Nodding her agreement, she turned and let Beauray lead her back the way they had come.
He was still pausing occasionally to talk to people on the street, but now she was seeing more of a pattern to it. Some people who hailed them, he simply waved to without breaking stride. A few he would deviate from their path to approach by himself with greetings or questions. Only rarely in their stops would he introduce her to whomever he was speaking to, like the slender black man with a feathered cowboy hat and a carved, decorated walking staff, or the short, heavyset woman wearing a voluminous dress and long, braided hair. Amidst all the apparent freewheeling casualness of the Quarter, she could now see there was a closely defined pecking order. In many ways, the loud, raucous greetings masked a very subtle rendering of passing honors and acknowledgment of status. From what she could see, her companion was generally held in high regard in this colorful, close-knit community. With this awareness came a new resolve on her part to take closer note of those he made a point of introducing her to.
* * *
Close to the river, the mist swirling around their feet in the yellow lamplight, Fee heard the mellow strains of a fiddle and the plunk of a guitar swim up through the constant undercurrent of jazz pouring out of the storefronts. It was an omen. Irish music welcoming her to New Orleans. An omen. Fee was a great believer in portents. She turned right into a brick arcade. The flyers and maps on the cool walls definitely spoke of Fenian sympathies. Little pamphlets advertised talks by noted Irish philosophers and historians, as well as performances by Celtic musical groups.
Halfway between the entrance and a white fountain in a courtyard were two doors. To the left she saw a bar, with men in T-shirts watching a television set. It was from the right that the music was coming.
She pushed open the door just as the lights in the large room were coming up. A handsome, brown-haired man was sitting in the stage area with the guitar on his lap, singing in a warm tenor a song full of poignant longing. From the door, Fee joined in, lifting her high clear voice even over the amplified instruments of the rest of the players. The musicians stopped, surprised. The house lights came up, illuminating the bright green hair and black silk tunic blouse of the woman at the door. A murmur ran through the audience as they recognized her and the band.
“Mind if we sit in?” Fee asked.
* * *
“I think we've got 'em, now.”
Beauray turned from a quick conversation with one of the corner hot dog vendors.
“According to Steve, here, they headed down Toulouse toward the river. Says he didn't see 'em stop at the Dungeon or Molly's, so I think I've got a pretty good idea of where they're goin'.”
He gently took her elbow in his hand and steered her through the crowds on the sidewalk and down one of the side streets that crossed Bourbon.
It was remarkable. A scant half block off Bourbon, the whole makeup of the streets changed. Instead of crowds and music, bars and souvenir shops, the atmosphere was quiet nearly to the point of being meditative. There was only a light scattering of people, mostly walking slowly in couples or sitting on balconies talking in low tones. The streets were lined with clothing stores displaying handpainted fashions in the windows, small, comfortable-looking restaurants, and lots and lots of antique shops. Still, the energy she had felt on Bourbon was present, only mellower and more low-key.
She finally remarked on this to Beauray. “I'm surprised,” she said. “I wouldn't have expected to find a creative power like this in such a famous tourist area.”
“Oh, it's here, all right,” Boo said, seeming pleased that she'd noticed. “It's my personal belief that a lotta folks are drawn here because of the spiritual energies, whether they know it or not. It's probably why we have so many writers and artists livin' here, not to mention all the musicians.”
He gestured back the way they came.
“'Bout five or six blocks from here is Congo Square where Marie Leveau used to hold her big voodoo celebrations. Two blocks to our left is Jackson Square and the St. Michael's cathedral, that the pope visited back in the '80s when he was tourin' the U.S. And, of course, there's the river.”
“The river?”
“The Mississippi River,” Beauray said, with a smile. “The biggest in the U.S. It's about two blocks ahead of us now. If it were daytime, you could hear the calliope music from the paddle-wheelers playin'. I'll tell you, New Orleans is full of history and ghosts, but where I feel the energies most is standin' up on the Moonwalk there and watchin' the river roll by. That water has more history and energy in it than we can ever hope to imagine or draw on.”
