chest.

“If you insist?” Crowley’s voice is soft, missing the usual snark.

“I do, thank you,” and on those words he heads over to the counter.

The bell on the shop door jangles harder than usual, the sound echoing all the way to the upper landing. Crowley is first to glance over. A man in a brown jacket with a sun-bleached UPS patch and a matching beanie is visible through the glass of the closed door.

Aziraphale goes over and unlocks the door. The delivery guy has a package under one arm. He stands at the threshold, scanning the shop with his mouth open.

“Uh,” he says, “delivery for... A-Z Fell and Co.?” His eyes flick from the ceiling to the bookshelves, then back to Aziraphale. “You run, like, a funeral home on the side, or something?”

Aziraphale smooths his waistcoat, the book still in hand. “No, only a bookshop. You have a parcel?”

The man sets the box down with a thud and to the rattle of metal from inside, “Sure, and you’re hosting a seance or what? I mean – those are a lot of grave lights.”

“Grave lights? Who sent them?” Crowley asks, while approaching the door.

The UPS man squints at the return address. “It’s from a C. Valentine, St. Michael’s.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, “I did not order those. Nor do I know the supplier. But let me sign your papers so you can be on your way.”

To a “Thanks.” Aziraphale signs on the scanner and the man is out of the shop. The keys rattle as he locks the door behind the delivery driver.

“Grave lights – Aziraphale? Something is off.”

“It’s one delivery gone wrong. It happens. I didn’t know you were this sensitive.”

 Crowley picks up the box.

“Where are you taking these?”

“To the trash. They’re not staying in here.”

“I need to send those back.”

“You didn’t order them. So, you don’t.”

“Crowley, this is my shop. And my parcel.”

“Then I’ll put it in the courtyard.”

“If you insist.”

The witch clatters down the narrow staircase, wearing the old hoodie from earlier and a pair of loose sweatpants. The boa constrictor is looped around the hips like a low-slung sash, his head angled forward in a posture of dignified expectation. At the bottom of the stairs, the witch pauses – gaze zeroing in on Crowley and the parcel he carries.

He is already halfway out the back door, the box held out ahead of him at arm’s length, his long strides stiff and deliberate—as though whatever is inside might be contagious. There’s the rustling of papers from the front of the shop, where Aziraphale is sorting through a stack of papers. He notices the witch and the serpent, then pointedly goes back to his shuffling.

“Ugh, Crowley? Henry’s asking for a mouse?”

He pauses in the doorway and locks eyes with the snake, wondering, “Already hungry again? What where you up to, Herny?”

The boa hisses at him and he holds up his hands. “Yeah, I know something’s wrong with the energy in here this morning. And no, it’s not me. Or him,” he nods towards Aziraphale. “A backflow effect? Hm. Possible.” His fingers tap against the parcel.

The rustling stops. A beat of silence, and then Aziraphale turns around slowly, the stack of papers still held loosely in both hands.

“A backflow effect is always limited to the caster and their spell,” the witch tries to sound confident. “There is no way the original spell could reach beyond the objects, here places, its bound to.”

“Jack changed the spell after we tore his leech network apart. He’s bloody arrogant not brain-dead.”

Before anyone can respond to his statement, the shop door opens. To the chime above the door a broad figure enters. Between the large black oversized coat, the Siberian hat and the opaque sunglasses the face is covered in a surgical mask. The smell of lilies filling the shop is so thick it makes Aziraphale sneeze. Crowley puts the parcel down, whispering, “The door was locked.” Then he closes and locks the backdoor.

Pulling out a tissue Aziraphale blows his nose, eyeing the stranger. After stowing the tissue back in his pants pocket, he addresses the figure, “I am very sorry, but we’re currently closed.”

“The door was open,” the reply is raspy and high pitched.

“It was not supposed to be. My apologies.” The figure makes no move to leave, but scans the interior of the shop – from the cluttered counter to the shelvesfilled to the brim.

Aziraphale tries again, pointing the sign in the door – which is displaying the “OPEN” side to the inside of the shop, “Well, the window sign still informs potential customers we’re closed.”

“According to that sign you’re closed most of the time. How do you get any business like this?”

“Our clients are very agreeable to our opening hours and value our services.”

Crowley strides over to the counter, pinching his nostrils closed, as the odour has gotten even worse. On the surface there’s the lilies but underneath hides something sharp and bitter.

“And what services do they value? Cause I don’t see anything valuable here.”

Aziraphale reals back at that statement but Crowley steps in front of the figure and points to the door, “That’s because this shop is closed. So – leave.”

“Is he working here?” The stranger leans to the side to address Aziraphale again.

“At the moment. If you would now kindly take your leave. You’re welcome to return when we’re open to business,” the smile on Aziraphale’s face is painfully false.

“Guess we’ll see about that.” On those words the stranger finally steps back out.

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All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Comments and asks are welcome.