Neverwhere (London Below, #1)

by Neil Gaiman

The angel raised its glass high, staring at the light. “Drink it carefully,” it advised them. “It is most potent.” It sat down at the table, between Richard and Door. “When one tastes it,” it said, wistfully, “I like to imagine that one is actually tasting the sunlight of bygone days.” It held up its glass. “A toast: to former glories.”

“Do you doubt me, Richard Mayhew?” asked the Angel Islington. Richard looked into its eyes. They were a luminescent gray in color, eyes as old as the universe, eyes that had seen galaxies congeal from stardust ten million million years ago; and Richard shook his head.