The limo driver hooted his horn when he saw her coming.

"Hurry up, miss!" he shouted.

"Did the courier come?" she asked.

"Not a sight of 'im," the man said, pinching out the cigarette he was smoking. He got out of the car and opened her door for her. "Stuck 'alfway between here and Marble Arch, I'll bet. 'E'll catch up. Come on, 'op in."

"Just one minute more," Elizabeth pleaded. She made for the bare bit of garden between two forlorn London trees that stood before the building.

Undoubtedly the limo driver had thought her quite mad standing there barefoot in the patch of earth with her arms to the sky, but she couldn't take the trip entirely unprepared. Ignoring him, she concentrated on reaching her mental roots deep into the earth and far up into the sky, making herself a conduit to gather together the two halves of energy that made up Earth power. It took a moment to ground and center herself. The familiar, warm tingle rushed along her limbs, feeling like the terror and pleasure of a steep roller coaster ride where they collided in the middle of her belly. Elizabeth took a deep breath as she joined the two elements together. She wound it into a skein of power deep within her that she could unreel at will.

Unlike the driver, her neighbors were accustomed to seeing Miss Mayfield in the garden patch recharging her magical batteries. While she stood there, feeling mystic, the power of nature flowing into her body from the earth and sky, one of the little old ladies who lived next door tottered by with her arthritic Pekinese.

"Good afternoon, Miss Mayfield!"

Elizabeth replied without letting go of the strands of energy. "Good morning, Mrs. Endicott. Lovely weather, isn't it?"

"Oh, it might be a little warmer, mightn't it, dear? Off somewhere?"

"An assignment. Official business."

"Ah," the old woman said, pulling her dog away from sniffing Elizabeth's ankles. "Have a nice time, dear."

"Thank you."

Mrs. E. tottered away. Thanking heaven for the native British tolerance for eccentricity, Elizabeth finished up storing as much Earth energy as she could take on a brief "charge," and sealed it into herself with a few more words to prevent any from dissipating unnecessarily. She'd need it to ground herself. It wouldn't do at all to find the "batteries" empty if she was forced to do any magic-working on the fly. With a smile at the driver's puzzled expression, she gathered up her small suitcase and purse, and climbed into the rear seat of the car. Now she was ready for anything.

Her triumphant mood didn't last long. She was prepared, but prepared for what? She didn't have a clear idea of what she had to protect Fionna Kenmare from. The courier remained conspicuously absent while they drove the rest of the way to Heathrow. Elizabeth kept turning around in her seat to look behind her. No motorcycle. No official car. Her heart sank.

Traffic was horrible as usual. Three miles before the turnoff for the airline terminal, the limousine slowed to a creep, then a halt. Elizabeth looked around frantically for any signs of movement.

"Afternoon rush hour," the driver said, sympathetically. "It'll get you every time."

Elizabeth looked at her watch. Forty-five minutes to go before the Irish flight arrived. Perhaps she could hurry things up just a little bit. She generally balked at using magic for personal gain, but this was in service to OOPSI, wasn't it? Rationalizations a specialty, she thought wryly, trying to recall if there was an appropriate cantrip in the office grimoire. No, of course not. Flushing poltergeists out of cottages, yes. Bringing up secret writing, naturally. Opening up traffic jams, of course not.

Time for a little impromptu poetry. "Let all cars move to there from here," Elizabeth said in a low voice, trying out the chant, "open the way to my goal clear." Not brilliant, but it should do the job of persuading everyone to hurry up just that much more. It was risky, but she could not miss meeting that flight. Repeating her chant, she released a little of her stored-up Earth power, feeling it worm its way forward along the lanes of traffic. It seemed as though it would work when the tiny psychic thread smacked into an overwhelming strong counterforce as firm as concrete that stopped it cold: England itself. Do not interfere with the status quo, the presence said. Nice girls and boys don't make a fuss.

Elizabeth groaned. One couldn't be well-mannered all the time, not with a schedule to keep. The push-push-push of greater London, as unlike the surrounding country as an ambitious nephew was from a staid great-aunt, lay behind her to the east. She appealed to it for assistance. All she wanted to do was get where she was going without inciting road rage or using up her carefully hoarded store of power.

Whether England relented or London succeeded, traffic began to break up. The taxi joined the lane of cars rolling towards Terminal One.

To her dismay, no messenger was waiting for her there. She whipped out her small cell telephone and punched in the office number, all the while looking for a chartreuse tabard.

"This is Agent Mayfield," she said, turning her back on a young businessman in a very expensive suit who kept giving her interested glances, and raised his eyebrows when he overheard her identify herself. "The courier didn't meet me at my flat, and I still don't see him anywhere."

"Sorry, love," the receptionist said, her voice tinny on the line. "His bike broke down, so he's on the Tube. We just heard from him. He's stuck at Acton Park. He'll meet you in time to brief you at the ticket desk for the American flight. Mr. Ringwall says you're to meet the subject from flight 334 from Dublin. You'll be able to board the U.S. flight at the same time as her party, and you'll sit beside the subject until you arrive in New Orleans. You're not to let her out of your sight under any circs. Read me back, love?"

"Not in a secure location," Mayfield muttered back tersely, peering back over her shoulder at the businessman, who was leaning as close as he could but trying to look as if he wasn't.

"I'll take it as read, dear," the receptionist's voice quacked in her ear. "Good luck."

Don't let her out of your sight, the big boys said. Well, they hadn't taken luxury travel perquisites into account. Elizabeth ran along the endless corridors, and into the satellite gates in Terminal One just in time to see the famous green suede-cut, surrounded by a dense shell of fans and reporters, emerge from the jetway at gate 87, and sweep down the narrow corridor. The rest of her group, Green Fire, emerged one by one, and the crowd erupted into a frenzy. Elizabeth tagged helplessly along all the way to Terminal Three, determined to stay as close as she could. She couldn't draw nearer without actually using some of the unarmed combat training that she had been required to learn for her job, and she wasn't perfectly convinced some of the fans didn't know martial arts, too. They looked a tough lot.

As soon as Fionna Kenmare and her party reached the American ticket desk they were ushered through check-in and baggage inspection by a member of the airline staff. Elizabeth had no choice at that moment but to abandon her vigil, because she had to find the information desk and pick up her ticket.

Only two people were in the queue at the desk, but they looked to be there for the next decade: an old lady with a very low voice who had some trouble with her luggage, and a large American man with a shockingly loud voice whose luggage had been scratched by the baggage handlers. As soon as a new clerk appeared from the tiny room behind the desk Elizabeth waved him over, showing her ID card in her cupped hand. The man's eyes lighted with recognition, and glanced from side to side. Neither the woofer nor the tweeter paid any attention.