Chapter Text
After hanging Beverley's damp coat on the coat rack, Peter Grant looked around the shop in puzzlement. "Where have all your books gone? You haven't sold them, have you?"
"Oh, good gracious, no." Aziraphale led the way to a staircase which Peter, who had once trained to be an architect, was sure must be located in some other dimension, because there was certainly no space for it in this one. "Crowley showed me the Lindisfarne Gospels on the internet, and suggested I put my books up there, too, so people can read them without touching them! Or even threatening to take them away! Once I scan them, they go to the cottage, where they're safe. Pretty much all that's left here are duplicate copies and modern popular works I kept as decoys for anyone who was determined to buy something. I probably will sell them eventually," he said in satisfaction, opening the door to the flat.
"I've heard that before," Crowley's voice called from the kitchen. "Not holding my breath, here." He appeared in the doorway carrying a laden tea tray.
"You don't need to breathe," Aziraphale pointed out.
Crowley curled his lip at Aziraphale half-heartedly, and then pointedly addressed their guests. ""Hello, Beverley, Peter, nice to see you. Come in, I thought we could have tea by the fire."
"That sounds lovely," Beverley said. "It feels like the rain has gotten into my bones."
"That's England in the spring for you," Aziraphale said fatalistically. He poured out, offered hobnobs all around, and then got down to business. "You said you need a favour?"
Peter exchanged a glance with Beverley, and sighed. "Yes, if you're willing," he said. "It's a pretty big favour."
"All right, consider us warned," Crowley said. "What's up?"
"Two small gods have disappeared," Beverley said bluntly. "You know I helped all of the gods in the UK get back home, if possible, right? Well, Nordweg, the god of the Great North Road, called me a few days ago. She said that she couldn't find the god of the Fox River, and wanted to know if I had heard from him. Which I hadn't. She was a little worried--his river was pretty much in the back of beyond at the time Michael captured him, and he doesn't have much experience at dealing with humans, other than his few worshipers. There are people all over the place now. So she was going to look for him. I haven't heard from her since, and her phone just goes to voicemail."
"You're afraid they're in trouble?" Aziraphale asked.
"Yes. I drove up to where the Fox and the road intersect, just north of Durham. Foxen definitely isn't in his river, and hasn't been for a week or two, at least. I don't know how to sense the god of a road, but I didn't see Nordweg while I was there."
"And I can't leave London right now," Peter said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There's a major Falcon investigation in progress, and I'm in charge. Nightingale...isn't available."
"There's nothing wrong with him, is there?" Aziraphale asked in alarm. "Sick, or injured, or...?"
"Not that I know of," Peter said thankfully. "He phoned me in the middle of the night last week, told me that he was called away to deal with an emergency, and I was to take care of anything that came up. He sounded as surprised as I was. From what he said, I don't think he's in the UK."
"Huh," Crowley said thoughtfully. "Given the headlines right now...I can see where wizardry might be needed, all right."
"Yeah, that occurred to me, too. He's been known to have a discouraging effect on tanks, as well."
"Best not to speculate," Aziraphale said briskly. "I expect he'll tell us, if he can, when he returns. But in the meantime..." He turned to Crowley and raised his eyebrows.
Crowley looked unhappily at the chilly rain streaming down the windows, and then seemed to shake himself. "Yeah, all right, we'd better find them. Hate to go to all that work, getting them home, for nothing." He turned to Beverley. "Tell us everything you know about the area."
Once she had briefed them, she led them on a chase around Soho as they learned to track her--and, with any luck, other small gods--from a distance. They ended the day steaming off in front of the fire in a small Ethiopian restaurant. "If the North is anything like it was the last time I was up there," Aziraphale said, losing himself in his meal, "this is probably the last spicy food we'll have for a while." He closed his eyes and breathed in the aroma blissfully.
"And how long ago were you there?" Peter inquired, scooping up some of the fragrant stew with a bit of flatbread.
"Hmmm, let me think. Maybe in the '50s?"
"1950s or 1850s?" Crowley asked sardonically.
Beverley laughed. "Either way, I suspect things have changed a bit. There were lots of restaurants serving traditional English food, of course, but I had lunch at a good Indian place, and there are probably more options if you look for them."
"Good. Traditional English food is delicious when it's well cooked, but I find it a little monotonous as a steady diet."
"We'll find something for you, angel," Crowley said indulgently. "Even up there in the wilds."