Chapter Text
Crowley detested winter in London. The chill tended to linger over the city even just a little bit too hard for their taste. It made it even the most standard of errands considerably worse, easier to go out and get things done. Winter was too chilly and awful, something they were rather unhappy about generally. People tended to come out in droves though the second the weather cleared up, even in the evenings, especially when there was a show playing—something that their long time friend, Anathema Device, had insisted upon seeing since she was in town.
So, they made sure to bring her to Faust at Covent Garden, even though Crowley found it to be one of the gloomiest things on stage. Any protests about listening to people screech in Italian had fallen on deaf ears. As such, they kept any complaints about the actors low enough to not disturb anyone else, glad for a box so they weren’t crushed among the throngs of people.
Of course, as soon as the opera let out, Anathema got sidetracked and the pair separated. Crowley was glad that the American had insisted on making a plan for if they did get separated—they hadn’t thought it would be needed, but at least it was there. With that in mind, they headed out the doors into the night.
A sharp gust of wind had them tugging their coat closed, hands darting into deep pockets. Really, where was Anathema?
Azaria shivered and pulled her blue coat tighter around her chest. The sharp wind brought a renewed chill that made her skirt around carriages and people alike to duck under the overhang. The chill was a telltale precursor to rain, and she didn’t want to get caught in it—not with how thin and threadbare her gloves had gotten. But hopefully, this would pay off. She knew this was the theatre, that the show would be ending soon, and that would have people filing out who would have to brave the weather. Hopefully that meant she’d have the chance to sell some additional flowers, earn a little extra money to justify more coal to toast herself up.
Her coat had certainly seemed better days, but it got the job done most of the time. Long blonde hair was tucked into a small hat, it left her neck bare but for a thin shawl. It wouldn’t keep the cold rain at bay, so the overhang was going to be her best bet.
All of the rich folks exiting the building had scarves, thick gloves that looked toasty, and the look of people doing their best to get home. She could imagine the large, fancy houses with enormous fireplaces, probably with a maid to tend to the fire. They were all clearly having a good time, worries didn’t touch them in her opinion. Azaria was sure that none of the fancy ladies and blokes would even want to buy flowers than them, but they needed to try.
She sighed and looked down at their patched skirt, all too focused on the dirt that looked like it was ground into the fabric. It was easiest to see when faced with the stark differences in their stations.
She approached a small group hopefully, holding up a bunch of cornflowers.
“Pretty flowers for a pretty lady?” she asked, trying not to get discouraged by the pursed lips or head shakes from the pretty lady in question.
She watched them walk away and climb into a taxi. That was all she wanted right now, get somewhere warm and cosy. The promised rain had crept in and she didn’t want to be in it any longer. Not that she thought that would happen any time soon. She was just a poor flower seller from Lisson Grove, after all.
She moved away from the crowd with a sigh before making herself cross the busy street filled with carriages and motorcars. She had barely made it to the pavement on the other side when a fancy dressed bloke with dark hair ran into her. As his body collided with hers, she was sent toppling into the mud. Daisies, violets, cornflowers, and mums spilled out of the basket, falling to the wet ground. Azaria wanted to cry, it was so late already and she’d only made a sixpence.
“Oi! Watch where you’re going, govner! Now look wot you’ve done. Spilled ‘alf a day’s wages e’erywhere.”
“Oh dear. Dreadfully sorry.”
She didn’t think he looked very sorry. “Sorry, my arse,” she grumbled, surprised when he tossed some coins into the basket before striding quickly away.
“Oh! Oooh!” She tugged the basket closer to her chest, reaching in to count the coins. The feel of the coins had her pulling one out of the basket, blue eyes widening in shock. Three florins! Tossed in like nothing!
“Oi, Azaria,” called one of the street’s consistent vendors, Shadwell. Shadwell was a bit odd, but harmless, known for selling what he said were good luck charms even as he harped on about witches all the time.
“What’s all this then? Everyone, we’ve a bleedin’ heiress in our midst!”
There was laughter from the other flower sellers and street vendors. It wasn’t malicious though, so she didn’t fight the silly smile that stretched over her face.
“What’re ya going to do with all that money, then? Take in an opera? Buy yerself a castle?” a male voice called with a laugh.
All of the extra attention made her freeze for a moment in consideration, hoping her cheeks weren’t as bright red as they felt.
“Oh…well. All I really want is a cosy room somewhere out of the cold. A large, soft chair. All the chocolate I can eat.” She paused, a wistful sigh leaving her. “Someone…someone handsome and tender takin’ care o’ me.”
