The others in attendance seemed to take it all in stride, giving the room and its furnishings little notice and even less comment, choosing instead to focus on the well-stocked bar situated beneath a painting the size of a bed. She was pleased to see the bar herself. Comments from other friends who had come to American dos in the past had complained that Yankees threw big parties, but neglected to provide alcoholic refreshment in favor of soft drinks, as if all their guests were still underage. Fionna/Phoebe's eyes would probably have gleamed at the sight of the warm, mahogany counter lined with bottles of every size and shape, but she was locked up, shivering, in her suite with Lloyd. Elizabeth was sorry she was so frightened, but it kept her behaving. The issue was not only what outside forces would inflict upon her, but what Fionna could do to herself, given a free hand. For once she would have to settle for room service, and like it.
As they waited for the last few stragglers to arrive, Elizabeth could not help but study those already present with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
In her own home offices of OOPSI they held occasional staff meetings, and sometimes brought in outside consultants. There, however, the consultants were invariably either dusty academics or blustery bureaucrats. The main challenge was staying awake through the drawn-out lectures and discussions of procedures. This gathering, appropriately enough for New Orleans, had more the appearance of a costume party.
Elizabeth accepted a sweet-smelling drink the uniformed bartender identified as a "Sazerac," and surveyed Boo's gathering allies.
"A few of my friends," Beauray had said. Elizabeth tried to imagine what life would be like with friends like these. If she went back through her entire life of memories and catalogued every strange character she had ever met or come into contact with, the list would not be half as large or varied as the group assembling in the room.
There were a large number of Blacks, both men and women, present, standing singly or sitting in small groups of two or three. One group was garbed in bright purple robes, while others were dressed in white and wore head scarves folded in elaborate patterns. From the night before she recalled the slight gentleman in blue jeans and a leather vest who carried an intricately carved wooden walking staff and wore a straw cowboy hat, ornately decorated with long feathers.
The Caucasians in the room presented no less variety in their dress. Two middle-aged gentlemen who stood talking quietly together wore conservative business suits that would have fit in anywhere in the Central Business District. Others more casual in their dress sprawled on the sofa, their beards and embroidered tunics making them look as if they had just wandered in from a medieval festival or stepped through a time warp from a Viking mead hall. One statuesque blonde woman in a floor-length black dress glittering with sequins seemed to have come directly from a Mardi Gras ball. Also scattered about were a few individuals whose olive complexion, long dark hair, and bead necklaces hinted of the Great Plains Native Americans.
The other noticeable thing was that, while they all might be friends of Beauray, there seemed to be little love lost between the various groups. Dark glares and muttered comments followed by unnecessarily loud laughter were increasingly frequent as more and more people arrived until Elizabeth began to worry that outright hostility would erupt if the meeting did not start soon.
As if reading her mind, Beauray stood up and moved to the center of the room, clearing his throat loudly. In response, the crowd ceased their conversations and focused their attention on him.
"I guess we might as well get started," he announced. "Even allowing for N'Awlins time and being fashionably late, I figure anyone who isn't here already has either decided not to attend or got caught up in something more pressing."
There was a low murmur as everyone craned their necks to survey the room, doubtlessly speculating on who hadn't shown up as opposed to who hadn't been invited.
"First, let me express my thanks and appreciation for those of you who have chosen to attend, and especially on such short notice. I'd have liked to give y'all more time, but there isn't any. Most of you know each other, at least on sight, and I don't suppose it's a big secret that not everyone in the room likes each other or agrees with some of the disciplines represented here. The fact that I would see fit to place you in this potentially awkward position should be an indication of how serious I feel the problem is, and how little time we have to try to come up with an answer."
That seemed to get everyone's attention, and they leaned forward in their seats, focusing intently as Beauray continued.
"In a minute here I'll introduce my colleague from England, Miss Elizabeth Mayfield, but first let me give you the bare bones. There's an Irish rock singer, Fionna Kenmare, who's in town to give a concert at the Superdome tomorrow evenin'. There have been reports that she has been sufferin' from psychic or supernatural attacks, though there's some question as to whether or not they were simply publicity stunts. Anyway, Elizabeth and I are supposed to be checkin' it out, and protectin' her if the attacks are real. I don't know if y'all think it's good or bad news, but they are real." Some murmuring met this announcement. Boo-Boo raised his voice slightly. "We've seen it happen ourselves. The problem is, what we've seen so far doesn't match anything Ms. Mayfield or I have run into before, so I thought we'd bounce it off you folks to see if any of you have some knowledge or experience that might help us.
"First, though, I'll let Elizabeth tell you about what we've encountered so far. Elizabeth?"
Originally Elizabeth had resisted the idea of her handling this part of the briefing, fearing that her accent would hinder communications, but Beauray had insisted, and as she enumerated the details of the afternoon's events, she found herself warming to the subject and to her audience. It was rare that she could speak as freely as she did about apparently supernatural or unexplainable events and have it accepted and considered seriously rather than having to fight to overcome scepticism and disbelief. To her relief and delight she saw many of her listeners nod to themselves as she reached various points in her narratives where she described but did not identify by name the magical processes she and Beauray had used.
If only Mr. Ringwall could see her now!
When she finished, there was a period of silence as the assemblage reflected on what they had heard.
"You say this group is Irish and the first attacks happened in Ireland," one of the men in business suits said finally, in an easygoing but ponderous way of speaking. "Is there any chance she's gotten sideways to some spirit over there that's followed her here?"
"I thought about that," Beauray said, "but I haven't picked up any signs or feelings of an extra presence around the group or around the Superdome."
"Too bad!" quipped the black man in the straw cowboy hat. "Otherwise we might be able to convince it to stay. The Saints surely could use the help."
That brought a round of laughter from the whole room.
"How about a curse?" asked a stout black woman wearing a floor-length caftan and a plain, dark purple turban. "Maybe someone gave her somethin' that she's carrying around that draws trouble without her even knowin' about it."
"Naw," said one of the long-haired Caucasians, with a gesture of scorn. "I never heard of no curse that could make anyone or anything burst into flames. It could make 'em sick or real unlucky, but to have something catch fire like that in front of a bunch of witnesses? That'd take some real heavy mojo."