Liz marveled that Fionna's accent stayed intact even under stress. "You weren't injured, Fee—Fionna," she said, stumbling deliberately over the name. The look of suspicion in her old schoolmate's eyes verified that there would be no more hysterics, or Liz might let her secret out.

"This dress didn't exist until an hour ago, sweetheart," Peters said, soothingly. "Fitzy's only just finished it."

"I haven't even been here yet, and they're already trying to kill me!" Fionna shrilled. "And you've done nothing!"

"We couldn't prevent an attack until we knew where it was coming from," Liz said, looking at Boo-Boo for support. The American was on his knees, scooping ashes from the floor into his hand.

"And where is it coming from?" Fionna demanded.

"It's coming from... beyond," the costumer said, clutching himself. His eyes were wide with horror. "Oh, my God, what if all the green silk is cursed? Couldn't we, you know, call in a priest to bless it and make it benign? Otherwise, I refuse to work with it. Heaven knows what it'll do to my sewing machines."

"Will you calm down?" Peters snapped. "The fabric is not cursed. There's a perfectly sane explanation for what just happened. Right, Liz?"

"What are these things?" Boo-Boo asked, standing up with wires trailing from his hand.

"They're from the LEDs. They were arranged in mystical symbols sewn into the cloth. They light up on stage. There's no power source, though," the costumer said, suddenly looking worried. "We hook Fionna up with a battery pack before she goes on."

"We've done it a thousand times," Fionna said, her eyes wild. "There's no earthly reason why the dress should have gone up in flames. Someone's trying to kill me!" She turned and, finding herself in Lloyd Preston's arms, allowed herself to shiver. Robbie Unterburger glared at her from the sidelines.

"Could the dress have been exposed to any flammable substances? Or high temperatures?" Liz asked. "Could the spotlight have set it off?"

"We're in that spotlight now," Robbie said, pointing upward. Liz stared up into the blinding glare. It focused into a single point, far in the back of the amphitheater. "It's no more harsh than strong sunshine."

"It don't look like these two busybodies can do a thing," Preston said, hulking over them all as usual. Liz turned a high-power glare towards him, then dismissed him. "I'll look this place over myself. Fionna's security is my business." He stalked off to confront one of the firefighters.

"What about those laser lights?" Boo-Boo asked. "Could that ignite the fabric?"

"You couldn't even light a cigarette with them," Robbie said, scornfully. "There's stronger lasers in a food store checkout. Besides, the laser never touched this stage. I was testing it on the far wall."

"All right," Liz said. "I'd like to talk to everyone who was here when it happened. One at a time, please." She turned to the publicist, who looked as if his ulcer was kicking up again. "Can we use one of the dressing rooms?"

Everyone protested at once. "We've got work to do, lady!" Robbie Unterburger said. "Tomorrow's the show!"

"That's enough," Nigel Peters said, wearily. "There'll be no show if there's any danger to Fionna, so we have to let these people ask their questions, right? A little cooperation, please? God, I could murder a cup of tea."

"Could you make us all some tea?" Liz asked the costumer. "It'll give you a chance to calm down."

"I'm a highly paid professional, with respect throughout the entire music industry," Fitzgibbon protested, head high, but Liz thought he looked grateful for something ordinary to do. He threw up his hands. "All right. Tea."

"I'd rather have a whisky," Fionna said, crossly.

"You had four drinks at lunch," Liz said.

"Well, I need one now! And how the hell did you know that? Have you got a bug on me now?" Fionna demanded.

"She's already got one up her..." Robbie muttered to one of the other stagehands. Fionna couldn't hear her, but Liz could. Tactfully, she pretended she hadn't. She didn't want to revisit the matter anyhow. Fee would have had furious hysterics all over again if Liz had explained the psychic monitor she'd planted on her for security.

"Come on, sweetheart," Laura Manning, the makeup artist, said, putting an arm around Fionna's narrow shoulders and leading her away. "I've got a bottle in your dressing room. We can wait for the tea there." She glanced back at the two investigators. "That's where you'll find me. I've got things to arrange for tomorrow."

"We all have," Michael Scott complained, his blue eyes flashing with indignation. The other members of the band added their voices to his.

"This won't take but a short time," Boo-Boo promised him. "We just want to know where everybody was when the dress went up. We don't even have to go down to a dressing room. We can talk right here."

Eddie Vincent frowned. "I don't like this. You're accusing us? Us? We've been with Fionna for yonks, mate." He planted a finger in Boo-Boo's chest and poked it a few times for emphasis. "Now, she may not be the world's easiest broad to live with, but we back her up in more ways than one. Got it?"

"Everybody's gettin' so bothered," Boo-Boo said mildly, but Liz saw the glints in his eyes. He walked back to the instrument setup. Almost involuntarily, half the crowd of roadies and musicians followed him. He stopped beside the open square of keyboards. "You was here when Fitz came out? Rehearsing?"

"No, I was dancing on the ceiling with Fred Astaire," Eddie said, sneering. "'Course I was. Len saw me."

"Yeah," Len, one of the lighting crew, stepped forward. "I was fixing everyone's key lights."

"Good!" Boo-Boo beamed. "See how easy this is?"

Liz admired the way his easygoing manner helped to soothe the ruffled feathers of Fionna's entourage. After a surprisingly short time, their voices softened. Several people began to add their accounts, interrupting each other, helping to reconstruct the moment of the attack now nearly two hours past. Boo caught Liz's eye over the shoulders of the others, and she nodded back, understanding him. While he was charming everyone, Liz sauntered casually over to the keyboard setup, and sent a tiny tendril of Earth power through the floor where Eddie Vincent must have been standing.

Everyone's backs were turned when the glitter came to life on the dusty boards, showing pairs of footsteps overlaid on one another again and again, when Vincent was playing, turning from electric piano to organ to multi-synthesizer and back again. It looked like some bizarre Arthur Murray quickstep pattern. The air around them was empty of even a single spark of magic. Whatever had happened, the musician was innocent of the attack. Liz had just enough time to wipe the glamour away when Vincent broke out of the pack and came over to see what she was doing.

"Quite some instruments," she said, idly. She started to run a finger along the top of the synthesizer console. He reached over to slap her wrist. She snatched her hand away, staring at him in astonishment.

"Never touch my stuff again," he said, flatly. He aimed a finger at her nose. "Never handle anyone's instruments, do you hear? Anybody could tell you've never been within a mile of a band."

"Why would I need to?" Liz asked sweetly. "Anybody could hear you playing from a mile away. I'd never need a ticket." She was surprised at herself. Being peevish was not what the office expected of its agents. She ought to be acting like an adult in this crisis. "I'm sorry," she said. "We're all under a bit of a strain."

Vincent grunted wordlessly. Apology accepted. Liz turned and walked back to join Boo-Boo, who was standing with Voe Lockney. The drummer was explaining his drum set with enthusiasm, picking out rhythms with quick dabs of brush and stick.