“That all then?” Shadwell asked, guffawing good naturedly.
Azaria felt her face heating up further. However, she couldn’t summon any real ire at ol’ Shadwell. “Fine, laugh all you like, but wouldn’t it be so loverly?”
The look on his face was a resigned one that could be seen on any of the local vendors. “Aye lass, that it would.”
Azaria turned in a slow circle, swishing her skirt as she pretended to be a fancy lady, even for a moment. She giggled when Shadwell tipped his hat to her. “Pardon me, Lady Doolittle. ‘M just workin’ folk an’ I got a load of coal to haul,” he told her before he headed off down the street. She took a moment to indulge in the pleasant daydream before shaking herself. She still had some flowers left, after all.
Crowley paused in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes narrowing behind dark lenses. They were aware of people needing to go around them, the grumbling barely registering above the cacophony of a lone voice.
The voice grated just a bit, the accent making them feel like someone was attempting to stab roofing nails into their ears and completely at odds with the sweetness of the rest of it. Their narrowed gaze looked around to try and locate the source amidst the dinner crowds and the vendors closing up shop for the day, before their head tipped to the side as though it would help narrow in on the location.
“Pretty flower for a pretty lady?”
There! The redhead whirled around, eyes wide as they landed on a young woman a short distance away.
Her clothes were in decent enough shape, if patched and dirty from clearly being out and about, despite being several years out of fashion. A good sized basket hung in the crook of her elbow, flowers of various sorts poking over the top.
The condition of the flowers that were visible made a heavy frown settle on Crowley’s face before she propositioned someone else about buying flowers, and the way the syllables dropped off her tongue drove them to distraction. Satan, how did anyone even understand her? Even as the thought registered, it was quickly followed by an internal voice that sounded very much like Newt calling them overdramatic.
Crowley pulled a small notepad out of their pocket, scribbling notes down with a fervour they hadn’t possessed in ages. It was interesting to listen to the blonde interact with the passerby clustered under the overhang. She stayed under the overhang with the crowds, skirting around groups and attempting to sell the flowers to people who were trying to get taxis following the opera. Crowley followed at a decent distance, jotting down notes on her speech and grammar amidst notating what she was actually saying.
It really was intriguingly horrid, and as she spoke, they got a feel for where she’d grown up. Her voice could even be pleasant, were it not for the dastardly way she was butchering the English language.
Azaria had struck out again, and was trying not to let it get to her. She had hoped that the last few would go fast, but apparently the opera didn’t put people in a buying mood. She was approached by a brunette woman after being dismissed by a couple that promptly scurried away like she had a disease.
“I’ll buy some,” she said gently, the accent not one that the blonde was familiar with. She wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, however, and nodded, holding out a small bundle of cornflowers. They were the nicest ones visible after the earlier tumble into the mud, but the woman didn’t seem to mind, happily handing over the money after what seemed to be a quick conversation with herself.
Azaria was getting ready to bustle away when a man approached. She brightened, getting ready to try to sell him a bundle when she saw the man shake his head quickly as he approached.
“Be careful,” the man whispered, “There’s a rough looking man on the other side of the pillar writing down everything you’ve been saying.”
Azaria watched him scuttle off, her heart sinking. It sounded like a copper following her, but why? She hadn’t done anything to warrant that!
“Ah ‘aven’ done anythin’ wrong!”
Crowley recoiled at the ruckus, wondering how on Earth the woman came to that conclusion. Really, Crowley just wanted to add the new, albeit atrocious, sounds to the archive! Why was she acting like they were planning to arrest her?
“It’s really fine, she wasn’t bothering me,” another woman chimed in, Crowley recognizing the voice as Anathema. Finally. It certainly looked like she’d purchased some flowers, if the bundle of cornflowers was anything to go by.
The blonde turned her teary face to her apparent saviour. “Thank you. ‘E’s been followin’ me who knows ‘ow long ‘ writin’ down wot ‘ve been doin’. ‘Ve as much right ta be ‘ere as anyone else.” She focused her ire on Crowley, “You ought ta be ashamed o’ yourself, ‘aven’t done anything wrong. Show me wot you’ve written about me.”
Crowley snorted, but moved to show the shorthand in the notepad. It didn’t take long for the flower girl’s brows to furrow, the combination of short hand and Crowley’s scrawling penmanship making it incomprehensible to anyone else—a boon under normal circumstances, but an amusement now. Crowley was a little surprised she’d asked to see the notepad, half sure she wouldn’t be able to read it.
