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.
“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.