"Will you stay off me bleedin' heels?" said the slim, green-haired woman, rounding drunkenly on the blonde woman in the crumpled suit behind her.

A big, dark-haired man wearing a white linen sports jacket over an immaculate T-shirt and jeans cut between the two of them and put an arm around the tall woman, who was recognizable anywhere as Fionna Kenmare, the acid folk rock star. The blonde woman, shorter by several inches, had a good, strong chin and steady, gray eyes. She looked as if she could put up a good fight but was choosing not to.

Beauray Boudreau watched them make their way from the file of limousines that had pulled into the underground garage of the Royal Sonesta Hotel on Bourbon Street. Fionna Kenmare staggered over the threshold into the hotel, and the large man steadied her. Behind her, the woman in the suit maintained a calm expression, but her eyes sparked to show that she was fuming mad. Boudreau followed them inside, past the uniformed doorman, who stared with open admiration at Fionna Kenmare all the way up the stairs to the lobby. The star tottered toward the deep armchairs upholstered in cherry pink. She flung herself into one and stretched out a languid hand to the dark-haired man in the expensive suit.

"Nigel, be a dear, sweet man, and check me in, will you?"

"Of course, Fee, darling," Nigel said, with nannylike solicitness. He asked the woman on the other side of the desk. "Sweetheart, can someone get my friend there a drink? And one for me, too. It's so bloody hot here we're evaporating."

"I'll have a waiter come by right away, sir," the young, black woman said, smiling.

It took Elizabeth a moment to sift the hotel clerk's words into a sentence she could understand. The honey-sweet, slurred accent was no easier to understand than broad Irish. The clerk behind the dark-stained wooden desk picked up a phone and tucked it into the angle of her neck and shoulder while she flicked through the sheaf of reservation slips Nigel Peters handed to her.

Yawning into her hand, Elizabeth stood back a little ways to keep an eye on Fionna while the group checked in. She'd get a room, take a quick shower to sluice off the grime of travel and wake herself up, then call in to HQ. It'd be nearly four A.M. at home. No one would be there, but the switchboard operator could take her message. She cringed at the notion of stepping back out into the saunalike atmosphere, but she needed to connect with solid earth. Now that she was back on the ground she needed to recharge her magical batteries. It would take special intervention to keep from falling asleep while she set up security for Fionna/Phoebe's room. A handsome porter in green livery and a white stock at his neck came over to smile and gesture toward her small suitcase.

"I'll keep it, thanks," she said. He nodded and dipped his head in a little bow as he moved on to the next person in the party, the slim, balding man, who gestured toward a heap of document cases.

A tall, good-looking blond man emerged with alacrity from the offices behind the desk and bore down upon Fionna, who had absorbed her first drink and was waiting for another.

"Miss Kenmare!" he said. "I'm Boaz Johnson, the evening manager of the Royal Sonesta. How do you do?"

"I'm well, thank you so much, dear man," Fionna said graciously, offering him a languid hand.

Johnson beamed. "We're so happy you're here. We'll make sure your stay is just as comfortable as we can."

"I'm sure you will, you dear man," Fionna said. "Nigel! Mr. Johnson, this is Mr. Peters, my manager. The two of you work out the knotty details, won't you?"

"Why, of course," the manager said, shaking hands with Peters. "I'd be honored to take care of your arrangements personally."

The pretty desk clerk smiled with a quirk of her head that might have been a shrug. Every Englishman loves a lord, Elizabeth thought wryly, and every American loves a celebrity.

Elizabeth could not believe how hot it was in New Orleans. Intent on her mission she'd been almost oblivious to the first blast of steaming air as she had set foot outside the airport terminal. Compared to the interior of the air conditioned limousine, the street and the hotel lobby were sweltering. She picked at the sodden collar of her suit while she looked at the people around her. She'd never been to America before. All she knew about New Orleans was what she'd seen in movies like The Big Easy and Interview with the Vampire, both insufficient research, no matter how you looked at it, for the actual place.

It was curious. In London, home of the punk movement, Fionna Kenmare's weird makeup stood out a mile. Here in New Orleans, she was just another passerby. On the drive through the French Quarter from the highway exit to the hotel, Elizabeth had already seen men with multiple-color-dyed hair, women wearing gaudy body painting and not much else, and at the last intersection, the limousines were halted to allow passage to an entire jazz band dressed in rose-colored suits, led by a man carrying a frilly parasol. The lobby was full of local color, too. Elegant businessmen and businesswomen rubbed shoulders with odd characters dressed in tie-dyed scarves and picturesque rags.

Fionna received her second drink and her square plastic key, and rising to her feet with balletic grace hammered into her by lessons from Miss Felsham at Congreve School, swept toward the lifts, followed by the hulking form of Preston. Elizabeth started after her, her mind full of cantrips and hotel security codes. Peters caught up with her within a few steps.

"Give the girl some privacy for a while, can't you?" he asked in a whisper, tucking his head down next to hers. "It's been a long flight."

"I can't," Elizabeth said, just as quietly. "Not until this mission is over and she's safely back home."

Peters sighed. "I figured not. Good enough. Look here, I'm putting your room next to hers. Second floor. Separated only by a wall, all right?" He held out a key to her. "On us. What do you say? Otherwise this lass can't guarantee you're even nearby. We've blocked the whole wing."

"Very good of you," Elizabeth conceded, accepting it. She could almost certainly have bullied her way onto the same floor with the help of her American connection, wherever he was, but Elizabeth was grateful that Fionna's manager, at least, was cooperating willingly with Intelligence. It would make things far easier in the long run. She could save what was left of her energy for making security arrangements. Mr. Ringwall would probably be pleased at the cost savings. The room tariff was remarkably expensive, even by London standards.

Preston, the security man, was still shooting daggers her way. Her very presence was an affront to him. Well, if he could scare away bogeys, she wouldn't be here!

Her legs felt heavy and tired as she followed Fionna toward the lift alcove. She watched the singer saunter with ease, as if she had not been up all night, had not spent nine hours cramped in a plane. Of course, one of the two of them had been in a First Class couch, with attendants to rub her feet, while the other had been stuffed into a lightly-padded sardine can with two other people. Her old school chum, Elizabeth thought with amusement. Who'd have thought it?

She was not the only person watching Fionna make her grand way through the lobby. Suddenly, one of the odd characters appeared at Elizabeth's elbow. He gave her an engaging grin.

"One weird lookin' mama, ma'am," he said. Elizabeth gave him a weakly polite smile, and continued walking. Fionna vanished around one of the faux marble pillars flanking the far end of the lobby. Elizabeth hurried to catch up.

"How long you think she takes on painting up every morning, huh?" the character persisted, striding alongside her. "Every little line like that takes time."