It looks smaller in the light of day—particularly the bits where the roof is mostly on the floor—and far more humble than its original owners probably intended. Perhaps this place was the project of an ambitious merchant, or a lesser noble hoping to move up in the world; now it merely looks shabby in a friendly way.

Aziraphale slips his arm around Crowley’s waist, basks in his nearness and the no-longer-tense set of his shoulders.

“I hoped you’d enjoy it,” he murmurs, squeezing gently. “Though I think our first order of business will have to be finding a spot with adequate roofing for the bed to go under.”

(The driver, meanwhile, finds his initial suspicions about his passengers’ ownership of the house sliding out of his thoughts entirely as they approach. Certainly it’s very run-down for a family home, as the gentleman in white claims, but the place gives off such a sense of peace that he merely finds himself approving of the decision to spend a summer here.)