A Little Taste of Poison

by R. J. Anderson

  “I have talked to Seffania,” she said. “She admits that she encouraged you to test the charm, but she insists she told you to step gently, not stamp with your full weight. Is that so?”

  She hadn’t actually said “gently,” but the rest was true enough. Isaveth nodded.

  Mistress Corto glanced at the healer. “Master Fetheridge, does Miss Breck require any further treatment?”

  “At present, no. If she avoids strenuous activity for the rest of the day and gets plenty of rest this evening, she should be fine.” He patted Isaveth’s shoulder. “Take care, young lady.”

  As the outer door closed behind him, Isaveth braced herself for a tongue-lashing. But Mistress Corto only studied her thoughtfully. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I think you have learned your lesson. You will not test any charms in my class without permission again.”

  Isaveth’s heart leaped as she realized the woman was giving her a second chance. If she’d caused a commotion like that in Master Valstead’s class, he’d have marched her straight to the governor’s office. “No, Mistress,” she said fervently.

  “Then we will say no more about it,” said Mistress Corto. “Rest here until class ends, and then you may go.” She strode past Isaveth, heading for the workshop.

  “Mistress?” asked Isaveth, and the older woman glanced back. “What happened to Eulalie?”

  “Miss Fairpont asked to be excused after the test, as she was feeling poorly. I told her she could make up the exercise tomorrow.”

  Strange, Eulalie had seemed well enough when class started. But perhaps she’d been putting on a brave face. Isaveth nodded and laid her head on the desk as Mistress Corto walked away.

  * * *

  Esmond sat through his classes that day with barely contained impatience, longing to dash home and try Isaveth’s tracking spell. Surely by now Eryx had read the letter he’d written and added it to his secret file.

  Mind, that was assuming he hadn’t merely torn up the letter, or handed it over to their parents just for the pleasure of watching Esmond squirm—or worse yet, discovered the tracking-spell on the paper, which would tell him at once that Isaveth and Esmond were working together. . . .

  No, that was unthinkable. They couldn’t have failed so badly, so soon. Eryx was clever, but he also had a blind side: He was so accustomed to being the smartest person in any room he entered that he assumed other people were stupider than they actually were. He would believe the letter because it fit his view of Esmond as a boy whose impulses were stronger than his judgment, and he’d never guess Isaveth had made its pages traceable, because like most nobles, he had little understanding of what Common Magic could do.

  The weekly bid committee meeting at Council House should keep Eryx occupied until half past four at least, but Esmond was taking no chances. When the last bell rang, he dashed out the gate and hailed a carriage home at once.

  The butler assured him that Eryx was indeed at the meeting, and Lord Arvis had recovered enough to go with him. Civilla was at the seamstress being fitted for her ball gown, while Lady Nessa had retired to her beloved indoor garden. The house was Esmond’s, so he raced to his bedroom, retrieved the bottle of tracking decoction, and set to work.

  According to Isaveth, all he had to do was lift the bottle, swirl it, then wait for the floating specks inside to point the way. Mouth dry and skin tingling, Esmond did so.

  Oddly, it was pointing toward Civilla’s bedroom. It was hard to imagine Eryx would hide anything there, but Esmond had learned not to assume anything where his brother was concerned. He knocked, listened, and cautiously opened the door.

  Inside lay a serene, rose-tinted space with mirrors on every wall, presumably so his sister could view her fashionable self from all angles. A dressing table stood in one corner, with a padded stool in front of it and a matching lounge chair stretched out beside. The only pictures were still life paintings, modern in style but utterly devoid of personality. If not for the feathery toe of a slipper peeking from under the bed, he might have taken it for a forgotten guest chamber or a display in Simkin’s Category Store—anything but the bedroom of a living girl.

  The last time he’d come here, he’d been eight and Civilla thirteen. Her walls had been crammed with maps and botanical sketches, her bed heaped with cloth animals, and they’d thumped each other with pillows until they could barely breathe for laughing. But then she’d started at Tarreton College and Lady Nessa began taking her out in society, and his sister had changed.

