The mass of people gradually moved down the hallway and through the glass doors. At the gate, Fionna Kenmare and her people were winnowed out of the crowd by the airline personnel. She swept through passport protocol and onto the plane, a privilege of a First Class ticket and her famous face. Elizabeth tried to follow her, but the staff stopped her at the barrier.

"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.