"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?"

Just as everyone looked up into the flies, a gigantic flash of light burst overhead. Liz almost threw a spell to protect the people on the stage. Only well-honed reflexes kept her from crushing the components in her hand when she realized it was just a light popping. Sparks showered down onto the stage. The stage crew threw their hands up over their heads. Only Michael stood there in the rain of fire, looking authoritative and indignant. "Was that my key light?"

"Someone check!" shouted the stage manager, setting his staff into a flurry of motion.

Boo took a firm but not dangerous hold of Liz's wrist, and pried her fingers open. She stared at him in surprise as he picked up the fragile wax shell she had been clutching. "Y'can't use that in here, Liz," he said.

"And why not?" Liz asked. "It's perfectly safe. It's a fire-prevention cantrip."

"You'll have to forgive me sayin' so, but it don't have the range to cover the area of the stage."

"I could double the amount," Liz said, indignantly. "That would be more than plenty."

"Well, then it will be too heavy to have the range you want, no matter how loud you chant. What if you're not as close as you are right now?"

"And I suppose you have something better?" she asked, peevishly.

"Sure do," Boo said, companionably. "I checked with HQ this mornin'. They said I can give you these." He handed her a couple of sachets. Liz glanced at them dubiously. They smelled strongly of myrrh and purslane, a protective herb traditionally ruled by the element of water. She had to admit they were beautifully constructed, the edge of each fragile paper envelope sewn shut with corn silk. "You can have the formula later on. If these give satisfaction, that is."

"Oh, thank you," Liz said, trying not to sound sarcastic. Helping the poor cousin, she thought, furiously. Thought he knew it all. Their government could obviously pay for higher quality than her government. Another way of shamefully showing off. "This isn't the spell you think it is," she said, now ashamed of the irregularly-shaped bubble containing a cluster of damp crystals like a handful of bath salts sealed in waxed paper.