Their quiet conversation was interrupted by a group of noisy youths who rounded the corner heading toward Bourbon, laughing loudly and brandishing their plastic cups while supporting a comrade between them who appeared to be unconscious or grievously ill.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in distaste as she watched them pass.
“Doesn't that bother you?” she asked. “I'd think the people who live here would be outraged at the number of tourists who just come here to drink.”
Beauray glanced back at the group as if seeing them for the first time.
“Naw. They're just havin' fun,” he said. “You see, folks come here to have a good time. If they drink a little too much or sing their way down the street, it's no real problem, so long as they aren't hurtin' anyone. Besides, tourist dollars are what keep the Quarter green. If you think that's bad, you should see this place durin' Mardi Gras.”
“If you say so,” Elizabeth said. “I'm still surprised at how tolerant everyone seems to be.”
Her companion threw back his head and laughed.
“Heck, the French Quarter has a history of nearly two hundred years of carousing, kept women, pirates and duels. It's a little late for us to start pointin' fingers, don't you think?”
Not knowing quite what to say to that, Elizabeth changed the subject.
“Where is it exactly we're going?” she asked.
“Well, knowin' the general direction they headed, I'm playin' a hunch,” Boo said. “There's an Irish pub just up ahead called O'Flaherty's. It has live music . . . very ethnic—Celtic—and the entertainers are real friendly about invitin' other singers up on stage with 'em. I'm bettin' that if your crew is lookin' to have a drink, it's a natural place for them to stop.”
Almost as if summoned by his words, the faint sound of guitar music reached them, followed closely by a ringing female voice raised in song.
“I think you're right,” Elizabeth said, quickening her step. “That's Phoebe . . . I mean, Fionna's voice now. I'd recognize it any—”
She broke off suddenly and came to an abrupt halt as the lyrics of the song became clearer.
“But my sons have sons . . .”
“What is it?” Boo asked, peering at her carefully.
Elizabeth said nothing, but stood listening in frozen outrage until the last few lines of the song had finished, to be replaced by enthusiastic applause.
“Are you okay?” her companion pressed.
“It's nothing,” she said finally, shaking her head. “It's just . . . that song. It's an old IRA song. Very seditious. It's called `Four Green Fields,' and it talks about the Irish rebellion, essentially promising that it will never end. Considering how many people have died in Northern Ireland, both Irish and English, it's generally considered to be in poor taste and is seldom sung publicly. I'm surprised that it's something Fionna would sing.”
Or, more accurately, that Phoebe would sing, she thought, but held her silence on that score.
“I guess we're a bit more liberal about our singin' over here,” Beauray said, obviously uncomfortable. “I'm sorry if it upset you. If it makes you feel any better, folks sing songs about pert' near anything around here, includin' our own wars.”
“As I was sittin' by the fire . . . Talkin' to O'Reilly's daughter . . .”
The music had started again, but this time it was a bouncy drinking song.
&
nbsp; “It's nothing, really,” Elizabeth said, forcing a smile. “Come on. Let's go in and join them.”
As they sat at the bar in the back of the club keeping a leisurely eye on their charges at play, however, Elizabeth found it wasn't as easy as she hoped to shrug off the shock of hearing Phoebe Kendale singing that inflammatory song. How could people do that, she asked herself over and over again, dwell on bitterness and hurt? Peace was being negotiated in the province, to the delight and relief of both sides. Why constantly encourage people to vengeance and killing when the same energies could be channeled into healing and calming?
The warm energy she had been feeling while walking through the Quarter had fled. Instead, she felt cold and alone, despite the people at the tables and her companion sitting next to her. She tried to be glad that Fee was safe. Her old friend was very good at what she did. Funny how their lives had taken such different turnings. Fee's couldn't be more public, and Elizabeth's couldn't be more private, but there they were, joined together because of magic. She frowned.
