Neverwhere

"Former glories," chorused Richard and Door. And then, a little warily, they tasted the wine, sipping it, not drinking.

"It's amazing," said Door.

"It really is," said Richard. "I thought old wines turned to vinegar when they were exposed to air."

The angel shook its head. "Not this one. It is all a matter of the type of grape and the place it was grown. This kind of grape, alas, perished when the vineyard vanished beneath the waves."

"It's magical," said Door, sipping the liquid light. "I've never tasted anything like it."

"And you never will again," said Islington. "There is no more wine from Atlantis."

Somewhere inside Richard a small, reasonable voice pointed out that there never was an Atlantis, and, thus emboldened, went on to state that there were no such things as angels, and that furthermore, most of his experiences of the last few days had been impossible. Richard ignored it. He was learning, awkwardly, to trust his instincts, and to realize that the simplest and most likely explanations for what he had seen and experienced recently were the ones that had been offered to him—no matter how unlikely they might seem. He opened his mouth and tasted the wine once more. It made him feel happy. It made him think of skies bigger and bluer than any he had ever seen, a golden sun hanging huge in the sky; everything simpler, everything younger than the world he knew.

There was a waterfall to the left of them; clear water ran down the rock and collected in the rock-pool. To the right of them was a door, set between two iron pillars: the door was made of polished flint set in a metal that was almost black.

"You really claim to be an angel?" Richard asked. "I mean, you've actually met God and everything?"

Islington smiled. "I claim nothing, Richard," it said. "But I am an angel."

"You honor us," said Door.

"No. You do me much honor by coming here. Your father was a good man, Door, and a friend to me. I was deeply saddened by his death."

"He said . . . in his journal . . . he said I should come to you. He said I could trust you."

"I only hope that I can be worthy of that trust." The angel sipped its wine. "London Below is the second city that I have cared for. The first sank beneath the waves, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I know what pain is, and loss. You have my sympathies. What would you like to know?"

Door paused. "My family . . . they were killed by Croup and Vandemar. But—who ordered it? I want . . . I want to know why."

The angel nodded. "Many secrets find their way down to me," it said. "Many rumors, and half-truths, and echoes." Then it turned to Richard. "And you? What do you want, Richard Mayhew?"

Richard shrugged. "I want my life back. And my apartment. And my job."

"That can happen," said the angel.

"Yeah. Right," said Richard flatly.

"Do you doubt me, Richard Mayhew?" asked the Angel Islington.

Richard looked into its eyes. They were a luminescent gray, eyes as old as the universe, eyes that had seen galaxies congeal from stardust ten million, million years ago; Richard shook his head. Islington smiled at him, kindly. "It will not be easy, and you and your companions will face some very real difficulties, both in the task, and in the return. But there could be a way that we can learn: a key to all of our problems."

It got up, and walked over to a small rock shelf, where it picked up a figurine, one of several on the shelf. It was a small black statuette depicting some kind of animal, made of volcanic glass. The angel handed it to Door. "This will bring you safely through the last stage of your journey back to me," it said. "The rest is up to you."

"What do you want us to do?" asked Richard.

"The Black Friars are custodians of a key," it said. "Bring it to me."

"And you can use it to find out who killed my family?" asked Door.

"I hope so," said the angel. Richard finished his glass of wine. He felt it warming him, running through him. He had the strange feeling that if he looked down at his fingers he would be able to see the wine glowing through them. As if he were made of light . . .

"Good luck," whispered the Angel Islington. There was a rushing sound, like a wind soughing across a lost forest, or the beating of mighty wings.

Richard and Door were sitting on the floor in a room in the British Museum, staring up at a carved painting of an angel on a cathedral door. The room was dark and empty. The party had been over for a long time. The sky outside was beginning to lighten. Richard stood up, then leaned down, and helped Door up.

"Black Friars?" he asked. Door nodded.

He had crossed Blackfriars Bridge, in the City of London, many times, and he had often passed through Blackfriars station, but he had learned by now not to assume anything. "People."

Richard walked over to the Angelus. He ran a finger down its painted robe. "Do you think he can really do it? Get me my life back?"

"I've never heard of such a thing. But I don't think he would have lied to us. He is an angel."