  First she’d grown self-conscious, always on her dignity and determined to do everything right. She’d won academic awards for dull subjects like sociology, religious studies, and civics, and started a gardening club to help beautify the uglier parts of the city. She’d even nagged their father to stop drinking, and corrected Esmond’s posture so many times that he’d started slumping just to annoy her. In short, she’d become a towering bore.

  Yet even that dreary, self-righteous Civilla had been better than the sister he had now. Perhaps she’d grown tired of trying to live up to her own standards, or perhaps Eryx’s gentle reminders of her inferior taste, judgment, and social skills had finally worn her down. But soon after she graduated, she’d lost interest in being respectable and set out to become popular instead. She’d cut her hair, started wearing dramatic shades of lip tint, and found a new set of friends to whisk her from one party to another. If she didn’t nag Esmond or quarrel with Eryx anymore, it was only because she’d stopped caring about anyone’s life but her own.

  Still, he was surprised by how modest Civilla’s wardrobe was. She had only one armoire, and the closet wasn’t half as stuffed with dresses as he’d expected—though she did own plenty of hats and a mind-boggling assortment of shoes.

  What she didn’t have was a case with Eryx’s documents in it. Esmond swirled the bottle again, frowning as the particles drifted back the way he had come. Had he read it wrong the first time?

  Esmond spent nearly half a bell following the potion all over the house before he realized there was no point in trying further. The tracking spell kept leading him into solid walls, and changed direction every few minutes. Either it didn’t work for him the same way it had for Isaveth . . .

  Or Eryx had destroyed the letter, and there was nothing left for the potion to find.

  * * *

  After the incident in the charmery, Isaveth felt vulnerable as a newborn kit. Surely the news that she was Moshite was spreading far and wide by now. But none of her classmates troubled her, not even Paskin, and she made her way home at the end of the day in peace. Perhaps it was only the hush before the storm broke, but even so Isaveth was glad for it.

  Her head still throbbed where she’d hit the ceiling, but there were no obvious bumps or cuts for her family to notice, so she did her best to smile and act as though all was well. That evening she helped Lilet wash the laundry and hang it outside to freeze dry, while the next morning she went to temple with her sisters and spent the afternoon writing a new Auradia story. She hadn’t heard from Esmond since she gave him the potion, and she could only hope that he’d have good news for her on Mendday.

  When she returned to school the next morning (not without a wistful thought of how nice it would be to have a two-day weekend), Eulalie rushed to meet her. “Did you really jump on a floater last Fastday?” she asked. “I heard Seffania telling her friends about it. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” said Isaveth. Her head felt only a little sore now, and no one ever died of embarrassment, as Papa would say. “But what about you? Mistress Corto said—”

  “Seffania actually asked me if you were Moshite, because she hadn’t heard you say the invocation. Can you believe it? Anyway, I told her you must have whispered it, and she just didn’t hear. After all, the spell could hardly have worked if you hadn’t!” Eulalie giggled. “She didn’t know what to say to that one.”

  Ice formed in Isaveth’s stomach. She hadn’t wanted to make a show of being Moshite, but she
didn’t want to deny it either—especially not after what had happened with Meggery. “But what happens next time I test a sage-charm? They’ll all be waiting to see if I make the invocation.”

  “Well, couldn’t you? It’s only an old superstition, you know. It doesn’t really mean anything . . .” Eulalie stopped. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  She didn’t understand. How could she? Isaveth hardly knew how to explain it herself. All she knew was that she couldn’t do what Eulalie was suggesting. “Don’t,” she said hoarsely. “Please.”

  Eulalie blinked, then swallowed. “Oh. Sorry.” She took a step back, one hand creeping to her middle. “I’ve—er—just remembered something. See you in class, all right?”

  * * *

  Despite its awkward beginning, the rest of the morning went as well as Isaveth could hope. Eulalie turned up late to Sagery, but rather than avoiding Isaveth she sought her out at once, chattering away as though nothing was wrong. And when Mistress Corto announced that first-year students were not to test any charms they made without her permission, not even Paskin complained about it. Isaveth was feeling almost cheerful until she found Esmond’s note in the library:

  Spell not working. Need to talk.