“I can’t read that.” The redhead didn’t fight a pleased smirk, well aware that no one else could.
“‘Seems to me tha’ if ‘e was your son you’d teach ‘im not to run into a woman ‘n knock ‘er down,” Crowley read in perfect mimicry of her word usage, tapping their pen against the paper. “I study language. Can place someone’s accent within six miles for most of Europe, under four in other parts of England. And within two blocks for London.”
They turned their attention to the brunette woman, “Anathema, I’ve been looking all over the place for you.”
The blonde gave them a disbelieving frown, still sure that it was an elaborate lie before they slapped the cuffs on her. This one looked like they’d be a vicious tec, more likely to bully someone than anything else. The kind brunette woman gently pat her shoulder.
“I know that they might not look like it, but they won’t hurt or arrest you,” she promised, studiously ignoring the spluttering from the redhead.
“In my defence, how could I not record it? Every word she has uttered has been an abomination.”
Outrage crossed the pale face, “‘Ere now, you ain’t no gentleman. Miss, ‘ve done nothin’ wrong, you’ve seen. I swear on me mother’s grave.” Crowley could see red tipped fingers curling into fists.
“I know you haven’t,” Anathema reassured her. “What’s your name?”
“Azaria, miss. Azaria Doolittle.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Doolittle, I’m Anathema. And no one thinks you’ve done anything. This is Professor Crowley, they’re interested in accents.” Anathema shot them an annoyed look and for a moment they wondered what they’d done to earn it before scoffing. She couldn’t honestly expect them to introduce themself to everyone they recorded, could she?
“Accent?”
“That’s different ways that people talk.”
Azaria looked decidedly unimpressed, chin lifting in defiance. “I know what accents are. I read about ‘em in a book.” She noted the pair exchanging glances, annoyed that they seemed to think she was unintelligent.
“Did you now?” Crowley asked, disbelief plain their voice.
“Just because I can’ read that book ‘o yours doesn’t mean I can’ read at all. Me mum used to snatch books from the bins an’ bring ‘em ‘ome to me. Taught me to read, she did.”
Crowley stared in blatant surprise, they hadn’t really expected her to be literate. The flower girl was becoming more and more interesting by the second. The surprise shifted something considering, head tipping to the side as they contemplated her.
“‘Ere now, wotchya starin’ at?”
Anathema was staring at them now, looking a little too pleased with herself for their taste. “Yes, professor. You certainly look lost in thought.”
The pair of them weren’t going to let it go, were they? “If you must know, I’m just surprised at finding a ragged flower girl who is literate,” they answered finally, idly putting away their pen and notepad. “She might have a half decent mind, however, the destable way she speaks contributes to keeping her in squalor.”
“‘Destable’,” Azaria parroted, absently plucking a leaf from a tumble of curls that had escaped her hat. The rest remained in the pins and tucked under her hat. “If you’re a professor, you can teach me ‘ow to speak proper.” The last bit was said with a return of the hard, defiant stare.
“You could do that, Crowley,” Anathema agreed. “Although, it would be quite an undertaking. It’s one thing to study and record language, another thing entirely to teach it.”
Crowley tried not to let the tone in Anathema’s voice that said she didn’t think they were capable of teaching get to them. “You think I couldn’t?” they asked, well aware it was some kind of bait, but unsure what the witch was getting at. They had a reputation to uphold.
“I happen to retain several people who I instruct in proper English. In fact…hmmm,” they paused, further regarding the blonde in front of them. “In fact, I could take this poor, bedraggled guttersnipe with her heinous speech-”
“Oi! I ain’t no guttersnipe!”
Crowley sighed, “Yes, fine. However, as I was saying, I could take this young woman on as a student and in six months time pass her off as a duchess at an embassy ball. Or a shop assistant which requires even better English.”
“Professor Ant-” Anathema paused seeing the dark scowl directed her way, “-Crowley, miracle worker. I’d take that bet,” she laughed, though whether it was the boast or not was up for debate.
Crowley scowled at the use of their given name. “Just so. I could have her selling flowers in an actual shop instead of on the street. Did I ever tell you about the student I had back in Oxford? Very similar situation-”
Azaria stared after them as a taxi pulled up and the two headed off, clearing putting the blonde from their minds. She watched the carriage pull away with a critical eye as she mulled the conversation over for a moment or two. She had made a few notes in the whole discussion, even as the pair had spoken about her like she wasn’t there, not that it was unusual when dealing with the wealthy.
But the boast…that had merit if the professor wasn’t all hot air.
“Professor Crowley…I’ll have to find you and pay a visit, I will.”