Crowley pulls the collar of his jacket around his neck and scowls at the fact he slept through whatever England has had this year by way of summer. The leaves swirl around his feet as he heads towards the bench that served them both so well for their apocalyptic plot all that time ago. This, as much as the Garden of Eden, was where their story began, he thinks, with a smile.
He sits down on the bench, searching, as he does so, for the inevitable letter. Nothing. He crouches down, checking under the bench. Still nothing. He’s sure he got the clue right…
As if by magic (miracle, Crowley snorts), a nightingale swoops down, narrowly missing Crowley’s perfectly coiffured hair. It deposits the note in his lap and flies away singing, its song ringing loud and clear in the absence of Central London’s usual traffic.
There must have been a fair amount of traffic recently to be causing this dust in my eye, Crowley thinks, as he swipes at his face. A brisk cough, and he is ready to read:
My dear Crowley,
These past months have been
strange, but I do enjoy how quiet it has
been. I’ve learned to do some things I always
intended to learn how to do – like baking and
knitting! I am told my devil’s food cake is
quite scrumptious. I think everyone in London
has tried some now. I shall bring a piece in
a box when I leave for our appointed meeting
place. It is nice it doesn’t have to be clandestine
any more! Remember when we had to send a
coded note like this one? Now I’m doing it for
fun! Yes, I could have just told you the place
to meet, but what fun would that be? The best
things do take work, my dear! I do hope the
reward will be worth the wait. Heaven knows
this time has been difficult for everyone.
Yours, quite nearby now,
P.S. – If you think these are my last words
you, you have it backwards!