  “Your decoction didn’t seem to know where the letter was,” Esmond told Isaveth when she met him in the bell tower. “I did everything you told me, but the specks kept changing direction. Are you sure that spell works for other people?”

  “I don’t know why not. All the other spells in the Book of Common Magic do.”

  “Then there must be some kind of interference,” said Esmond glumly. “Or else I’m doing it wrong. Because I tried it when I got home on Fastday, and again after Eryx went out on Templeday, and the same thing happened both times.”

  Doubt stirred in Isaveth. She’d never actually checked to see if her tracking potion worked for others—before she started learning magical theory, she’d never imagined she might need to. But what if there was a reason the spell-factories of Tarreton didn’t make that particular decoction? What if some Common Magic recipes were more like Sagery than she’d thought?

  “There’s only one way to be certain.” Esmond turned to her, blue eyes gleaming with determination. “I’ll have to sneak you into the house so you can try it.”

  Isaveth bolted upright. “What?”

  “I know it’s risky, but I’ve got a plan. My sister’s coming of age this month, so she and Mother are planning a ball to celebrate. And the best part is”—he leaned toward her, dropping his voice so that Isaveth had to lean in as well—“it’s going to be a masked ball. I suggested the idea to Civilla this morning, and she loved it. So . . .” He turned his palm up toward Isaveth, as though inviting her to dance.

  A shiver of excitement ran through her. “But how could I?” she breathed. “I don’t have a mask, or . . . or anything.”

  “Oh, I can take care of that.” He winked his good eye at her. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you look the part.”

  She felt awkward relying on Esmond’s charity, and part of Isaveth feared she’d have no more success with the tracking potion than he had. But to dress up like a noble and sneak into the fanciest ball of the season, so she could catch Eryx and bring him to justice . . . that would be an adventure worthy of Auradia Champion herself.

  It wouldn’t be easy, though. Not only would Isaveth have to avoid crossing paths with Eryx or anyone else who might recognize her, she’d have to find a way to search for the documents without being caught. Assuming she could convince Papa to let her go to the ball in the first place. . . .

  “Well, think about it,” said Esmond, misreading her silence. “I still can’t believe Civilla went for it. It’s the first time she’s listened to me in years.” He leaned back on his elbows, gazing about as though hunting for the next topic of conversation. “So . . . you’re learning Sagery now, aren’t you? Is Mistress Corto a good teacher?”

  “You don’t know?” asked Isaveth. “Didn’t you have her last year?”

  Esmond looked faintly sheepish. “No, actually. Father had us all tutored at home, you see—he couldn’t risk any of us embarrassing him. I’m in fourth-year Sagery right now.”

  Isaveth should have guessed as much, especially since she knew who Esmond’s old tutor had been: Master Orien, the late governor of the college. Still, she hadn’t realized he was quite so far ahead. “Can I ask you something, then?”

  “Of course.”

  “The invocation. Is it necessary?”

  Esmond frowned. “I can’t see why it should be. It’s mostly tradition, I think. Why?”

  “Well,” said Isaveth cautiously, “I made a float-charm the other day, but it didn’t work quite the way I’d expected—”

  “That was you.” He scrambled upright. “I’d heard some first year nearly brained herself on the ceiling, but . . . Were you hurt?” He reached for Isaveth, but she shied away.

  “I was only unconscious for a minute. Master Fetheridge said I’d be fine.”

  Esmond’s eyes narrowed, but he let his hand drop. “Tell me what happened, then.”

  Reluctantly Isaveth repeated her story. When she told him what Seffania had said to her, Esmond swore under his breath.

  “She didn’t tell me to step hard,” she protested.

  “Maybe not, but she certainly meant you to look foolish, and likely get thrown out of class as well. Why?”

  It was a fair question. If Seffania had known Isaveth was Moshite, that might explain it, but she couldn’t have suspected as much until Isaveth refused to make the invocation. . . .

