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He picked up the letter and was not one hundred percent surprised to see that it was addressed to Mr. G. Baddicombe. He unfolded it.
It read: “Here is A Florin, lawyer; nowe, runne faste, lest thee Worlde knoe the Truth about yowe and Mistrefs Spiddon the Type Writinge Machine slavey.”
Newt looked at the other letters. The crackling paper of the one addressed to George Cranby said: “Remove thy thievinge Hande, Master Cranby. I minde well how yowe swindled the Widdowe Plashkin this Michelmas past, yowe skinnie owlde Snatch-pastry.”
Newt wondered what a snatch-pastry was. He would be prepared to bet that it didn’t involve cookery.
The one that had awaited the inquisitive Mr. Bychance said: “Yowe left them, yowe cowarde. Returne this letter to the bocks, lest the Worlde knoe the true Events of June 7th, Nineteen Hundred and Sixteene.”
Under the letters was a manuscript. Newt stared at it.
“What’s that?” said Anathema.
He spun around. She was leaning against the doorframe, like an attractive yawn on legs.
Newt backed against the table. “Oh, nothing. Wrong address. Nothing. Just some old box. Junk mail. You know how—”
“On a Sunday?” she said, pushing him aside.
He shrugged as she put her hands around the yellowed manuscript and lifted it out.
“Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter,” she read slowly, “Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef! Oh, my … ”
She laid it reverentially on the table and prepared to turn the first page.
Newt’s hand landed gently on hers.
“Think of it like this,” he said quietly. “Do you want to be a descendant for the rest of your life?”
She looked up. Their eyes met.
IT WAS SUNDAY, the first day of the rest of the world, around eleven-thirty.
St. James’ Park was comparatively quiet. The ducks, who were experts in realpolitik as seen from the bread end, put it down to a decrease in world tension. There really had been a decrease in world tension, in fact, but a lot of people were in offices trying to find out why, trying to find where Atlantis had disappeared to with three international fact-finding delegations on it, and trying to work out what had happened to all their computers yesterday.
The park was deserted except for a member of MI9 trying to recruit someone who, to their later mutual embarrassment, would turn out to be also a member of MI9, and a tall man feeding the ducks.
And there were also Crowley and Aziraphale.
They strolled side by side across the grass.
“Same here,” said Aziraphale. “The shop’s all there. Not so much as a soot mark.”
“I mean, you can’t just make an old Bentley,” said Crowley. “You can’t get the patina. But there it was, large as life. Right there in the street. You can’t tell the difference.”
“Well, I can tell the difference,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure I didn’t stock books with titles like Biggles Goes To Mars and Jack Cade, Frontier Hero and 101 Things A Boy Can Do and Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” said Crowley, who knew how much the angel had treasured his
book collection.
“Don’t be,” said Aziraphale happily. “They’re all mint first editions and I looked them up in Skindle’s Price Guide. I think the phrase you use is whoo-eee.”
“I thought he was putting the world back just as it was,” said Crowley.
“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “More or less. As best he can. But he’s got a sense of humor, too.”
Crowley gave him a sideways look.
