characteristics. Not surprisingly, everything was a protective amulet of some kind. Fionna'd been doing a little reading up on her own. Again, not surprising, since as Phoebe she had taken a first-class degree. She understood research, and here was the fruit of it. Based on what was in the box Liz was beginning to feel that Fionna, at least, believed herself in real danger. Intuition was nothing Liz could put in her daily report to Mr. Ringwall, but it satisfied her that Fee was not merely crying wolf. Liz handed over several silver chains, all charmed for safety and peace, one at a time, and Laura arranged them around Fionna's neck. As for a colored piece to set it all off, a bulky carnelian necklace looked the best with the mystical outfit they were shoving Fionna into, but it was a fire magnet. Not the best omen, in Elizabeth's opinion, but it could channel outward as well as inward. She dropped a friendly cantrip of protection into the carved orange pendant just as the piece was snatched from her by Laura Manning.
“Just the thing, love,” Nigel said as the necklace was fastened around Fionna's neck over the silver threads on the breast of the dull black tunic. He pulled her arm across his shoulder and stood, forcing her to her feet. She dangled loosely against him. “All right, Fionna, up we get. We'll be meeting the public in twenty minutes.”
The magic word “public” was just the kind of impetus Fionna needed. Elizabeth was amused to see the rag doll turned suddenly into a dynamic superheroine on the short drive from the hotel to the broadcast facility. Patrick Jones and Lloyd Preston joined them in the limo. The hulking security man, dressed all in black like Frankenstein's monster, gave Elizabeth a slightly resentful look as he sat down beside Fionna in the rear of the car, but he didn't utter a word through the entire trip. Patrick sat close to Fionna on one side and drilled her on the upcoming interview while Laura sat on the other side and touched up the wild paint job on the star's face. Boo-Boo and Elizabeth sat jammed side by side at one end of the padded bench opposite the manager, who was sharing his seat with a box of equipment and tapes.
“You're meeting a woman called Verona Lambert,” Patrick Jones said, reading out of a well-worn binder. “She's been at WBOY ten years, Fee. She's a real fan. I've got a sheaf of photos for you to sign for her and the crew. Be a good girl and do all of them, won't you?” He held out a large manila envelope.
“Right,” Fionna said, holding her hand out. Patrick slapped a fine-point permanent marking pen in it. Fionna opened the envelope and slid out a stack of black-and-white enlargements of her clutching a microphone in taloned hands. The image of her face was a pale canvas for the dramatic makeup that brought out her eyes, lips and cheekbones in chiaroscuro. Liz nodded her head in approval. Just the kind of photo fans would love. Fionna signed her name through the bottom right corner of the photo over the back of the left hand and wrist, circling the capital F around a Claddagh hands-and-crowned-heart ring on the forefinger. “Verona Lambert. Have we got the other names?”
Patrick read them off from his list. Fionna personalized each picture in turn. Liz, reading them upside down, realized that Fionna was making each dedication a little different than the others. A real pro, she thought with surprise. She'd been judging too much by the appearance. Green Fire ran like a machine, and Fionna was truly part of it.
Elizabeth admired the staff. They were organized, genuinely concerned for Fionna's well-being, but very businesslike. Nigel had a cigarette for Fionna, but held it out of reach until she drank a repulsive, thick, pink shake he offered in his other hand.
“Brain food before you ruin your lungs, darling,” he said, waving the glass under her nose. “Come on. You can't do an hour on an empty stomach. The cook in the Sonesta made it up just for
“Just the thing, love,” Nigel said as the necklace was fastened around Fionna's neck over the silver threads on the breast of the dull black tunic. He pulled her arm across his shoulder and stood, forcing her to her feet. She dangled loosely against him. “All right, Fionna, up we get. We'll be meeting the public in twenty minutes.”
The magic word “public” was just the kind of impetus Fionna needed. Elizabeth was amused to see the rag doll turned suddenly into a dynamic superheroine on the short drive from the hotel to the broadcast facility. Patrick Jones and Lloyd Preston joined them in the limo. The hulking security man, dressed all in black like Frankenstein's monster, gave Elizabeth a slightly resentful look as he sat down beside Fionna in the rear of the car, but he didn't utter a word through the entire trip. Patrick sat close to Fionna on one side and drilled her on the upcoming interview while Laura sat on the other side and touched up the wild paint job on the star's face. Boo-Boo and Elizabeth sat jammed side by side at one end of the padded bench opposite the manager, who was sharing his seat with a box of equipment and tapes.
“You're meeting a woman called Verona Lambert,” Patrick Jones said, reading out of a well-worn binder. “She's been at WBOY ten years, Fee. She's a real fan. I've got a sheaf of photos for you to sign for her and the crew. Be a good girl and do all of them, won't you?” He held out a large manila envelope.
“Right,” Fionna said, holding her hand out. Patrick slapped a fine-point permanent marking pen in it. Fionna opened the envelope and slid out a stack of black-and-white enlargements of her clutching a microphone in taloned hands. The image of her face was a pale canvas for the dramatic makeup that brought out her eyes, lips and cheekbones in chiaroscuro. Liz nodded her head in approval. Just the kind of photo fans would love. Fionna signed her name through the bottom right corner of the photo over the back of the left hand and wrist, circling the capital F around a Claddagh hands-and-crowned-heart ring on the forefinger. “Verona Lambert. Have we got the other names?”
Patrick read them off from his list. Fionna personalized each picture in turn. Liz, reading them upside down, realized that Fionna was making each dedication a little different than the others. A real pro, she thought with surprise. She'd been judging too much by the appearance. Green Fire ran like a machine, and Fionna was truly part of it.
Elizabeth admired the staff. They were organized, genuinely concerned for Fionna's well-being, but very businesslike. Nigel had a cigarette for Fionna, but held it out of reach until she drank a repulsive, thick, pink shake he offered in his other hand.
“Brain food before you ruin your lungs, darling,” he said, waving the glass under her nose. “Come on. You can't do an hour on an empty stomach. The cook in the Sonesta made it up just for
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