A Little Taste of Poison

by R. J. Anderson

  She went on gloating all the way up the hill, describing what a nasty old fuss-cat the governor’s secretary was and how she wished she could have been there to see Paskin begging her to sign his late card. But she didn’t say a word about the protesters at the gate, and she bounced away before Isaveth could ask if she’d seen them.

  Well, perhaps it was for the best. There hadn’t been time to discuss anything serious anyway, and they’d have a better chance to talk at lunch. . . .

  Only they didn’t. Because when Isaveth went to the dining hall, Eulalie wasn’t there.

  * * *

  DISSENTER GO HOME, said the mirror, in five greasy syllables of lip tint. The message hadn’t been there when Isaveth entered the washroom, but it was the first thing that she saw as she emerged from the stall. She scrubbed her hands and plunged out into the corridor, looking for the girl who’d done it.

  There was no sign of a culprit, however. Isaveth was watching a group of third-year boys amble into the dining hall, wondering whether to hunt for Eulalie or brave the lunch table on her own, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Governor Buldage had come up behind her, his dark-robed figure silhouetted against the light.

  “Miss Breck,” he said. “I’m glad to see you’re still with us.”

  Isaveth studied him uneasily. Was it the shadows that made his cheeks seem more sunken than she remembered, and etched those deep lines around his mouth? He looked ten years older than when they’d first met.

  “I apologize for that situation at the gate this morning,” Buldage continued. “I have taken steps to discourage any further blocking of school entrances, and also reminded Su Amaraq that our charter forbids her to interview students without their parents’ consent.”

  He raised his brows, as though hoping for Isaveth’s approval. Was he trying to trick her into trusting him? Did he think that if he treated her kindly, she’d forget the evil he’d done?

  “I appreciate that, sir,” she answered, but it came out flat, and Buldage’s smile faded. He glanced over his shoulder, then stooped toward her.

  “She already knew you were Moshite,” he said quietly. “So I could hardly refuse to comment on the school’s decision to accept you. You understand, Miss Breck, that I am in a difficult position. I have no wish to be unfair to you, but I must protect the interests and the reputation of this college.”

  Isaveth had never expected otherwise, but the man’s pained expression baffled her. He seemed genuinely sorry for what had happened—yet how could that be? He was Eryx’s henchman, and a murderer. In fact, at least one of the letters she and Esmond were searching for was certain to incriminate him.

  “So I urge you to be careful,” Buldage continued. “There are . . . people of influence whose children are students here, and if they wish to vent their displeasure there is little I can do to stop them. Mistress Corto did well to send Mister Paskin to my office today, but I would not count on her doing so again.” He paused, his eyes hooded, then added softly, “I wish you courage, Miss Breck. You will need it.”

  Then he walked away.

  Shaken but determined, Isaveth continued her vigil outside the dining room. Eulalie might never have known real hunger, but she loved food as much as Isaveth, and it wasn’t like her to miss lunch if she was still in the college at all. . . .

  “There’s our little rat-girl.” Paskin strolled out the door, a pair of other first-year boys trailing after him, and lounged insolently against the archway. “I knew she’d be skulking somewhere. What happened to your little friend, Mishmosh? Did she finally come to her senses and stop wasting charity on you?”

  Isaveth bristled. “Don’t call me that,” she said, but Paskin only smirked.

  “Where’s your prayer scarf, Mushpot? Or are you too ashamed to show people what you really are? Not that I’d blame you. Especially with the father you’ve got.”

  Isaveth clenched her fists, blood pounding in her ears. Paskin wasn’t much bigger than she was, and if she’d been Lilet, she would have thumped him until he wailed for mercy. But fighting would get her expelled for certain—even if it would be satisfying to plant her fist in that sallow, sneering face.

  “My Papa is an honest man,” she retorted. “Can you say the same about yours?”

  Paskin’s eyes turned beady. He lunged toward her—but then a pair of second-year girls strolled out of the dining room, and Isaveth seized her chance to escape. She ducked around them, pelted down the stairs, and burst outside, heading for the library.

