Obviously, obviously, nothing is dearer to Crowley than his tea-drinking, sushi-loving, note-leaving angel. ObViOuSlY. But the Bentley comes a very close second. Another snap of his fingers brings snakeskin boots to his feet. Yes, yes, he can hear Aziraphale chastising him for his use of frivolous miracles, but a short and sharp reminder of one angel’s jaunt to France for crepes during the Revolution usually silences such admonitions with a pout.
Opening the front door, Crowley is momentarily stunned by how much quieter Central London seems than usual. Aziraphale wasn’t joking about this… conscientious hermitting, Crowley thinks wryly. Never mind! Fewer pedestrians, fewer policemen, fewer… need to consider the speed limit.
The Bentley gleams, as always, as Crowley expects. A note lies on the dashboard:
My dear Crowley,
I trust your car is in good working order, as you shall need it for the next tasks!
I may have given you a circuitous route to find me, but not as… devilish as this!
Yours, still waiting,