“Come on, my feet hurt,” Pat Jones, the publicist, complained, falling a few feet behind on the narrow pavement. Some of the others joined in the grumbling.
“Enough!” Michael ordered them, spinning around quick as a snake striking. “You know there's no hurrying her.”
A long way off, a plaintive note rang in the hot, moist air. Fionna raised her head, like a hunting dog hearing the horn. She smiled at the faint sound. “That way,” she said.
* * *
It may have been due to the sugar rush from the pralines, or just that she was starting to relax a bit in this new, strange environment, but soon after merging onto the street again, Elizabeth found herself seeing the Quarter in a whole new light. To be accurate, she found herself feeling it differently.
There was an energy here, a pulse of life that blended with the beat of the ever-present music, at the same time exciting and relaxing. Attuned to Earth Magic as she was, Elizabeth was startled to find herself involuntarily drawing power from the streets . . . something that she rarely if ever could do in a city. She had been prepared for New Orleans to be different, even frightening. This new aspect, however, took her completely by surprise.
“My grandma and your grandma . . . Sittin' by the fire . . .”
“Gotta cigarette, man?”
“Carriage rides! Right here, folks!”
Even the scattered fragments of music and street pitches were taking on a different sound to her. Rather than sounding like random noise, they were like the fleeting bird calls in a heavily wooded area. True, they were still uncomfortably loud, but no longer the jarring, almost threatening cacophony it had seemed at first. She would have liked to relax and enjoy the experience, if not for the fact they still hadn't found Fionna.
“Either we've missed 'em, or they turned off somewhere,” Boo said, coming to a sudden halt. “Let's double back and see if we can sniff out their trail.”
Elizabeth realized they had reached the end of the brightly lit section of Bourbon Street. Beyond where they stood, the bars and shops gave way to shadowy private dwellings and dark storefronts. Definitely not an area she would choose to walk in alone at this time of night, and therefore a doubtful section in which to look for their wayward charges.
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.
“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.”