  Chapter Twelve

  ISAVETH’S TEETH WERE CHATTERING as she entered the library; she’d left her coat back in the dining hall, and the air outside was cold enough to bite. But inside it was warm, quiet, and mercifully empty—except for the familiar sight of Ghataj sitting at one of the study tables, books piled all around. Cautiously Isaveth walked up to him.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Ghataj didn’t answer, or even glance at her. He turned a page and went on reading.

  A sick, shivery feeling rippled over Isaveth. Now she understood: Ghataj had pitied her when he thought she was merely a commoner, but he wanted nothing to do with a Moshite . . . a dissenter . . . a rat. Isaveth spun away and plunged between the shelves, stumbling toward the back of the library.

  Surely Esmond cared, even if no one else did. He must have read Su’s article by now, or at least seen the protesters at the gate. She groped through the agriculture shelf for the volume entitled Native Weeds of Vesperia and flipped it open to the last page.

  It was empty.

  Numbly Isaveth pushed the book into place and walked to the end of the aisle, where a narrow patchwork of glass overlooked the snow-covered grounds. She braced her hands on the windowsill, breathing raggedly as she fought the urge to cry.

  How stupid to think that anyone, even Esmond, would understand. She was the only one here who knew what it was like to be poor, let alone so utterly despised. . . .

  “Isaveth?”

  His voice was so hoarse she barely recognized it. She turned and there stood Esmond, with wind-ruffled hair and snowflakes melting all over his robe.

  “I was just coming to leave you a note,” he said.

  Isaveth’s throat knotted. She pressed her hands to her mouth as Esmond put an arm around her and drew her behind one of the shelves.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, low in her ear. “I could kick Su for chasing that story, especially since Eryx was probably the one who tipped her off, but there’s no way to fix it now. Did you get to class all right? Those fools at the gate didn’t stop you?”

  He was gripping her so tightly it hurt, but if she said anything he’d let go, and Isaveth couldn’t bear that either. She gave a jerky nod.

  Esmond turned her toward him, peering into her face. “You look miserable. Are people being rotten?”

  Isaveth tried to shrug off the question, but his sympathy undid her. Her eyes watered, and she fumbled for her handkerchief—only to find it stained black from wiping off her desk the day before. She gazed at it in dismay, and then the whole situation struck her as horribly, bleakly funny and she started to giggle.

  Esmond didn’t laugh. He offered his own handkerchief, pressed white linen with his family crest and initials embroidered on the corner, and waited until Isaveth had blown her nose and wiped her eyes before speaking again.

  “We can’t talk now—anyone might see us. And I can’t meet you after school, either, because I promised Civilla I’d make all the charms for her party. But whatever they’re saying about you, don’t listen. You’ve got as much right to be here as anyone.” He cleared his throat, then added in a tone so rough it sounded savage, “You’re better than all of them. I hope you show them for the fools they are.”

  Isaveth didn’t dare look at him. She kept the handkerchief to her face, breathing its soapy fragrance, as Esmond’s hands tightened on her shoulders. Then something warm brushed the top of her head, and when she opened her eyes he was gone.

  They’d only
had a moment, yet it was enough. Isaveth felt calmer now, and able to go on. She tucked the handkerchief into her book bag, smoothed her robe, and started up the aisle toward the exit.

  “Tchoo!”

  The sneeze came from behind a neighboring shelf. Isaveth lunged forward, shoved the books apart—and found Ghataj on the other side, blinking at her.

  “You were spying on me!” she accused, but he flung up his hands in protest.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I didn’t realize you’d said hello until you were gone, so I thought I’d wait until you came back and talk then. But then I heard you . . . I heard something, so I came to see if you were all right. I didn’t expect to find you with him.”

  Isaveth’s mouth went dry. Bad enough that he’d seen her with Esmond, but if he’d overheard their conversation it would be even worse. “Don’t tell anyone,” she blurted out. “Please.”

  Ghataj’s brows shot up. “I am no telltale,” he said stiffly. “But I’m not a fool, either. Why were you crying? Did the Lilord threaten you?”

  “Threaten me?” she echoed, bewildered. “Why would he?”

  Ghataj gave her a severe look over his glasses. “Because he is a bully, like his father. Why else?”

