“May I see your ticket, madam?” asked a nice young man with dark hair and blue eyes.
“Here,” Elizabeth said, desperately trying to see over his shoulder. “But I must get on the plane now.”
“Yes,” the attendant said, very patiently. “We all saw her. But you'll have to wait for a while. Economy Class boarding will commence shortly. Will you please take a seat in the meantime?”
Elizabeth looked past him at the jetway, feeling at a loss. Every moment Kenmare was alone, disaster could strike. She thought about showing the staff her MI-5 warrant card, but that would lead to other questions which she could not answer. And the airport authority would demand, quite rightly, to know why no one had notified them that there was a “situation” in progress. Protests would be filed with the Ministry of Transport, the Secret Service, the Metropolitan Police, and there might even be embarrassing questions asked in Parliament. Mr. Ringwall would be cross. Elizabeth winced involuntarily.
She moved away from the crowd and opened her telephone.
“Sorry, love,” the receptionist said, halfway between sympathy and amusement. “Your man's still stuck somewhere between Hatton Cross and the International Terminal. Track delays. You'll have to go it alone. Your briefing is being faxed to the FBI. Your contact will bring it to you at New Orleans.”
“So I've got to sit an entire flight without knowing the full nature of the threats? In Economy Class? Damn all horrid bureaucrats,” Elizabeth said irritably, and then remembered too late that all incoming phone calls were taped.
The receptionist chuckled. “Double on that, Agent Mayfield. Good luck.”
The gate attendant announced boarding for Business Class, and a dozen passengers queued up to pass through the barrier. Elizabeth blew a strand of hair out of her face as she paced, hoping she looked like no more than a typical nervous traveler. She ought to feel proud. The brass had never given her an international assignment before. This was a promotion, she reminded herself. There'd been such envy on the faces of the others in the Whitehall office that she was being sent off on a mission, with its tantalizing whiff of influence from High Places and Mysterious Danger, instead of someone with practical experience in dealing with kidnapping and anonymous threats. But all she could do was worry. Elizabeth felt a headache coming on. She had no aspirins with her. To get them she would have to go out the door through security again, leaving her post. That wouldn't do at all. She massaged the knotted tendons at the back of her neck.
The female staff member politely asked Economy Class to board. Elizabeth presented her ticket with hardly a look at the attendant, and ran down the passageway to the jet. She had to wait ages at the door for the cheerful women and men in uniforms to stow baggage and coats for their First Class charges. Standing on tiptoe, Elizabeth managed to spot the back of Fionna Kenmare's green-dyed head as the woman leaned over to tap champagne glasses with a big bruiser of a man across the aisle from her. Gad, why would anyone do that to her hair? The suede-cut was the very next thing to being shaved bald. Elizabeth supposed the style went with the makeup. As Kenmare turned to signal the flight attendant nearest her for a refill, Elizabeth got a full look at the star's face. A fine-featured head with good cheekbones had been used like a billboard for graffiti-like makeup. From the eyelids to the hairline, she wore white eye shadow overpainted with what one presumed were mystic symbols. She had slashes of red-orange blush along her cheekbones, and if that wasn't enough of a visual headache, her lips were sharply painted with fuchsia to clash with the rest of the ensemble.
“Why doesn't she just hang a fireplug from her nose and complete the picture?” Elizabeth muttered, as the flight crew politely but firmly steered the Third Class passengers down the aisle toward the rear of the aircraft. It wasn't as if the woman was even much of a singer. Elizabeth could remember hearing Fionna Kenmare on the radio many times. She had a pretty voice, but seemed more to be shouting her lyrics than singing them. What good did it do her fans if they couldn't understand the words? Or didn't that matter to fans any longer?
* * *
Elizabeth had to make direct contact as soon as possible now. Once the pilot had turned off the seatbelt light, Elizabeth sprang up from her seat. She excused her way out of the tight row, smiling at the man in the aisle seat, who gave her a puzzled look.
“Some people have the tiniest bladders,” he muttered to himself.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks redden. Let him think what he liked. It would suit her purposes. She was working for the good of the British Empire, and such personal considerations as ego ought to be of secondary importance. It still stung. She wriggled her way up the narrow aisle toward the front of the plane. Too much time had gone by. An unknown enemy might already have struck.
Nothing in the jet made her natural sensitivity to magic come alive. The only good thing about being on board a plane was that Cold Iron would chase off the Fay. If Fionna Kenmare was under attack by one of the Fair Folk, whom Elizabeth had never seen but in which she firmly believed, she'd be safe as long as they were airborne.