“She's safe here,” Boo said, only slightly misinterpreting her thoughts. “You don't have to worry about anything gettin' at her in here.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said distractedly. She pushed aside her feelings of discontent and concentrated on her job instead. The place was safe. How Fee had chosen it Liz couldn't say, but there was a measure of benevolent magic cast over the bar. They played fine music, and the drinks were good, too. The only disturbance present was what she had brought along with her.
* * *
Long after midnight, the group staggered out of O'Flaherty's and turned down Toulouse heading back toward the faint thread of music on Bourbon Street. Elizabeth had tried several times to beard Fionna/Phoebe, but the singer had been on stage with the musicians almost nonstop. On the way back to the hotel, Elizabeth tried getting her attention.
“Fee, listen to me,” Elizabeth said. “You must stay put in the hotel in between rehearsals. It's for your own safety.”
The other woman paid little attention. She was tripping along on air. Her performance had been a triumph. Another good omen for New Orleans. She was so glad she'd come.
“Fee!”
“It's Ms. Kenmare to you, Mata Hari,” Lloyd said, nastily.
“She . . . she gave me permission to call her by her first name,” Elizabeth said, keeping her promise to Phoebe in mind. Lloyd might have overheard their earlier conversation at the airport, but there was no reason to let all the city know Fee's secret. The streets were by no means empty even at that late hour. “Fee, you can't go walkabout in a strange place. What if something had happened?”
“Something did happen,” Fionna/Phoebe said, seizing Lloyd's hand and swinging it like a child. “I was great! We were all great. I had a wonderful time. Didn't we, boys?” she called over her shoulder. No one answered her. Voe looked like he had a headache. Eddie grimaced disapprovingly, and Michael was above it all, striding along with a proprietary glance in each of the establishments they passed as though sizing them up for purchase. Elizabeth tried again.
“In future please let me know before you go out,” she said, just as Fee swung into an enveloping embrace with Lloyd in the shadow of a barred doorway lit by neon. Elizabeth dodged around a man wheeling a double bass down the sidewalk to remain close to her. “I have to accompany you. I can't protect you if you persist in skipping out of the places I've checked. Things could have gone very badly back there.”
Fionna and Lloyd snuggled together bonelessly into a single mass as though they were made of putty and started kissing. Elizabeth felt embarrassed interrupting. Fee wasn't listening anyhow. With a sigh, Elizabeth dropped back a few paces.
“Never mind,” said Beauray. “You can't keep her in a glass case. We'll just have to keep a closer eye on her. That's why you have me.”
That wasn't very much comfort. Mr. Ringwall would have expected a British agent to cover every eventuality personally. She was afraid she wasn't holding up her end very well, though she was glad to have Beauray around to help.
When at last she had seen her charge stowed away and the door warded with every seal at her disposal, Boo-Boo escorted Elizabeth to the hotel restaurant for a well-deserved bedtime snack.
“C'mon,” he said. “I know the night cook. It'll perk you up.”
Over a soothing bowl of jambalaya and some intensely good coffee in the nearly empty dining room, they discussed amulets and the physical component of spells, things that were covered neither by promises to her grandmother nor the Official Secrets Act.
As Elizabeth had suspected, Boo's myriad pockets were full of little bits of this and that. They reminded her of her grandmother's living room cupboard with the hundred tiny drawers. As they talked, he produced thread, feathers, pens, chunks of rock, even a dried lizard. Most of it was just what it appeared to be, but various small packets, wrapped in hanks of dirty cloth or folded in worn envelopes, gave off an intriguing glow to eyes that could see it. In the spirit of hands across the water, Elizabeth turned out some of the contents of her handbag for his inspection, all personal goods, but kept back the government-issue spell components. She suspected Beauray was doing the same.
“Y'know, if we're goin' to be workin' together so closely, I think you ought to call me Boo-Boo,” the American agent said, putting away a couple of anti-clumsiness amulets made of copper and white thread.
Elizabeth gulped coffee, feeling it revive her a little. “If you wish, Boo-Boo.”
