Chapter Text
In a bookshop in Soho, a letter sits on a desk. It’s at the exact centre, perfectly aligned with the desk’s borders.
The owner of the shop, a distinguished gentleman whose name is A.Z. Fell, is currently digging a trench in the rug in front of the desk by pacing back and forth. He’s hyping himself up for the herculean task of opening said letter.
“One way or another, the choice is made”, he tells himself, then he straightens his back. “Come on, old chap, buckle up.” He goes to the desk, picks up his paperknife — an antique piece, shaped like a sword, perfectly in style with the rest of the décor — and with a swift gesture he cuts open the envelope.
He smooths out the thrice-folded piece of paper with slightly trembling hands and takes a deep breath before he starts reading.
Dear Mr. Fell,
I have received your proposal to host a signing of my new book in your bookshop. It is with great pleasure that I accept your offer. Please contact my assistant — their details are printed below — in order to arrange the date and time.
Yours truly,
Dr A.J. Crowley
Thank goodness the bookshop is empty and no customer is there to witness a respectable, middle-aged shop owner doing a happy dance because his favourite writer agreed to do a signing event in his bookshop.
Dr Crowley’s assistant is brisk and efficient, precisely the kind of person Fell likes. They go straight to the point and tell him everything he needs to know about the event: available dates, the expected attendance, the number of copies of From Eden to Eternity: a History of the Night Sky he will be sent, the kind of beverage Dr Crowley likes. “Black coffee or sparkling water. Never, ever tea”, they specify, with the solemnity of a doctor giving bad news to a patient.
Fell takes notes as if his life depends on them. “Would Friday the 24th work for you?”
“Excellent”, they reply without hesitation. “I’ll be in contact a few days before to settle the last details.”
They hang up, leaving Fell to stare at his phone. “Have a nice day”, he says out of habit before he hangs up too.
Thursday is Fell’s favourite day of the week, because it’s delivery day. The sound of brakes outside his shop always makes him stop whatever he’s doing and sprint to the door, like Pavlov’s dog at the ringing of a bell.
He does not remember that today is, in fact, a Tuesday until he runs from the backroom all the way to the front, with a smile and almost out of breath, only to see a huge box trying to open the door of the shop and failing.
On closer inspection, Fell notices two skinny, black-jean-clad legs sticking below the box and two equally slender arms holding precariously the heavy-looking package while trying to grab hold of the door’s handle. He is so puzzled that it takes a second or two for him to run to the door. “Can I help y— ”
The box wobbles forward as soon as he opens the door. As the bell chimes, he reaches forward just a moment before it and its owner could crash on the floor.
The situation is so precarious that he does not flinch when he feels fabric under his right hand and realizes that he’s grabbed a handful of the mysterious deliverer’s black shirt, instead of cardboard. “Careful! Careful! Here, to the right, on the desk. Put it down, lower, lower…”
When they finally manage to free themselves of the box, a sigh of relief comes from the other side. “Thank… someone. Sorry to barge in like this, but I was passing through and had your books with me, so I thought, why not pop in and delivery them myself. Anyway, a pleasure to meet you.”
Fell stares. He just… stares. The man, who has summarily cleaned his hands on his shirt and is now holding out one of them for him to shake, looks relaxed despite his somewhat dishevelled state. He has deep red hair tied at the back of his head, designer black glasses and a slim, wiry physique.
Most importantly, the man is Anthony J. Crowley.
“D-doctor Crowley, I wasn’t expecting…” he stutters, finally finding his voice and shaking the man’s hand gingerly, as if it was made of glass.
Crowley’s grasp is firm but gentle and, when he lets go, Fell’s hand is tingling. “Pshh, don’t mention it. And drop the ‘Doctor’ bullshit, please. Crowley is more than enough for my friends. Nice place you have here”, he adds, thrusting his hands in his pockets — the jeans are so tight that his fingers only fit halfway there — and taking in the bookshop.
It is a nice place, if Fell says so himself. It has… atmosphere. It looks old, but not decadent. The windows let in the light just right, and then there’s its best feature (not counting the books, obviously): the round skylight at the centre of the room.
“It’s… surprising.”
Fell is too preoccupied to notice that Crowley is looking at him while he says that. “Yes, it’s not exactly a tourist trap, is it? I have a few regulars, though. Discerning customers, if you will.”