The chances were much more likely that an unknown enemy was as mortal as she was, and might take advantage of the proximity and easy access. Elizabeth wound up just a tiny fragment of Earth power around her fingers and held it ready.
Using the force of her will and just a little magical misdirection, she persuaded each of the flight attendants in her cabin to look the other way as she slipped past the curtain into Business Class.
There were only six or seven people in the middle cabin. One of them, a well-dressed woman in her thirties, gave her a dirty look as she sauntered in. Territoriality, Elizabeth thought. She sent a fragment of 'fluence toward the woman, who forgot her presence and turned away to look out the window through the clouds at the fast disappearing island of Britain.
Business Class had as many attendants as Economy, but for a fraction of the number of passengers. Elizabeth had to move fast, tossing cantrip after cantrip with little flicks of her wrist, to keep the people from noticing her. So far, so good.
Things began to go awry as soon as she reached the curtain separating First Class from Business. She distracted the first uniformed man and put a neat double whammy on the next two, but she simply missed the fourth attendant, who came out of the galley just as Elizabeth reached Fionna Kenmare's row. The young woman hastily interposed herself between Elizabeth and her subject.
“Madam, please return to your seat,” she said. She was British, blond, and solid, with the sort of no-nonsense manner one associated with school prefects and hall monitors.
“I just had to speak to Miss Kenmare,” Elizabeth said, trying to sound friendly but just as firm and not at all lunatic. She didn't want the woman to put her into the category of insane fan. Elizabeth knew perfectly well that airlines now carried plastic straps they used as handcuffs for passengers who proved themselves dangerous. She'd never hear the end of it back in the office if she spent the flight tied up.
“I'm sorry, but that's not possible,” the flight attendant said, with a practiced mix of steel and cordiality. At this moment, the other cabin staff woke up to the intruder among them, and began to move towards her. “Please return to your seat at once.”
The green-headed singer turned idly to see who was leaning over her. Without interest, she went back to her drink, her magazine, and her stereo headset, without saying a word. The blond woman looked from Kenmare to Elizabeth with her lips pressed together in exasperation. Elizabeth suddenly thought it was better to retreat than explain.
“I'm so terribly sorry,” she said. “I thought it would be all right.” She turned on her heel and marched with dignity toward the back of the plane. A better opportunity would come along later.
* * *
“Oh, God, not you again,” Fionna Kenmare said in an amused whinny, when Elizabeth reappeared next to her an hour later. With her slim, blunt-tipped fingers, she picked up a cocktail napkin, one with a ring in the center from where her drink had been resting, pulled a pen out of her pocket, and signed it. “I'm after giving you points for the Lord's own tenacity, lady dear.” She extended it to Elizabeth, who reached for it automatically, then was outraged at herself and at the ego of the woman who assumed she had stormed the barricades for an autograph. Reasserting her professional persona, Elizabeth summoned up the words of a protective cantrip her gran had taught her as a child, hoping it would come out sounding like embarrassed gratitude. It would at the very least alert her if something happened to Kenmare. All she needed to do was touch the other's skin. . . .
As soon as her fingertips closed on the damp morsel of paper, the First Class attendants abandoned the caviar cart and champagne bottles, and converged upon Elizabeth.
“Madam!” the British woman exclaimed.
Distracted, Elizabeth sprang upright, still holding onto the seatback. The attendants, accustomed to dealing with intruders, expertly pried her loose. Elizabeth, vainly trying to complete the words of the spell, thrust out her free hand to reestablish contact. The first woman, a British woman about ten years older and an inch shorter than she, took her wrist firmly and turned it aside. The burst of power misfired. Now Elizabeth had offered protection to the seat beside Fionna Kenmare's. The big man had been holding her hand. Would the Law of Contagion, an ancient principle of magic, extend the benefit to Kenmare because of the touch?
“Now, madam, this won't do at all,” the attendant said. She tucked a hand around Elizabeth's upper arm and steered her backwards. “Please return to your seat at once.”
“But . . .” Elizabeth said, attempting to break free, realizing that no argument that followed would be as convincing as the first word.
“We are very sorry, but this area is reserved for our First Class guests,” said the taller attendant, a black American woman with exquisite cheekbones and pale hazel eyes, in which Elizabeth could see blunt determination behind the affable exterior. “We are sure you understand.”
“But . . .”
“This way, madam,” the older woman said, holding onto her as she moved inexorably in the direction of the gray curtain. Elizabeth glanced back over her shoulder. The green head had disappeared back into the gray leather cocoon. Fionna Kenmare had already forgotten her existence. No, that wasn't true. She was sharing a merry laugh with her seat companion over the persistent intruder. At least the woman was unharmed, and amused.
