"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.