Jonathan Stroud-BartimaeusThe Golem's Eye

"Um, I'm going somewhere.... To Prague..."

She pressed a little closer. "Are you? What for?"

"To investigate... er..." He blinked, shook his head. Something was wrong.

"Tell you what," she said, "we could sit together and have a nice talk. You could tell me everything you're planning."

"I suppose..."

"I've got a lovely long couch."

"Have you?"

"We can cozy up together and drink iced sherbet and you can tell me all about this demon you summon, this Bartimaeus. I'd be so impressed."

As she spoke the name, a little warning note sounded in his mind, cutting through his luxurious befuddlement. Where had she learned Bartimaeus's name? It could only be from Duvall, her master, who had himself learned it that very morning in the summoning chamber. And Duvall—Duvall was no friend of his. He would want to stymie anything Nathaniel was doing, even his trip to Prague....

He stared at Jane Farrar with growing suspicion. Realization came flooding back, and for the first time he noticed his sensor web emitting a dull pulse in his ear, warning him of the presence of a subtle magic on his person. A Charm, or perhaps a Glamour... Even as he thought this, the luster of her hair seemed to fade a little, the sparkle in her eyes flickered and dimmed.

"I—I'm sorry, Ms. Farrar," he said huskily. "Your invitation is very kind, but I must decline. Please give my regards to your master."

She regarded him silently, the look of doe-eyed admiration replaced, fleetingly, by one of bottomless contempt. A moment later, the familiar, measured coolness had returned to Jane Farrar's face. She smiled. "He will be pleased to receive them."

Nathaniel gave a short bow and left her. When he glanced back, from the other side of the foyer, she had already gone.

He was still a little disoriented by this encounter five minutes later, when he emerged from a lift on the third floor of the Ministry, crossed a broad, echoing corridor, and arrived at the Second Secretary's door. He adjusted his cuffs, composed himself for a moment, knocked, and entered.

It was a high-ceilinged room of oak-paneled walls; light streamed in from elegantly tapering windows overlooking the busy traffic of Whitehall. The room was dominated by three great wooden tables, their upper surfaces inlaid with stretches of stippled green leather. Upon these were a dozen unfurled maps of varying size: some of pristine paper, others of ancient, cracking vellum, all pinned carefully onto the leather tabletops. A small bald man, the Second Secretary of the Foreign Office,