The New Policy

The bell above the door chimed with the desperate clarity of a death knell. Aziraphale, perched behind his desk with a cup of cocoa and a first edition of Persuasion open on his lap, did not look up. He knew the footfall. It was the footfall of a Determined Customer, the kind who did not browse but hunted. “Excuse me,” said the man, a fellow in a tweed jacket with the eager, unblinking look of a Terrier Who Has Spotted a Rat. “I’m looking for a first edition of ‘The Great Gatsby.’ I understand you have one.” Aziraphale took a slow, deliberate sip of his cocoa. “I’m afraid I don’t sell books.” The man blinked. “What do you mean, you don’t sell books? It’s a bookshop.” “It was a bookshop,” Aziraphale corrected, his voice gentle but firm. “It is now a library. A private library. One that lends nothing.” He smiled, a beatific, immovable smile. From the back of the shop, where the air had suddenly turned ten degrees cooler and smelled faintly of merlot, a drawling voice emerged. “Welcome to the most useless library in Soho. Feel free to look, admire, and then leave empty-handed.” Crowley slouched against a bookshelf, holding a glass of red wine. He was wearing sunglasses indoors, which was his way of saying ‘I am not legally required to help you.’ The Terrier turned to him. “And you are?” “The protest.” Crowley gestured vaguely at the shelves. “I’m a demon. I’ve installed a wine cellar in the basement. Figured if we’re not selling anything, we might as well drink.” The man’s jaw tightened. “I can pay. Handsomely.” Aziraphale sighed, a sound like pages turning in the wind. He snapped his fingers. A minor miracle. The first edition of ‘The Great Gatsby’ on the shelf behind him shimmered, its dust jacket subtly shifting in color from blue to a muddy beige. The title now read ‘The Great Gatsbob’ in a font that hurt to look at. “I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said, pointing. “I believe you’ll find that’s a misprint. Quite valueless.” The man squinted. “That’s not… that was a first edition seconds ago.” “Books have a way of changing their minds in here,” said Crowley, swirling his wine. “It’s the humidity. Also the demonic presence. Gives them existential crises.” The man took a step closer to the shelf. As he did, a stack of Baedekers from 1909 slid off a table with a neat, deliberate crash, spraying dust into his face. He coughed, waved his hand, and when he looked again, Crowley was standing directly in front of the Gatsby shelf, leaning against it with his arms crossed. “Look,” said the Terrier, his voice cracking. “I just want the book.” “And I just want a quiet life,” said Aziraphale amiably. “Unfortunately for you, those are mutually exclusive. Now, if you’d like, you can take a seat, read a pamphlet on the history of ecclesiastical vestments, and leave. Or you can leave now. Both options end with you leaving without the book.” Crowley raised his glass. “He’s not wrong. I’ve checked the timeline.” The man stood there, a statue of thwarted consumerism. Then, with a huff that rattled the dust motes, he turned and stalked out, the bell chiming his defeat. Silence returned. Aziraphale settled back into his chair, stroking the spine of Persuasion. “Thank you, dear. Though I could have handled it.” “Oh, I know. But I wanted to see the look on his face.” Crowley took a long drink. “Also, I’ve named the cellar. It’s called ‘The Downstairs.’ It’s very dramatic.” Aziraphale smiled into his cocoa. “Perhaps I’ll join you later.” “You’re always welcome,” said Crowley, and he slunk back into the darkness, where the bottles gleamed like trapped stars.