Free Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye by Jonathan Stroud Page A

time.”
    She raised her head, blinked, and with a rush awoke to the roar of the theater interval. The lights in the auditorium had come on, the great purple curtain had descended across the stage; the audience had fragmented into hundreds of red-faced individuals filing slowly from the stalls. Kitty was awash in a lake of sound that beat against her temples like a tide. She shook her head to clear it, and looked at Stanley, who was leaning over the stall in front, a sardonic expression on his face.
    “Oh,” she said, confusedly. “Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”
    “The bag. Don’t forget it.”
    “I’m hardly likely to, am I?”
    “You were hardly likely to fall asleep.”
    Breathing hard and brushing a loop of hair from her eyes, Kitty snatched up the bag and stood to allow a man to squeeze in front of her. She turned to follow him out along the row of stalls. As she did so, she caught sight of Fred for a moment: his dull eyes were, as always, hard to decipher, but Kitty thought she detected a trace of derision. She compressed her lips and shuffled her way into the aisle.
    Every inch of space between the stalls was crowded with people thronging variously toward the bars, the toilets, the ice-cream girl standing in a pool of light against a wall. Movement in any direction was difficult; it reminded Kitty of a cattle market, with the beasts being shepherded slowly through a maze of concrete and metal fencing. She took a deep breath and, with a succession of muttered apologies and judiciously applied elbows, joined the herd. She inched her way between assorted backs and bellies toward a set of double doors.
    Midway across, a tap on her shoulder. Stanley’s grinning face. “Didn’t think much of the show, I take it?”
    “Of course not. Dire.”
    “I thought it had a couple of good points.”
    “You would.”
    He tutted in mock surprise. “At least I wasn’t sleeping on the job.”
    “The job,” Kitty snapped, “comes now.”
    With set face and hair disheveled, she spilled out through the doors into the side corridor that looped around the edge of the auditorium. She was angry with herself now, angry for dozing, angry for allowing Stanley to get under her skin so easily. He was always looking for any sign of weakness, trying to exploit it with the others; this would only give him more ammunition. She shook her head impatiently. Forget it: this was not the time.
    She weaved her way into the theater foyer, where a good many members of the audience were spilling out into the street to sip iced drinks and enjoy the summer evening. Kitty spilled with them. The sky was deep blue; the light was slowly fading. Colorful flags and banners hung from the houses opposite, ready for the public holiday. Glasses clinked, people laughed; with silent watchfulness, the three of them passed among the happy crowd.
    At the corner of the building, Kitty checked her watch. “We have fifteen minutes.”
    Stanley said: “There’s a few magicians out tonight. See that old woman swilling gin, the one in green? Something in her bag. Powerful aura. We could snatch it.”
    “No. We stick to the plan. Go on, Fred.”
    Fred gave a nod. From the pocket of his leather jacket he produced a cigarette and lighter. He dawdled forward to a point that gave a view along a side road and, while lighting the cigarette, scanned along it. Seemingly satisfied, he set off down it without a backward glance. Kitty and Stanley followed. The street contained shops, bars, and restaurants; a fair number of people strolled past, taking the air. At the next corner, Fred’s cigarette appeared to go out. He paused to relight it, again peering closely in all directions. This time, his eyes narrowed; casually he strolled back the way he had come. Kitty and Stanley were busy window-shopping, a happy couple holding hands. Fred passed them. “Demon coming,” he said softly. “Keep the bag hidden.”
    A minute passed. Kitty and Stanley cooed and clucked over the Persian