  Isaveth opened her mouth to argue, then shut it with a snap. If she defended Esmond too fiercely, he’d know the two of them were close.

  “No,” she said, “he didn’t threaten me. He . . . he’s an acquaintance, and he saw I was upset, so he stopped to lend me his handkerchief.” She pulled it out of the bag, turning the crest for Gharaj to see. “He was quite decent about it, actually.”

  The boy regarded Esmond’s handkerchief with suspicion, then came around the end of the shelf to meet her. “Acquaintance? Since when?”

  “We met after my father was arrested,” said Isaveth. There was no point trying to hide something that everyone knew, after all. “But his parents don’t like him talking to commoners, so please don’t tell. I don’t want to get Esmond in trouble, and if anyone finds out . . .” She took a deep breath. “It could make trouble for me, too.”

  “Worse than the troubles you have already?” asked Ghataj. “That seems hard to believe.”

  His tone was oddly gentle, and Isaveth looked away as tears clogged her throat again. Ghataj coughed and went on, “Well, anyway. I’ll keep your secret. But Miss Breck . . .”

  Here it came: the part where he asked her to go away because he didn’t want trouble either. It took all Isaveth’s courage to look him in the eye. “Yes?”

  “If you need more help with your schoolwork, just ask. I know some people think only nobles should learn Sagery, but I happen to think those people are wrong.” With a polite nod, he turned to go.

  “Mister Ghataj?”

  He glanced back.

  “Thank you,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Call me Isaveth.”

  He shook it. “Mander. And you’re welcome.”

  * * *

  “There you are!” Eulalie trotted up as Isaveth came out of the library. “Sorry about lunch—I had to stay late after music and I only just got out. Here.” She bundled Isaveth’s coat into her arms, then started rummaging in her pocket. “Did you get anything to eat? I grabbed a couple of sweet buns as they were clearing the tables.”

  Isaveth had misjudged Mander Ghataj, thinking he didn’t care. Now it seemed she’d misjudged Eulalie, too. Grateful, Isaveth pulled on the coat and accepted the roll she offered. “What happened in music?”

  “Oh, it was nothing. Just silly stuff, you know how it is. So how are you doing? Excited for the ball?”

  “The ball. That’s . . . all you want to talk about?”

  Eulalie’s face fell. “You mean you don’t? You aren’t backing out, are you?”

  “No,” said Isaveth, and then with a rush of bitterness, “but maybe I should. You read that story in the Trumpeter, didn’t you? You saw the protesters this morning—”

  “Of course I did.” Eulalie put a soothing hand on her arm. “My father had to warn them he’d call in the Lawkeepers if they didn’t stop blocking the gate. But it’s only a few sillyheads, so don’t worry. Soon they’ll get tired of freezing their feet off and go away.”

  It was a bold speech, and Isaveth longed to believe her. It would be wonderful to think that all she had to do was ignore her enemies to defeat them. But she’d faced corrupt nobles before, and knew that the power they wielded over poor folk like herself was no illusion.

  “It’s not just them, though,” she insisted. “It’s everyone.” She started to describe the insults she’d found on her desk and the washroom mirror, but Eulalie broke in before she could finish.

  “Betinda Callender is not everyone. I know a lot of terrible things happened to Moshites in the past, but most people know better now. Betinda’s been jealous of you from the start, so of course she wants you to think the whole school hates you as much as she does. I’m sure she wrote all those messages herself.” Eulalie squeezed Isaveth’s arm. “That’s why you mustn’t let her get to you, don’t you see? If you give up, she wins.”

  She didn’t understand, and Isaveth was beginning to despair that she ever would. But it was impossible to argue without sounding unreasonable. She gave a reluctant nod.

  “So you’ll come to the party, then? You won’t let Betinda and Paskin and all those silly parents scare you away?”

  As though she had any choice, with Esmond relying on her to find out what had gone wrong with the tracking spell . . . and her own future in jeopardy if they couldn’t stop Eryx from carrying out his plan.

  “Yes,” said Isaveth. “Of course I’ll come.”

