Aziraphale casts a dark look at the telephone - still going after the tenth ring. Nothing for it, then. âFell and Company,â he lilts, cradling the antique receiver against his shoulder.
âAah,â a voice croaks, hesitation. Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose - one of those. âYeah, ah. Iâm looking for a book.â
The speaker sounds maybe eighty years old, and mildly dazed. The brief flare of pity does little to quell Aziraphaleâs irritation. âWell, as a dealer of rare and antiquated books, I suppose youâve called the right place. Who is the author?â
âOh, ah,â the old man dithered. âGosh. Dunno. Sheâs one of those, uh.â Aziraphale counted, in effort to find patience. He got to six, and it didnât help. âYâknow. One of those seer-people. Knows stuff.â
Aziraphale pauses, agitation quickly stilling. âProphecy, do you mean?â
âThatâs the one! Those prophecy-ers. Heard tell a copy cropped up somewhere down there, one Iâve been keeping an eye for since- ooh, ages now.â
Aziraphale has a brief flare of protection over his tomes, but enthusiasm for finding someone to discuss them with wins out. âWell, it just so happens books of prophecy are my specialty, my good man! If I donât have it, Iâm sure to know of it. Who is the prophet in question?â
For a brief moment Aziraphale thought he heard sniggering through the phone line, but apparently the gentleman was just readying himself for a long, hacking cough. Surely that canât be healthy. âAh, yeah. Name starts with⌠oh, I think maybe a K?â
Aziraphale considers. Quickly rules out the Biblical options, at least. âKalifa, perhaps?â
âNo, no,â the old man cuts him off, âNo, C. Itâs a C.â
âMm,â Aziraphale says, âWell, thereâs always Cassandra, of course.â A pause, but no reaction from his caller. âEr. Aleister Crowley, perhaps?â
Thereâs a funny sound through the phone again, though itâs another lung-rending wet cough, apparently. âDefinitely not that one.â
âThere was that American fellow, CayceâŚâ
âAh!â The old man interrupts, again. Aziraphale frowns. âHer first name, I remember. Itâs Eyema.â
âEyema,â Aziraphale repeats, skeptical. âMy dear sir, Iâm quite positive-â
âCuetanjel. Thatâs it, Iâm sure of it.â
The phone line bursts into sudden, suspiciously familiar cackling, and Aziraphale flares into a brilliant blush. âYEAH you are!â Crowley crows, laugh still whooping as Aziraphale slams the receiver down with a clatter