“And I'm goin' to call you Liz,” he continued. When she looked at him sternly, he smiled. “Elizabeth takes too long to say, 'specially if we get ourselves in a jam.”
“It's not the usual thing,” Elizabeth began. She almost said that this was her first big field assignment, but bit back the words. She was supposed to be in charge of the operation, after all. He might not respect her as much if she admitted her inexperience. “This is an important mission for me. I can't just . . . loosen up.”
“You're in N'Awlins now,” Boo-Boo said, winningly. “You just about have to. Y'all ought to take it easy. Go on. It'll be easier than you think.”
“Well, all right,” she said dubiously, rolling the name around on her tongue. “Liz.” But she liked it. She hadn't had a nickname since school. “Yes, why not?”
“That's the spirit,” Boo-Boo said, leaning back in his chair. “I think we're goin' to get along just fine.”
Elizabeth decided it was time that she set a few things straight. “So long as you understand that I am in charge of this mission. Fionna Kenmare's case was assigned to me.”
Boo-Boo's eyes glinted their fierce laser-blue at her though his voice stayed mild. “I hate to correct a lady, but you don't have any jurisdiction here without my say-so.”
“What? My government asked for your assistance, not to take over!” Liz heard her words echo against the far walls of the room and dropped her voice. “This is my case.”
“Well, y'know, there's national sovereignty to consider,” Boo-Boo said. “If it was happenin', say, in the British Embassy, that'd be one thing. But we're right here in my city. If y'all want to go home on the next plane it'll be tomorrow afternoon. 'Course, y'all will miss the concert, and that'd be just too bad.” His blue eyes flashed with fire. Liz realized that he could make good on his threat. Mr. Ringwall would go apoplectic if she was sent home. She took a deep breath.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Boudreau,” she said.
“It's Boo-Boo,” he said, the lines of his thin face relaxing. “We shouldn't be fightin', Liz. We both want the same thing.”
Yes, Liz thought. Control. “Yes, we do.” The last word ended in a yawn. “Oh! I'm sorry.” She found herself unable to stop yawning.
“I apologize. Y'all must be frazzled. Are we friends?” Boo-Boo asked, rising to help pull out her chair.
“Certainly,” Liz said, rising with a smile for him. He was really quite nice. She'd fight the fight over dominance in the morning, when she had her wits about her once
more.
* * *
Before dropping her off for the night, Boo produced one more surprise from his pocket.
“You're goin' to need this,” he said, placing a cellular telephone the size of a pack of gum in her hand. “Courtesy of Uncle Sam. Yours prob'ly don't work here. You can call home on this, but mostly it's to keep in touch with me.” He switched it on and showed her the controls. “My number's set on speed-dial one. G'night, ma'am.”
* * *
Liz glanced at the clock on her nightstand and did some math. Still too early in London to call in her report. She got into her nightdress, clicked off the lamp, and slid into the blessed embrace of smooth, cool, clean sheets. Sleep ought to have overtaken her like a race car, but she found herself staring at the ceiling in the darkness. She groaned. She shouldn't have drunk that coffee, or she ought to have had a gallon more and just foregone sleep for the night.
Fee Kendale might have been a spoiled brat, but why would anyone seriously want to hurt her? The thought stayed with Liz all that night, and kept her from falling asleep, troubling her even more than the coffee did. What if magic was involved? When, in desperation to distract her brain, she turned on the room television, it was no help. Picking her way through the multitudinous channels available, she found herself watching a chat show where the host and the audience seemed more interested in taunting and shouting at the homosexual guests than in listening to what they had to say. When the host actually rose from his seat to punch one of his guests in the face, knocking him sprawling, she turned it off in disgust.
Hugging her pillow, she drifted off to a troubled sleep, haunted by images of shouting faces contorted in hate.
* * *
The dour-faced male announcer stared into the camera lens. “SATN-TV, `The Voice of Reason in the Wilderness,' is now concluding its broadcast day. Thank you for watching. And now, the national anthem.”
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