“I don’t visit this part of town frequently, but maybe I should have.”
The meaning behind his words is clear: he’s hardly the type to shop in places like Fell’s. He probably prefers big stores, the kind with neon lights and a cafeteria on the premises.
Fell tries not to take it personally. “I see. Well, I’m a big fan of your work. Obviously, since I’ve invited you.”
“By letter”, Crowley adds. “Handwritten.”
Fell hopes his cheeks are not too deep a shade of red. “I hope my little place will be up to the task.”
Crowley’s smile is strangely slow and vulnerable, like he had to search for a while before finding it on the bottom of a drawer full of forgotten things. “I’m sure it will be.”
Fell stares. Again. It’s impossible not to, because he has no way of knowing if the smile touches Crowley’s eyes, with those blasted glasses.
“Right. Here are the books. See you on the 24th, then.” Crowley waves and he’s out before Fell can rustle up a word of farewell.
He watches as he hops on the car he has parked on the sidewalk in front of the shop, despite it being a no-parking zone, and he speeds away.
He is too bewildered to think straight for a long time. It’s only hours later, having fixed himself a nice cuppa, that it occurs to him that perhaps it wasn’t a social visit. Maybe Crowley wanted to see his place with his own eyes, to make sure it’s not too small or too shabby. A part of him is hurt at the implication, while another understands and respects the precaution.
Anyway, if this has been a test, he has passed it with flying colours.
The sturdy oak table, covered with copies of From Eden to Eternity in neat piles. A bottle of sparkling water (Fell is firmly opposed to coffee). Four rows of chairs he has hastily bought and has no idea where he will store after. The slanted rays of sunlight that enter through the skylight, bathing the round room in caramel-colored light. The shelves of antique books, so different from the mint-fresh, sharp-looking covers of Crowley’s book.
Fell takes it all in. It’s the calm before the storm.
He checks his watch. It’s five to two. Only one minute has passed since he last checked.
The door opens with a cheerful ring and a black-clad couple comes in. One of them is unmistakably Crowley, swagger, sunglasses and all, and the petite woman with short, dark hair must be…
“Hello, welcome! What a pleasure to meet you in person, Miss Zebub”, says Fell, offering his hand. “Oh, sorry, it’s Ms, isn’t it? You’ve been very clear on the phone.”
Crowley’s assistant looks at his hand with an indifference that is somehow more meaningful than open hostility, then lifts their gaze and is about to add something, but Crowley pats their back with enough energy to make them stagger.
“Beatrice, have you been harassing good Mr Fell on the phone? How many times do I have to tell you I’m the only one allowed to be mean to booksellers?” And then, of all things , he winks at Fell over his sunglasses and struts towards the table. “Oh, I see you’ve already assembled the things, good job.”
Fell stays behind with Crowley’s assistant for a moment. “Is he always this cheerful?” he asks.
They make a grimace. “No, this is his ‘book presentation’ demeanour. Usually he just mopes around and complains about deadlines. Oi, Crowley”, they shout, “did you bring enough pens?”
“Is zero enough?”
Ms Zebub opens their bag and takes out a handful of black pens. “I have the most beautiful job in the world. Is everything set?”
“Ehm, yes, I figured…”
“Good.” They walked to the table with the enthusiasm of an exterminator about to take on a particularly difficult job.
In the meantime, Crowley has disappeared in the depths of the shop. Fell looks for him with apprehension, but he finds him innocently leafing through an old cosmology book.
“What a wonderful selection of antiquities you have here. How is business, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t mind. I manage well enough. You don’t open a library to get rich, after all.”
Crowley smirks. From the way he tilts his head, Fell manages to catch a brief glimpse of his eyes over the black lenses. “That’s true for writing, too.”
“Have you always wanted to be a writer?” And here he is, making small talk with Anthony J. Freaking Crowley.
The man shrugs, putting the volume back in its place. “I’ve wanted to be many things, but I’m quite happy with where I am right now.”
“I have to admit I am too. I’ve made… quite a nest, here.” Where does this instinct to talk about himself come from? He’s not usually like that. Talkative. Eager to share. “The world can be harsh, sometimes. Families too.”