  Unless Paskin had told Seffania about her beforehand. But why would he? As far as Isaveth could tell, the two of them weren’t friends, or even good acquaintances. “I don’t know,” she said.

  Esmond blew out a frustrated breath. “Something’s not right here. You don’t look any poorer than some of the other girls, so why are all these people out to get you? It’s almost like . . .”

  “A conspiracy?” said Isaveth. “I can’t see what the point would be. It’ll take a lot more than insults and pranks to scare me away from the college, and if your brother wanted to hurt me he could have done it weeks ago.”

  She paused, remembering the gleam in the Lording’s eye as he’d spoken about his relief plan. Perhaps Eryx did like the idea of hurting Isaveth, but he’d hardly recruit schoolchildren to help him do it. He was far too cautious of his reputation for that.

  “You’re probably right,” Esmond said. “But I still think there’s something funny going on.” He took her hand, gloved fingers warm against her own. “Be careful, Isaveth. You can’t trust anyone in this place, no matter how friendly they seem.”

  Is that why you don’t have any friends here? Isaveth wanted to ask. But she squeezed his hand in reassurance, then climbed to her feet. “I need to get home,” she said. “It’s my turn to make supper.”

  “You’ll let me know, though, won’t you?” Esmond called after her. “About Civilla’s ball, I mean. Because if you can’t get that spell working, I . . . I don’t know what we’ll do.”

  Isaveth stood still, one hand on the banister. Then she looked back and smiled.

  “All right,” she said. “If you find me something to wear, I’ll come.”

  Chapter Ten

  BY THE END of Isaveth’s second week at the college, the whispers and murmurs of her classmates turned to excited buzzing. The invitations had gone out for Civilla Ladyship’s coming-of-age ball, and all the most prominent families in the city had been invited to attend.

  Isaveth received no invitation, of course, and made a point of looking wistful whenever the party was discussed in her presence. She stared at her lap when Betinda Callender boasted that she had already picked out the perfect dress for the occasion; she sighed as Paskin slipped a cream-colored envelope across the desk for his friends to see. But when she learned that Eulalie would also be at the party, it was all Isaveth could do to hide her dismay.

>   She agonized over the problem all weekend, and by Mendday she could bear it no longer. She caught Eulalie on their way into the dining hall and whispered, “I have to tell you a secret.”

  Eulalie frowned at her. Then she grabbed Isaveth’s elbow and steered her down the corridor. “You look awful,” she said, when they were alone. “What’s the matter?”

  “Esmond’s invited me to his sister’s party.”

  Eulalie’s jaw dropped. “You mean it? Vettie, that’s gorgeous news! I’d been thinking how dull it was going to be, but if you’re coming too—”

  “Yes, but it’s not that simple.” Quickly Isaveth sketched an explanation: She and Esmond had become good friends, but his family didn’t want him associating with commoners, so they had to keep it a secret. She made no mention of Eryx or the search for his documents; those details were too dangerous to share. But she did admit that Esmond had coaxed his sister to make it a masked ball so she, Isaveth, could attend.

  “That’s why I can’t spend the evening with you,” Isaveth finished. “I’d love to, but I can’t. If any of the other first years see us together, they’ll soon guess who I am.”

  Eulalie raised a skeptical brow. “And the Sagelord and Lady won’t suspect anything when they see you dancing with their son?”

  “I—no,” said Isaveth, flustered. “I don’t know how, and I’m sure Esmond wouldn’t ask me.”

  “Maybe, but you’ll have to dance with somebody or it’ll look odd,” said Eulalie. “And not to be rude, but whatever are you going to wear?”

  “I’m not sure,” Isaveth admitted, and Eulalie rolled her eyes.

  “Of course the Lilord wouldn’t think of that. Boys can be so stupid sometimes! But don’t worry.” She bumped her shoulder against Isaveth’s. “I’ll sort you out.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

  “You can, and you’d better. Besides, I wouldn’t miss this if you begged me.” Her face lit with a mischievous grin. “Dressing you up like the Little Queen of Uropia, and watching our classmates fall all over themselves trying to guess who you are, is going to be the best fun I’ve had in ages.”