Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Mr. N. Pulsifer,

Room 2,

 Device's Boarding House,

52 Witches Cross,

Cheapside,

London

 

The Son of Satan,

Tadfield,

17th November 1852

My dear Newton,

I have spent the last ten minutes just sitting here, at this tiny bureau, in this dingy little room, whilst I attempt to order my thoughts. This is a foolhardy waste of time, as I do not believe my light will last long, and therefore I should be writing this in all haste.

I must confess that I am discombobulated, and unsure of quite ⚫◾▪️ sorry for these blasted ink splotches, my pen has deigned to decorate my letter to you. It has nothing whatsoever to do with my unsteady hands.

Am I losing⚫▪◼my mind? ⚫

Where should I begin my tale? Today has been so very trying, and after three days of oddities, I hardly know which way is up, let alone that which is truthful. My mind is spinning, but I think (hope) that if I can commit ink to paper, and record the particulars of the very strange and unsettling time I have had here, then perhaps I will be able to parse some sense from my writing, something that I am currently sorely missing.

I suppose my only choice is to simply start from the beginning. I shall try to record the details with as much clarity as I am able. Yes, I think that is the way forward, indeed the only way.

So. As indicated by the above address, I am currently spending another night at the alarmingly named 'Son of Satan,' located in the small village of Tadfield, in Oxfordshire.

You recall, of course, that I have recently changed employment. Of course you do, you have heard me give more details than really I aught to have done, re: well, you know. I am sorry that you had to listen to me speak of such things, but I found I could not keep all the details just to myself. It helped, somewhat, being able to unburden the heavy weight to you, and I thank you for your understanding.

I have only been at Celestial Enterprises for a month and a half, but I am not so sure I quite fit in there (again, I know you are already aware of this, but I do feel all details need to be recorded, even the background information for perspicuity).

My probationary period is for three months, so I have a little time to either find my feet, or look for another position. I confess I am still very undecided, but I am digressing. The point is to tell you of all that has happened since I came here. I had meant to write sooner, either the first or second night, but it has not happened, although I am unable to say quite why.

It is late, and I am using the light of the rather cheap and nasty candle Mrs Shadwell has allowed me (hence disappearing light). She is an unforgettable woman, with bright orange hair, and rouge enough to shame an actress, or a 'seamstress' for that matter.

Her husband, who I gather to have once been in the army, as she refers to him as 'Sergeant,' doesn't have too much to say for himself, but when he does open his mouth, the talk is all of 'witches.'

He possesses an unlikely Scottish brogue, although it is more than possible he comes from somewhere else, and has simply picked up a multitude of accents on his travels. His intonation sounds odd, affected, but then they are a very odd couple. Mrs S clearly rules the roost, sharp as a tack that one, and she misses nothing.

I feel I've rather gone off track. I have found it so hard to get my thoughts in order since I came here, and I find that London with all its varied life, and its well defined structure, seems so very far away.

⚫◾⚫ ⬛ My pen has leaked again, I am so sorry, it is unlike me to be so clumsy.

Returning to my story - I call it that, but I swear to you this is an accurate re-telling of events. I was sent here by my aforementioned employer, on the 15th of November, with instructions to conclude some legal points with a client, and have him sign some important paperwork. This is as I previously said in my scribbled note I left you (I do hope my writing was legible). They only gave me two hours notice in which to depart! Can you imagine?

I was brought into Mr Archan's office, told the barest bones of what I would have to do, and informed of when the train was due. I had just enough time to fetch back to my room, to hasten some essentials into my carrying case, and to leave you that brief missive. There was a sense of urgency with the request that I found curious, but I suppose that lines up with everything else that has happened since.

It seemed strange to choose me, quite the most junior member of the organisation, and to be candid, I still think it peculiar. As I was saying, I was sent to visit with a client by the name of Aziraphale Prince, due to him having recently bought a share in some such, or other. It was to be a job that would only take two, or at the most, three days, to complete, including travel, so I caught the locomotive from St. Pancras.

I was in the second class carriage of the train, with three other passengers for company, but beyond a "Good afternoon," nothing more was said. I had had the foresight to purchase a newspaper before departure, and sat and read it from cover to cover. There was a glowing report on page four about a client of my former employer, but I turned over quickly to the next page, and am sure you will understand why.

The journey passed without incident, and I arrived at Babbington Station just as the light was beginning to leach out of the sky. The moon was already visible, and as I watched, a Crow flew past it, taking me by surprise. It cawed as it went, and I felt a shiver run down my spine, although that may have been just the chill air. Perhaps I should have taken it as an ill-omen.

I had thought to take a Hansom cab from the station, to the large House that Prince resides in. I had been instructed to introduce myself as quickly as possible: that is, I was to go and meet with Mr Prince as soon as I disembarked the train. As it turned out, Prince's horse and trap was awaiting me. I was surprised when the driver called out to me, with what was quite possibly my name, but not unduly alarmed. In hindsight, I should have been.

His man, a tall chap with dark eyes and an unfortunate skin rash across almost the entirety of his face, gruntingly introduced himself as 'Hastur', took my bag, and slung it in the trap, then indicated I should do the same. I stepped up, and within moments he had jumped into the drivers seat, and we were away.