But Crowley does not seem bored at all. His smirk softens. “Boy, do I know that. I wish we’d all have the possibility to carve out a safe place for ourselves. It seems you’ve managed quite well. Your bookshop is beautiful. I wonder why I’d never heard about it until you wrote to me.”
“I’ve found out that my clientele comes mostly from word of mouth, so I don’t advertise.”
“Yeah, we don’t want all those pesky, commoner customers.”
Fell cracks a thin smile. “That’s one way to put it. Let’s say the fewer people come here asking for… mainstream romance novels, the better.”
Crowley shifts his hips. “Really? How so?”
Too taken by the subject to notice the edge in his voice, Fell goes on. “It’s perhaps a bit presumptuous of me, I know, but I would like to be known for the quality of my books. It’s not that I’m opposed to best-sellers, per se. I’d sell them, if they were any good.”
Crowley’s eyebrows shoot above the rim of his glasses. “Out of curiosity, how many of these best-sellers have you read, recently?”
“Oh, I don’t have to read them to know they’re rubbish.”
Crowley’s lips are a thin line.
Fell still doesn’t notice. “Honestly, I’d rather close the bookshop than sell the sort of things I see around, with those ghastly covers and implausible names, like that… Oh, what’s her name? The one with that pseudonym, who’s even made the New York Times list…”
“Madame Ashtoreth?”
“That’s the one. I’m not saying anything about her character, of course, but I don’t want anything to do with her books.”
“And how do you judge my books, then?”
Fell is puzzled by the sudden change of subject. “What do you mean? I love your books, of course. They are… educational, and enlightening, and your style is marvellous. What…” Suddenly, the penny drops. “Oh, my God. Have I offended you in some way? I’m so sorry, sometimes my brain and my mouth just don’t…”
There’s a little bit of ice in Crowley’s smile. “Don’t worry, the only ones you have offended are romance writers.”
Sweating under his jacket, vest and shirt, Fell manages a tremulous smile of his own. “Thank God, then, because I don’t care for them.”
“Yes, you’ve quite driven the point home. Excuse me, Mr Fell, I believe the first guests are arriving.”
Fell is relieved when Crowley sits behind the table, waiting for the presentation to start. He believes in what he said, and he’s actually glad he’s been able to express his opinions to a writer he respects. He’s sure that an established science writer such as Dr Anthony Crowley shares his contempt for shallow literature.
Something does not sit right, though. But he can’t for the life of him put his finger on what.
The audience is not technically a crowd, but there’s only a handful of empty chairs as Crowley begins his speech. Fell waits until everyone is seated and then occupies a chair in the back row. He’s fidgety for the entirety of Crowley’s talk, while the rest of the audience is captive and laughs at all the right moments.
He is almost as good a speaker as he is a writer, Fell has to give him this. When the time comes for questions, he thinks carefully before answering and is thorough and witty in his replies.
He doesn’t look in Fell’s direction a single time.
Fell’s almost shaking as he approaches Crowley, who’s now signing copies. He leans over. “Is everything all right?”
Crowley doesn’t lift his head from the page he’s scribbling on.
Fell has to deflect a cross look from the girl whose copy Crowley is signing. “I’m the owner, my dear, it’s all right.” He tries again. “Can I offer you something? A… coffee, perhaps?”
Crowley finishes his dedication and looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Do you have a coffee machine in the backroom?”
“Ehm… no, but I can go to a… place around the corner.” It would be the first time he steps into it, but he will, if it will smooth things out between him and the inexplicably cross writer currently burning a hole through him through his sunglasses.
“I’m sorry, I only drink a particular java blend, and only french-pressed.” The line flows and he takes another book to sign, not before adding under his breath: “Wouldn’t want to be too commonplace”.
Fell straightens his back and goes away without a word, thinking he must have misheard that and knowing he has not.
That night, as he’s lying in bed with no hopes of sleeping, he can’t help but replay in his mind the way Crowley kept giving him the cold shoulder even after all the people had left.
“It’s been a pleasure, Mr Fell”, Crowley lied smoothly, heading for the door.
“I look forward to seeing you again”, Fell said, desperately.
The only answer to that was a blank look from Crowley’s assistant, who added: “I’ll be in contact to tie all the financial loose ends before the end of the week”.
Fell was honest when he told Crowley that the bookshop was his safe place, but, right then and there, he’d never felt more alone in it.