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When Aziraphale had been offered the position of Librarian at Tadfield Castle, he had thought the terms were too good to be true. He took it anyway; an underfunded scholar couldn't afford to be picky—plus he was not going to turn down the opportunity to see what treasures of the written word were squirreled away in the Prince's private collection.
The terms, it turned out, were accurate. They just had failed to mention the catch. The catch being: the castle was haunted. Of course, if that had been mentioned at the outset, he still would have taken the job. Not out of any sense of bravery, but because he was a man of Reason. The castle could not be haunted because ghosts were not real.
He had begun to doubt that conclusion. Over the past weeks, there had been signs that something was not right at Tadfield Castle. The servants moved about in groups of no less than two, their conversations hushed, their footsteps furtive. The oil lamps along the corridors guttered, even in still air and despite their shielding. And someone had been rearranging the books.
It was this last that inflamed Aziraphale's ire. Frightened servants and eerie corridors were beyond his control, but the library was his domain. He had resolved to catch the perpetrator in the act, be it supernatural or human.
And so, here he was, ensconced in the reading chair that had the best view of the stacks, paging idly through a book he had pulled at random, his attention not on the words in his lap but on the shadows in the room. This was the third night of his vigil. There had been no visitations, no interference. The previous bouts of meddling had happened at night, but he was beginning to think his presence was acting as a deterrent. Which was good, in one sense, but it led him no closer to solving the mystery. With a sigh, he closed the book. This was getting him nowhere.
At that moment, he heard a sound. A sound that did not belong in his library. There was…a jingling? It was faint, but still clear, and it was coming from deeper in the stacks.
He carefully set the book down and rose, moving as silently as he could toward the disturbance. At the edge of the final bookcase, he paused, then peeked around the corner.
"Crowley!" he snapped. The interloper jumped, the bells on the end of his cap tassels jingling cheerfully. "You monster! Put that book back where it came from, or so help me—"
The red-haired jester grinned sheepishly and slid the tome in his hands back into its place. "Hi, Aziraphale!" he chirped. "Fancy seeing you here!"
"I'm sure." Aziraphale pursed his lips in irritation.
Crowley grinned wider. Prince Bezel's jester spent more time adding sarcastic commentary to the goings-on of the court than he did actually entertaining anyone. But it seemed that the Prince had a different definition of "entertain" than Aziraphale did, as they continued to allow Crowley to attend—and interrupt—their court.
"Why are you vandalizing my library?" Aziraphale asked. "And, for that matter, how did you get in? There's no door back here, and you certainly didn't come in the front."
"Now, that would be telling," Crowley replied, his expression turning impish.
"Well, you'd best be telling me, then." Aziraphale was done with this nonsense. He had only had a handful of conversations with the infuriating man over the weeks he had been employed; why he had singled Aziraphale out for his japes was beyond understanding.
Crowley's eyes lit up with mischief—his golden, laughing eyes—and Aziraphale braced for whatever tomfoolery was coming next.
"It's a secret," Crowley said in an overdramatic whisper, holding his finger to his mouth.
"Yes, I gathered that," Aziraphale snarked. Crowley's smile widened. He had no business looking so captivating, especially in his ridiculous motley, the irritating creature.
The jester beckoned and turned, placing his hand on the wall. There was a soft click and the panel swung silently away from them. He made an exaggerated bow, sweeping his arm out to usher Aziraphale inside.
"Well!" Aziraphale huffed as he—against his better judgment—stepped into the passage. "That certainly explains some things. Are you the 'ghost' as well?"
"Hmm? Nah, that one's real," Crowley said nonchalantly. "I just wanted to mess with you a little. And then give you the tour. Come on." He followed Aziraphale into the passage and closed the panel behind them.
Faint light filtered in through concealed apertures, illuminating a narrow hall that was not nearly as dusty as Aziraphale would have expected. Despite himself, he felt excitement rising in him at the prospect of this little adventure.
He quirked a smile. "Lead on, dear boy."