It was cold in the trap, the breeze bitter, and I had to cling onto my hat to stop it blowing off, but fortunately my glasses remained firmly in place without further assistance from me.

The man paid no heed to the bumpy road, or my comfort, and he seemed hell-bent on arriving at his Master's House as soon as humanly possible. On second thoughts, the man drives like a demon, so perhaps I should say 'demonically' possible.

The strangest thing occurred on our route there (you will have noticed, I'm sure, my preponderance of the adjectives odd and strange and the like. I shall use them many times over before my tale is finished, I am afraid). As we neared our destination, by the side of the road I saw a woman dressed all in black.

Every inch of her, from top to toe, covered in layers of black lace and other darkest-hued fabrics. She just silently stood there, and watched as we passed. I assumed she was in mourning, although I have never seen anyone so covered, so hidden.

I turned in my seat as we sped past, and saw she had not moved, not even an inch. I might have forgotten all about her, had I No, I must not get ahead of my narrative, I am finding it hard enough to keep things straight as it is.

Moments later, we rounded a bend in the road, and I was met with my first sighting of the House. The term Old Pile, was certainly apt, as it was huge, and very solidly built. I imagine you could keep out an army if you wanted, or use it much like a prison, and hold someone securely inside its walls.

We drew up to the front entrance, Hastur harshly pulling on the reins to stop the poor horse dead in its tracks. He grunted at me again, to which I presumed he wanted me to depart. As soon as my feet were on the ground, and my bag out, he flicked the reins, and he and the trap disappeared around the side of the house. A little unsettled, I approached the door, and rang the large, cast iron bell.

Several interminable minutes passed, before the door was opened by a maid with blonde hair neatly pulled back in a bun. Her uniform was just-so, with her apron pure white and perfectly smooth.

She informed me I was, "Mr. Anthony Crowley," I of course, responded that I was, and she told me to, "come this way, if I pleased." Seeing no other option, I followed her.

I was shown into the Drawing Room, and asked to wait, whereupon I spent some time sat on one of the armchairs, seemingly forgotten about.

As I was on my own in there, I took the opportunity to look around the room. It was well appointed, clean and tidy, and well stocked with brandy. The fire was lit in the grate, and crackled away warmly, its light stretching out into the ever-darkening room. The furnishings were all expensively made, and well-cared for, and through the window, I could see out over the Drive. The place is called 'The Archive' (terribly strange name for a residence), and does indeed contain a large library, the owner being (amongst many other things) a 'bibliophile'. I wish that I had never⚫▪ Blasted pen.

Having been left there for something approaching half an hour, I was on the verge of getting up to ask someone if all was as it should be, when the door opened, and in stepped Mr Prince himself.

Keen to make a good first impression, I jumped to my feet as he strode in, and Prince surprisingly stopped dead in his tracks, an unreadable expression on his face. He clasped his hands behind his back, and fixed me with a flinty gaze. I felt so looked at! He stood, bold as brass in front of me, and let his gaze wander up and down!

Newton, I felt my face going as red as my hair! I couldn't help noticing the quirk of his lips as I did so, as there seemed to be something about my discomfort that amused him. I hardly knew where to put myself, as every inch of me was observed and noted. I think the word I would use to describe the experience would be unnerving.

As he was studying me, I was also taking him in, although not in the way he was me. His hair was white-blond, and with a definite, but not over done curl to it, and his eyes were a piercing blue. He was fashionably dressed, with a jacket and waistcoat, and carried as every gentleman should, a fob watch in his pocket. He was handsome enough, imperious, and commanded the room as soon as he entered. From the legal papers, I knew he was four and forty years old, and unmarried.

After some amount of silence, whereupon I felt most awkward, he spoke for the first time since arriving in the Drawing Room, and informed me that dinner would be at seven. I ventured to say that I was only here to have him sign the papers, to which he said, "that if I knew what was good for me, I would accept with no mithering"!

Well, you know me and my trouble with authority. Yes, I know, I have to keep my temper tight to its leash, but really! The nerve of the man! He simply expected me to dance to his tune! (and has done ever since, more's the pity).

I tried to decline, to say that I hoped to complete our business together as soon as possible, but he would have none of it! The man refused to countenance me doing anything else!

I said I would take a carriage back to the village, and return on the morrow, but he declined to allow me the use of his, and informed me the only way that I could return without dinner that evening, was to walk. If, however, I accepted his dinner invitation, he would see to it that I was taken back to my sleeping chamber (that was how he put it), and I'm afraid, at that point, I did not understand his intentions.

You would think, after all that happened, I would have had more notion of what might commence from such a point, but sadly I was still too naive. At the time, I saw no other option but to accept, not that he gave me much choice. I did not know the roads, and would likely have gotten lost if I ventured to the village alone, so I reluctantly agreed.

He rang for the maid, (it turned out her name was Maggie), and she took me to a large and comfortable bedroom that I could use. I thought I would merely be seeing to my ablutions, but very strangely, there was an evening outfit laid out upon the bed. Confused, I looked at Maggie, and she informed me that I should put it on, then left without another word.

