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sign that Orlando was pleased to see me.
    But he didn’t so much as smile. “What happened to you, Mel?” he demanded rudely. “Get lost on your way to the beach?”
    “Actually we’re your back-up,” I mumbled. “The Agency paged us in the middle of Lollie’s birthday party.”
    I was shocked. It’s not like Orlando to make hurtful remarks. He’s usually on a totally higher plane. Did I mention that Orlando actually looks like angel? Well, he does; a soulful dark-eyed angel in an old Italian painting. Officially he’s still at school, but he’s such a genius that the Agency is constantly sending him off on major missions. Unfortunately I only tend to run into him when I’m flouting a major cosmic rule or just generally acting like a ditz.
    I think Orlando guessed he’d upset me because his expression changed. “Sorry if I overreacted,” he said awkwardly. “It’s great to see you guys. It’s just that we’re quite overstretched as you can see.”
    “Tell us what you want us to do,” said Lola.
    I’d never seen Orlando look so depressed. “It’s a nightmare,” he sighed. “Stephen has convinced these kids that they’re going to witness a miracle. When they reach Marseilles, the sea will part and they’ll walk across dry land all the way to Jerusalem.”
    “But that isn’t going to happen, is it?” Reuben said softly.
    Orlando shook his head. “No. And I’m not sure how these kids will handle the disappointment. So I’d appreciate it if you could all keep your eyes and ears open. That way we can nip any trouble in the bud. Apart from that, just do what you can for them, the little ones especially.”
    We set to work. The children were in bad shape, soaking up angelic vibes like blotting paper. The pure angels, in particular, couldn’t get their heads round what they were seeing. “Why would a little kid put himself through so much suffering?” one said in horror.
    “Most of them probably didn’t get much TLC at home, remember?” I pointed out.
    Reuben gave a disbelieving whistle. “They’re on the move again.”
    The exhausted children were gathering up their pitiful possessions, getting ready to go back on the road. It seemed as if we’d given them just enough strength to press on to Marseilles. Of course, without food and rest, the effects of their angelic energy transfusion would soon wear off. But even if the kids had understood this, I don’t think they’d have cared. Reaching Jerusalem, that’s all they cared about.
    We marched on through the simmering heat. An old man came out of a tumble-down hovel to watch. He shielded his eyes as the never-ending procession tramped past. The sight seemed to upset him. “Go home and help your fathers,” he called.
    “We have but one Father,” a girl replied through parched lips. “And he is in Heaven.”
    I tried to imagine my mates on Earth getting all steamed up over some weird holy crusade; queuing for tickets for a pop concert maybe, or doing some hilarious fund-raising stunt for Comic Relief. But these kids were putting themselves through hell simply for an idea . Not to mention, some of them were literally dying on their feet. Forget Jerusalem. They’d be lucky to make it to the docks.
    “Just give me five minutes alone with this Stephen,” I muttered darkly. “I’ll give him a vision he won’t forget in hurry.”
    “Be my guest!” Orlando pointed back up the track.
    A covered cart was rattling in our direction, stirring up swirling clouds of dust. The cart was painted in the same vivid blue and gold as the banners and hung with fluttering blue and gold pennants.
    Three kids shared the driver’s seat, taking it in turn to sip from a leather flask. A posse of teenagers on horseback rode alongside. They wore the wary expressions of professional bodyguards.
    From the way all the kids cheered and tossed their dusty caps in the air, it seemed that this mysterious Stephen was the medieval equivalent of a rock star.
    Someone