Tight Trouser Never Won Fair Angel

Chapter Eleven (Physician, Heal Thy Plants)

Crowley @ his plants: I'm not mad, I'm disappointed.

-/-

Madame Tracy had told Aziraphale to trust the labyrinth to guide him, and he was, but so far he had been walking for twenty minutes and seemed to have made no progress whatsoever in the fruit grove it had taken him to.

"I have been told to trust you and so I shall, but I must say, you're doing a remarkable job of testing that faith." He halted, and looked around, wondering if perhaps there was a turning he'd missed- but no, the lane stretched on either side.

There was always the option of leaving the path, of course. The trees were spaced apart reasonably, not keeping him in as they had in another part of the labyrinth. He decided to test this theory, and stepped from the path-

-and into a new part of the labyrinth entirely.

Aziraphale wobbled, the world tilting slightly on its axis at the abrupt transition.

He'd stepped into a greenhouse, apparently. He stood in the doorway, looking around him at the various plants. There was something different to these- he peered closer, and saw immediately. Some of them were wilting, others had leaf spots. Mold. Parasites. Some had their stalks broken, others were yellow and shriveled. One tree was held up by a sturdy splint, while an immense break in its trunk healed over.

"Oh my," Aziraphale murmured, walking between the tightly packed rows of the greenhouse, inspecting the injured plantlife. His mind went involuntarily back to the bog, and the mangled greenery and the fear radiating off of them.

These plants weren't afraid. They were weary more than anything.

Ahead of him, a hedge with half its leaves off rustled, and out popped-- a boy? A teenager. A human teenager, definitely; there was no way a goblin could look so gangly and awkward. A goblin prince? No, there was nothing of the goblins in this boy. Whatever age he'd come to the city, it had been too late for the magic to change him, at least not the way it did stolen children.

"Excuse me," he said, catching the young man's attention.

The boy turned to him, surprised, and dropped a spritz bottle he was carrying. He hastily stooped down to grab it, then dropped it again, and gave it up for lost, straightening up and giving Aziraphale a nervous kind of smile.

"Um, hi. You must the fairy I keep hearing about."

"What gave me away?" Aziraphale asked, rustling his wings.

"Well, the wings were a tip-off. And the, you know, glowy eyes." He squinted, and, "I thought fairies had- you know, butterfly wings."

"You're thinking of pixies," Aziraphale said. "They're a lot nastier than fairies- but much easier to step on, too, so it evens out."

"Ah." The boy nodded, as if this were nothing more interesting than a discussion of the weather. He reached down to pick up the spray bottle again, fiddling with it as he stood. "I'm Newt, by the way. You're, uh, looking for Mr. Crowley?"

Mr.? Was this boy... not of the labyrinth? Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "Are you... how long have you been here?"

"Like... today, or, you know, in general? I got hired on a couple years ago, but I only just got here today like... an hour ago? Might be longer, time moves weird here. But I always get home in time for supper, so." One gangly shoulder rose a bit, and fell.

"You don't... live here?"

"Nah, this is just kind of an after-school hobby for me."

Aziraphale was a fairy king, and he had been a fairy king for a very long time. He felt he had a firm grasp on how loosely reality held together, and the fact that pretty much anything could happen at any time. For the first time in his long existence, he suddenly found himself doubting the possible reality of what was right in front of him.

He made a confused sort of noise and sat down on a nearby stool, which held a wilted fern in a pot- he grabbed up the fern as he sat, and stared down at it.

"An after-school hobby," he repeated weakly.

Newt shrugged one lanky shoulder. "Gets me out of the house, you know?"

The fern was brown at the edges of its leaves. Aziraphale turned his attention from fern to the various other plants in the greenhouse.

"Wait, what is this place?"

"It's the punishment room," Newt explained. "It's where Mr. Crowley brings plants that aren't up to snuff, to punish them until they get their act together. My job is to look after them."

"How does he punish them?" Aziraphale asked, eyes drifting to the fern and thoughts taken forcibly back to the bog. Some of the trees there had been twisted unnaturally around themselves, some had their bark stripped away, others had broken branches trailing down in the water. Was the bog the final destination of plants who didn't make the cut?

"To be honest, he mostly just comes here about once a day and lectures them about how important it is to look their best. I guess listening to him lecture must be a punishment, because it always seems to work. Eventually things heal up and get returned to their part of the labyrinth."

"And if they don't?"

Newt shrugged again. "Dunno. It's never come up. He says they're due for the mulcher, though."

Aziraphale looked down at the fern in his lap, trying to sense any fear from it. It didn't seem afraid- admittedly, it was harder to pinpoint feelings from a singular source, but he couldn't sense any fear in this place.

"The labyrinth wanted me to see this place," he said. "Why do you think that is?"

"No idea." Newt shrugged once more. "Mr. Crowley doesn't like visitors to come here, though."

"Why not? Has he told you?"

"Um- he says that- uh... 'nobody falls in love backstage'?"

A thought occurred to Aziraphale- a hunch. "Newt... do you know anything about the bee's meadow? Do you know if that place is off-limits too?"

"You mean where Madame Tracy lives? Yeah! She says the labyrinth has pretty strict instructions not to let anyone playing the Game see it, either."

"Are there many places like that? That you're aware of?"

"Uh, a few? There's the convent, Mr. Crowley says cause it belongs to the nuns, and there's Sergeant Shadwell's barracks, same reason... then there's places like here and the bee meadow. A couple more places along those lines."

"Backstage," Aziraphale murmured. "Yes, I begin to see." He stood, and set the fern down carefully onto the stool, then reached into his case and took out a vial of golden liquid. "Here, my boy, take this. A single drop in your spritzer there will help the plants heal faster and stronger. A gift from me."

"What is it?"

"It's a healing cordial- a fairy's trick. I brought it in case I ran into trouble, but I rather think I'm not going to need it. Put it to good use here, instead."

"Oh. Thanks." Newt took the vial, then uncapped both it and the spray bottle, squinting as he carefully let a single drop dribble into the bottle. For a moment, the water in the bottle glowed with the magic in the cordial, and then it faded back into a slightly more shimmery water. "Nice. I'll- uh-"

He looked around, startled.

Aziraphale had already gone.

-/-