  * * *

  There was no more snow that week, only a sharp drop in temperature that froze the hairs inside Isaveth’s nostrils and kept all but a few stubborn protesters away from the college gate. So when she got home from school on Trustday, she was not surprised to find Papa waiting for her.

  “Something’s arrived for you, Vettie,” he said, beckoning her upstairs to the room he’d once shared with their mother. On the bed sat three packages, each covered in brown paper and bearing a stamp reading GARDENTOWN DELIVERY SERVICE.

  Mystified, Isaveth opened the first box. Inside lay a bundle of cloth with a card tucked into one of the folds: Miss Fairpont tells me you already have a dress, so I hope this will suit. —Q

  It was a coat, deep gray with a matching lamb’s-wool collar so soft that Isaveth couldn’t resist rubbing it against her cheek. Papa helped her into it, then turned her gently and studied her at arm’s length.

  “That’s a fine thing,” he said. “You look very handsome, Vettie.”

  But his eyes were sad, and she knew he must be wishing he could afford to buy her such fine things himself. Aching for him, Isaveth turned away and opened the second box. There lay a shiny pair of black dancing shoes with delicate T-straps and a pattern of jet beads across the toe, and in the layer beneath, a set of fur-trimmed overboots to protect them.

  They fit perfectly. Either Esmond was even more observant than she’d thought, or he’d got some advice from Eulalie. She unwrapped the third box and found a feathery half mask, crested and beaked to look like a crimson berrybird. With it on, no one, not even Eryx Lording, would recognize her.

  Until now the idea of attending a ball in the Sagelord’s mansion had seemed like some distant fantasy. Now it felt so real that Isaveth’s heart began to flutter. She shut the mask box and pushed it away.

  “What is it, my Vettie?” Papa asked. “Don’t you like your presents?”

  “Of course I do, they’re beautiful, but . . .” She brushed a finger over the label on the shoebox: EASSON’S FINE COBBLERY, TARRETON. “It feels wrong to take them. I owe Esmond—and Eulalie—so much already, and I can never pay them back.”

  Her father nodded soberly. “It’s a hard lump to swallow, being beholden to folks who have everything.” He put an arm around her. “But just because you don’t have money doesn’t mean you’ve got no
worth. Your friends must think highly of you, or they wouldn’t want you at this party. And who knows, you may get a chance someday to do them a favor in return.”

  Isaveth laid her head on Papa’s shoulder, wishing she could tell him the real reason she had to go to the ball. But if Papa knew the risks she was taking, he’d never allow it.

  “I hope you’re right,” she said quietly.

  * * *

  That Fastday felt like the longest of Isaveth’s life. On one hand, the protests had trickled to a stop, and her enemies were too distracted by the thought of Civilla’s ball to waste time tormenting her. But she hadn’t talked to Esmond since Duesday, and Eulalie’s gleeful anticipation of the party had become so obvious that Isaveth had to avoid her for fear she’d give the whole plan away.

  At last the final bell rang, and everyone who was anyone leaped into taxis and hired spell-carriages and raced off to prepare for the grand occasion. Isaveth made her way home at a less frantic pace, but as soon as she stepped inside the cottage, her own flurry of preparations began.

  Bathing, drying, dabbing her throat and wrists with rosewater; shivering in the chill of Papa’s bedroom while Annagail, lips tight with concentration, made one last adjustment to the lovely dress; sitting patiently in the kitchen while her sister dampened and restyled her hair, pinning the wind-tousled locks into smooth ripples about Isaveth’s face. By the time she was ready to put on the outer layers of her glamorous disguise, the sliver of sky showing through the kitchen window was dark, and even the clanging of the nearby factories had fallen silent.

  “Cake,” said Lilet firmly, handing Isaveth the box with her mask in it. “You have to bring us back a piece of cake at least.”

  “One piece each,” piped up Mimmi, skipping after Isaveth as she walked to the back door. “And don’t forget to tell Quiz I said—”

  “That’s enough, my Mirrim,” said Papa, getting up from the game of crock-in-the-hole he and Annagail were playing and steering Mimmi away. “Your sister’s got enough on her mind without all that. But you mind what I told you, Vettie. Ten bells, and no more.”