I stood there, completely befuddled by the turn of events, and I am sure you can see how confused and taken aback I must have been. Why, I had never been in a situation like it!

Placed on the precisely laid-out clothes, was a small box, and under that, a note with my name on it. I am including it with this letter, as at least I know this was real, and you will be able to see for yourself some of Prince's behaviour towards me.

Mr Anthony J. Crowley

How odd, and especially so that he knew my middle initial. How did he come by that? The ghost of a shiver ran down my spine, and I hesitated as to whether to read it, but my curiosity won out, not that I suppose there was anything else to be done.

Please attire yourself with these clothes. I have standards, and will not tolerate a dressed-down dinner table. Do not tarry, A.

I paced and fretted, unhappy and reluctant, until I saw no other option than to change my outfit. There was a pair of trousers, a tailcoat, a white waistcoat, a dress shirt, and a white bow tie. They were of the latest styles, and oddly, fitted me perfectly. It was almost like Prince had known my size in advance.

I dressed in the trousers and shirt, and turned my unwilling attention to the small jewellers box. I opened it, and inside, as I suspected, it contained a pair of cuff links. They were fashioned in gold, and depicted an image of a flaming sword. Very Biblical, I thought, and before I could dwell on the strangeness of it all, I inserted them in the shirt cuffs.

I finished dressing, firmly replaced my glasses, and while still feeling terribly unsure about the whole thing, I wondered what I should do next. The answer came not two minutes later, when there was a knock at the door, and Maggie came back. Without a word, she led me down to the Dining Room, where my host was waiting with a glint in his eye.

He bade me "come in," from his seated position, but said nothing about sitting down myself, and we spent a long and awkward minute as he simply looked at me. His observation of my corporeal self made me feel as if I was something low and crawly, or as if I was squirming at his feet, like a snake perhaps, and I did not care for it.

Finally, he indicated I should sit, and asked me how London was, was I acquainted with the area of Soho, and in particular, Whickber Street. He apparently owns a bookshop there. I told him no, I hadn't been that way before, and he said he could show me. I couldn't imagine why he would want to, nor why I would agree, but I was in a difficult position, what with him being a client, so I mumbled something non-committal. Prince simply grinned in a very knowing way.

At that, I think must have flushed, for Prince told me he liked me looking like that. I nearly strode from the table there and then, but he said he was sorry if I was offended by his gentlemanly courtesy. His response made me unsure as to whether I was over-reacting to a small detail, one that was of no real importance.

I could only bluster, and took a swift drain on my glass to hide my discomfort. Prince, clearly enjoying himself, popped a morsel in his mouth, and made the most obscene noises! I hardly knew where to put myself. I am sure he took pleasure in my embarrassment, and I wished that I had left the room moments earlier.

"Why do you wear those glasses of yours?" His question was very direct, I clearly remember how he enunciated every syllable, as if he was enjoying a private joke.

"I have an eye condition," I said, as is usual for me if someone asks, and I thought that would be that. People, I find, are mostly too polite to enquire further. I had to tell Celestial Enterprises when I applied for my job, of course, as is only right, and they seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement.

Prince looked at me, a quirk to his lips. "I think it is rude to keep them on at the dinner table. As I wrote in my note, I do have standards."

I bristled at his audacity in trying to dictate what I could, and could not do, and I refused to yield. "No, thank you," I said, "I will continue to wear them."

I thought Prince might insist, despite what good manners allowed, but he eventually nodded, and said, "so be it."

The starter was brought in, and I politely replied to Prince's questions and commentaries on the state of the country, but offered little to the conversation myself. I ate sparingly - as you know my appetite is woeful at the best of times, and the added complication of the very strange situation was just adding to both my unease, and my difficulty with eating.

Prince obviously noticed, for he said something to the effect of, "now, we can't be having you not eating," and I blushed again. I did not like his manner at all.

The meal progressed, with him and his remarks about how I dressed, or wore my hair, or what I did with my free time, and I felt terribly uncomfortable. In turn, I tried to ask about conducting the business I was here for, and did so, many times, but he ignored me, and instead just kept on with those noises of his! It was terribly improper!

I tried to eat a few morsels, if for nothing else than for something to do, and I swear I only had two glasses of wine, but I did start to feel quite peculiar. My head swum, and when I tried to stand once the interminable meal was finished, I think I nearly fell over.

I remember Prince laughing, but after that, everything starts to get very hazy. I think Prince mentioned helping me to the carriage, and he led me out, but I'm sure his hands went places they shouldn't have. I think he thought I was there with some other business in mind such as

Once we reached the trap that was already waiting, he, Prince that is, roughly pushed me in, and then I was sitting down, barely able to keep my eyes open. He said something, I didn't quite catch what exactly, then he shut the door, and the trap raced away.

I think someone must have helped me to bed, although I have no memory of it. I ended up having a terrible night's sleep.

I shall have to leave it here, as the meagre light is almost fully gone - I will continue this tomorrow morning, as my candle is nearly done.