Good Omens

here a month. Except for Mrs. Henderson, who in theory looked after the cottage and probably went through her things given half a chance, she hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen real words with anyone. She let them think she was an artist. This was the kind of countryside that artists liked.
    Actually, it was bloody beautiful. Just around this village it was superb. If Turner and Landseer had met Samuel Palmer in a pub and worked it all out, and then got Stubbs to do the horses, it couldn’t have been better.
    And that was depressing, because this was where it was going to happen. According to Agnes, anyway. In a book which she, Anathema, had allowed to be lost. She had the file cards, of course, but they just weren’t the same.
    If Anathema had been in full control of her own mind at that moment—and no one around Adam was ever in full control of his or her own mind—she’d have noticed that whenever she tried to think about him beyond a superficial level her thoughts slipped away like a duck off water.
    â€œWicked!” said Adam, who had been turning over in his mind the implications of a book of nice and accurate prophecies. “It tells you who’s going to win the Grand National, does it?”
    â€œNo,” said Anathema.
    â€œAny spaceships in it?”
    â€œNot many,” said Anathema.
    â€œRobots?” said Adam hopefully.
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œDoesn’t sound very nice to me, then,” said Adam. “Don’t see what the future’s got in it if there’s no robots and spaceships.”
    About three days , thought Anathema glumly. That’s what it’s got in it .
    â€œWould you like a lemonade?” she said.
    Adam hesitated. Then he decided to take the bull by the horns.
    â€œLook, ’scuse me for askin’, if it’s not a personal question, but are you a witch?” he said.
    Anathema narrowed her eyes. So much for Mrs. Henderson poking around.
    â€œSome people might say so,” she said. “Actually, I’m an occultist.”
    â€œOh. Well. That’s all right, then,” said Adam, cheering up.
    She looked him up and down.
    â€œYou know what an occultist is, do you?” she said.
    â€œOh, yes,” said Adam confidently.
    â€œWell, so long as you’re happier now,” said Anathema. “Come on in. I could do with a drink myself. And … Adam Young?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou were thinking ‘Nothin’ wrong with my eyes, they don’t need examining,’ weren’t you?”
    â€œWho, me?” said Adam guiltily.
    DOG WAS THE PROBLEM. He wouldn’t go in the cottage. He crouched on the doorstep, growling.
    â€œ Come on, you silly dog,” said Adam. “It’s only old Jasmine Cottage.” He gave Anathema an embarrassed look. “Normally he does everything I say, right off.”
    â€œYou can leave him in the garden,” said Anathema.
    â€œNo,” said Adam. “He’s got to do what he’s tole. I read it in a book. Trainin’ is very important. Any dog can be trained, it said. My father said I can only keep him if he’s prop’ly trained. Now, Dog. Go inside.”
    Dog whined and gave him a pleading look. His stubby tail thumped on the floor once or twice.
    His Master’s voice.
    With extreme reluctance, as if making progress in the teeth of a gale, he slunk over the doorstep.
    â€œThere,” said Adam proudly. “Good boy.”
    And a little bit more of Hell burned away …
    Anathema shut the door.
    There had always been a horseshoe over the door of Jasmine Cottage, ever since its first tenant centuries before; the Black Death was all the rage at the time and he’d considered that he could use all the protection he could get.
    It was corroded and half covered with the paint of centuries. So neither Adam nor Anathema gave it a thought, or noticed how it was now cooling from a white heat.
Aziraphale’s cocoa was stone cold.
    The only sound in the room was the occasional turning of a page.
    Every now and again there was a rattling at the door when prospective customers of Intimate Books next door mistook the entrance. He ignored it.
    Occasionally he would very nearly swear.
    ANATHEMA HADN’T REALLY made herself at home in the cottage. Most of her implements were piled up on the table. It looked interesting. It looked, in fact, as though a voodoo priest had just had the run of a