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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.
    As a child, Fionna earned a meager supplement to their family assistance grant by playing pipe music outside the pubs and stores. She had found her first guitar on a dump. The strings