I traveled up to the Network Toad studios a few days later on my own; Landen had a deadline looming and needed to get his head down. But I wasn’t alone for long. As soon as I stepped into the large entrance lobby a milk-curdling shade of green strode purposefully towards me.

“Thursday, darling!” cried Cordelia, beads rattling. “So glad you could make it!”

The SpecOps dress code stated that our apparel should be “dignified,” but in Cordelia’s case they had obviously stretched a point. She looked about as far from a serving officer as one could get. Looks, in her case, were highly deceptive. She was SpecOps all the way from her high heels to the pink-and-yellow scarf tied in her hair.

She air-kissed me affectionately. “How’s married life treating you?”

“Very well.”

“Excellent, my dear, I wish you and . . . er . . .”

“Landen?”

“Yes; I wish you and Landen both the best. Love what you’ve done with your hair!”

“My hair? I haven’t done anything with my hair!”

“Exactly!” replied Flakk quickly. “It’s so incredibly you. What do you think of the outfit?”

“One’s attention is drawn straight to it,” I replied ambiguously.

“This is 1985,” she explained. “Bright colors are the future. See this top? Half price in the sales. I’ll let you loose in my wardrobe one day.”

“I think I’ve got some pink socks of my own somewhere.”

She smiled.

“It’s a start, my dear. Listen, you’ve been a shining star about all this publicity work; I’m very grateful—and so is SpecOps.”

“Grateful enough to post me somewhere other than the Literary Detectives?” I asked hopefully.

“Well,” murmured Cordelia reflectively, “first things first. As soon as you’ve done the Lush interview your transfer application will be aggressively considered, you have my word on that.”

I sighed. “Aggressively considered” had the ring of “ definitely perhaps” about it and wasn’t as promising as I could have wished. Despite the successes at work, I still wanted to move up within the Network. Cordelia, reading my disappointment, took my arm in a friendly gesture and steered me towards the waiting area.

“Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

“Spot of bother in Auckland?”

“Brontë Federation offshoot caused a bit of trouble,” I explained. “They didn’t like the new ending of Jane Eyre.”

“There’ll always be a few malcontents,” observed Flakk with a smile. “Milk?”

“Just a tad.”

“Oh,” she said, staring at the milk jug, “this milk’s off. No matter. Listen,” she said quietly, “I’d love to stay and watch, but some SpecOps-17 clot in Penzance staked a Goth by mistake; it’s going to be PR hell on earth down there.”

SO-17 were the Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operation. Despite a new three-point confirmation procedure, a jumpy cadet with a sharpened stake could still spell big trouble.