They'd split up, in the marketplace. Aziraphael had, naturally, been drawn like a moth to a flame towards the rickety old book-stall, whilst Crowley had wandered over to watch a steel-drum band for a short while. They've left, though, so Crowley's idly meandering through the rows of stalls. Handmade jewelry, painted wooden figurines, bright tourist t-shirts in all shapes and sizes, emblazoned with legends such as 'We Be Jammin' and ' Hurry-Hurry Never Done', all interspersed with tables full of fruit and vegetables, fish and meat, rum and spices.

Around a rug on the ground, laid out to display their wares, are seated a number of incredibly ancient men and women, hands and mouths both moving at lightning speeds; arguing about the weather as they twist twine, and braid small leather thongs, and thread delicate cowrie shells onto necklaces and bracelets.

"Hi," says Crowley.

One of the women favours him with a beady glare, much displeased at his interruption of her tirade regarding the westerly wind and its tempestuous relationship with her washing line. She snaps at him - something unintelligible in a thick Bajan accent, the gist of which seems to be 'who are you, and what do you want?'.




Roughly an hour later, Aziraphael finds Crowley sitting on the dry, dusty ground, trading insults with the man to his left (who looks, frankly, older than the Bible). To the demon's right, an equally decrepit old woman and a scruffy grandchild of indeterminate gender are leaning over his shoulder, pointing at the makings of a cowrie-shell bracelet in his lap, and telling him, at great volume and with great amusement, exactly what he's doing wrong.

They're also trying to teach him Bajan slang, though, so that's alright.