Mutters and groans met this announcement. Liz wondered if he’d ever been a schoolteacher. Fionna automatically trudged back to the short flight of steps at the rear of the stage. Later on, darkness would cover what was going on around her, but for now Liz could see everything. Laura Manning touched up Fee’s wild makeup. Fitz, on his knees, fussed with the hem of the new green silk dress that was pinned to the shoulders of Fionna’s black crop-top T-shirt. Because she would have to be sewn into the skin-tight sheath later, Fitz didn’t want to have her wear it until then. Judging by the intricacy of the design and the handsome beadwork that outlined the LEDs, Thomas Fitzgibbon must have spent the rest of the night on his creation. He looked reluctant to get more than a few paces away from his creation, lest it burst into flames like the last one. His overprotectiveness was irritating Fionna. He kept getting in the way of her arm movements.
As her cue came, Fitz started to follow her on his knees, holding the hem of the dress up so it wouldn’t catch on the floorboards. She swept her hand down and accidentally smacked him on the head. The two of them jumped at the contact. Fionna stopped to give him a glare that would have frozen mercury solid.
“All right, enough!” Fionna snapped out. “Go away. Now.”
He halted, and retired to the edge of the stage, hands fretting with the tape measure slung around his neck. Laura Manning gave him a wry look, professional to professional.
“And, mark!” announced Hugh Banks, the stage manager, moving around the perimeter. “First sparklers start at six points around the stage. Six, isn’t it, darling?” he asked, putting a hand to the headset he was wearing. He nodded. “And, off.” The musicians carried on what they were doing.
Liz and Boo-Boo were on guard with every piece of magical paraphernalia at their disposal. Both of them had been reluctant to let the other know what he or she was carrying, but Liz had pointed out that they’d only get in one another’s way if they started popping off spells at random. Not until she opened her own bag of tricks and dumped it out to the seams did he relax and let her examine his arsenal. She was impressed, though she didn’t let her emotions show, and hoped he felt the same way. It wouldn’t do for the British Empire, however reduced, to be superseded by its former colony in any way. She matched him defensive spell for defensive spell, truth-finders, serum for healing burns (always vital to have on hand when one did a lot of candle work), concealment spells to protect covert movement, and so on.
“Start again!” Fionna shouted, as the song they were playing fizzled noisily. “I can’t stand these bleedin’ crowds. Everyone who doesn’t belong on stage, get off!”
In particular, she turned to glare at the two agents. Nigel Peters started toward them, but Boo had taken Liz’s arm, and was already escorting her down the stairs. Liz backed off through what would be the mosh pit to the closest possible vantage point where she could see the expanse of the stage. Peters gave them a grateful glance. He looked haggard, as though he hadn’t slept all night.
The looming Jumbotron hung further down from the ceiling than it had the night before. The barrels of stage lights and clusters of black-painted boxes were arrayed around the bottom of it. Liz guessed the mysterious boxes were part of the special effects equipment. Hanging from the lip of the Jumbotron on each side was an enormous poster of the band, concealing the lighting frame from the view of punters in the auditorium seating. Each enormous graphic showcased a different member in the center. Privately Liz thought the one featuring Fionna made her look like the bride of Frankenstein. Same open-mouthed, horror-struck expression. Liz grinned.
A dozen men and women in blue jeans moved purposefully throughout the room with blackened aluminum boxes hoisted on their shoulders. Liz didn’t recognize any of the people, and pointed them out to her fellow agent.
“Television camera operators,” Boo-Boo said.
Liz was appalled. “They aren’t broadcasting this concert, are they? Not when we have so much else to deal with? It could be a disaster!”
Boo-Boo was happy to reassure her. “It’s not being broadcast anywhere, although they’re tapin’ it for themselves. Those cameras have long zoom lenses. Mr. Peters said they want to cover the stage from a half-dozen points around the interior and show some of the good stuff on the Jumbotron screens. They don’t want the folks in the cheap seats to miss the dramatic expressions, and all.”
“What a good idea,” Liz said, appreciatively. “Those screens are a real benefit when the length of a football field separates fans from the stage.” She remembered that from the control room alone the band looked smaller than figures on a wedding cake, and wondered how concertgoers felt about it. Nonetheless, she still felt nervous about the Jumbotron. The gigantic box hung perfectly steady on its moorings, but she didn’t trust it a bit. It hovered over them like the cloud of doom.
“Morning, Agent Boudreau,” said a smooth voice from behind them. They turned to see Mr. Winslow, the building manager, dapper in his white suit. He came up to shake hands with Boo-Boo. “Just checking in . . . to see how things are going. Pretty well, eh?”
“Well . . .” Boo-Boo began.
Eddie Vincent brought his hands down flat on his keyboard, producing a discordant organ sting that blasted out of the speakers like the whistle at quitting time on a construction site. Everybody winced.
Mr. Winslow’s face contracted into a mass of pained pleats. “Well, I won’t stay long. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“I’m sure the band won’t mind,” Boo-Boo said.
“Truth is,” the manager said, with a wry grin as he retreated backwards toward the corridor, “this stuff hurts my ears. You young people . . . must like it, though.”
Boo put a forefinger to his lips and tapped it conspiratorially. “Well, I’m sorry to mention it, Mr. Winslow, but the two of us is supposed to keep a pretty low profile, so I’m goin’ to say excuse me for now.”
“Oh! I understand,” Mr. Winslow said, with the wide-eyed expression of someone pleased to have wandered into a real-life spy adventure. He shook hands with Boo again. “Nice to see you, Agent. And your . . . lovely assistant. Good afternoon, ma’am. We sure appreciate your helping out here.” He gave Liz a half-bow.
“Assistant! I’m not . . .” Liz began, eager to correct his misapprehension, but Boo-Boo’s hand closed over her wrist.
“Let him go, Liz,” Boo said.
“But he thinks I’m your assistant! Why won’t you let me—?” Mr. Winslow made a left turn out at the end of the corridor, heading for the long escalators that led to the lobby. She could just catch him.
“It doesn’t really matter what he thinks, does it?” Boo asked, interrupting her.
Liz jerked her hand loose, but she was suspicious. She regarded Boo with narrowed eyes.
“All right, why did you want that man to get out of the way so quickly?”
“I don’t know whether y’all noticed it,” Beauray said, casually, “but Mr. Winslow has this little trick of waitin’ in the middle of a sentence until you meet his eyes. That means if we have him standin’ here havin’ a nice conversation, we can’t keep watchin’ the set.”
Liz’s eyelids flew up in surprise. “Why, you’re right. I apologize. But the next time I see him, I’m going to set him straight. I am not an assistant.”
“I was tellin’ the truth when I said we had to keep a low profile, wasn’t I?” Boo asked, his blue eyes innocent.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Well, I’m helpin’ you keep your cover,” he said, in his easygoing way, as if that should settle everything. Liz glared at him. In any case there was no way to call Mr. Winslow back. Beauray had scored on her once more. She was not going to let that happen again.
The music had started again. Spotlights, faint in the brilliant noon sunshine, played around the interior of the stage. Michael came up the back stairs, and a pale golden light hit him, setting fire to the metal of his guitar strings, turned the flesh of his hands and face to incandescent ivory, and gilded his black hair. He looked so beautiful Liz forgot for a moment to breathe.
Lights came up on the other two musicians, setting halos playing in their long hair. Michael started forward, but the spot stayed where it was. Michael frowned down, then up.
“Hold it,” he said. “Hold it!” The music died away. “What’s wrong with the lights now?”