Her captors urged Elizabeth into the Business cabin. Once she was in their jurisdiction, two more attendants took charge of her at once. They had a sharp word with the woman at the head of the Economy cabin, whose cheeks turned a discreet but definite red. That flight attendant marched Elizabeth back to her row and lectured her while she sat down and buckled herself in. Elizabeth was to stay in her seat, except when nature absolutely dictated that she rise. Then, she was not to pass beyond the curtain. She would only use the lavatories at the center and back of the section. If she tried to get through the curtains again they would invalidate her ticket and send her back to London on the first turnaround flight.
“Yes, madam,” Elizabeth muttered, trying to retain some dignity, but it was impossible. Unhappily, she conceded the battle, and settled down for good between her smugly grinning seatmates, and snatched a magazine out of her bag to shut out their grinning faces.
Bother the attendants for chasing her off Kenmare. If she tried it again the airline would assume she was some sort of threat herself, and she'd have to go home. What would her bosses say when they knew she hadn't been able to keep her subject under her eye, even though it was absolutely, positively not her fault? The aborted cantrip tingled at the end of her nerves like the irritation from a plucked-out hair. Her fists clenched in reaction. She looked down, and a smile spread slowly over her face. Never mind. She had the napkin that Fionna Kenmare had signed. By the Law of Contagion, she had made all the contact with her subject that she needed to.
She uncrumpled the square of paper and touched the squiggle of green ink. Yes, there was enough of a link to build upon. Thank all powers, but the point of a pen was a great focus for the soul, however little conscious attention Fionna Kenmare had put into the autograph. Elizabeth put a fingertip down on the end of the last wild flourish and concentrated. Reaching into the reservoir of power inside her, Elizabeth brought to mind the words that would form a protective ward to send past the curtains to hover around Fionna Kenmare until they landed. It was a very minor magic, as fragile a line as the one drawn with the pen. She felt it catch, and concentrated deeply. Faint as a heartbeat, she sensed the other woman's emotions: worry, excitement, but boredom overwhelming all else. Elizabeth urged the little spell to wrap itself around Fionna and keep her safe. The trace of worry lessened slightly, as the cantrip took effect.
Elizabeth put the napkin away. She had done the best she could, under the circumstances. The only thing that comforted her was if someone was threatening Fionna Kenmare, unless he was flying in First Class, he didn't stand a chance of getting to her until they landed in New Orleans.
* * *
With nothing else useful to do, Elizabeth began to read the fan magazines. She had little hope of getting a clue as to the peril facing Fionna Kenmare that had caused Upstairs to take such immediate action from the full-color public relations hype, but it was worth a try. Opening the first one, she began doggedly to read.
Fan digests were as disgustingly simpering as they had been when she'd been buying them as a preteen. She thumbed past photo after undistinguished photo of unwashed hair, made-up faces, and pierced outcroppings of flesh, until she found the article she wanted.
The “real-life, totally true” bio of Fionna Kenmare sounded like a load of rubbish, not even as good as the cover stories MI-5 made up for the agents going on undercover assignment, which were always unlikely in the extreme. And they dealt very delicately with the subject herself, suggesting she was worthy of the reader's sympathy and admiration.
Fionna, one columnist tenderly offered, was orphaned as the result of a blast from a bomb during the sectarian troubles in Ireland. Elizabeth tried to remain unbiased, but an opening like that raised her hackles. Fionna was raised by a poor, disabled auntie in a cottage that didn't have running water or electricity until the girl was ten. Her first instrument had been an old penny whistle that she taught herself to play by listening to the birds singing outside their window. Without glass, no doubt, Elizabeth thought, snorting, as she turned the page. No doubt the mattresses were stuffed with straw and discarded Superquinn bags.
As a child, Fionna earned a meager supplement to their family assistance grant by playing pipe music outside the pubs and stores. She had found her first guitar on a dump. The strings had been chewed by rats, but she swept and cleaned house for a music teacher for six months to earn a new set. Elizabeth frowned, doubting sincerely that strings cost that much. By dint of sheer talent, Fionna Kenmare had pulled herself up from direst poverty and into the eye of the world. She'd dyed her hair green so she would always remember her roots.
And leaves, too, Elizabeth decided, eyeing the shocking green pate in the accompanying portrait. Sympathy was an emotion unlikely to be roused by the image of the aforementioned star wearing a mystic robe cut from khaki camouflage material and wearing a tongue-out grimace that would have scared away space aliens. But what was the source of the mysterious threats inferred by her supervisor?