A Little Taste of Poison

by R. J. Anderson

  “Yes, Papa.” Isaveth craned around him, trying to catch Annagail’s eye. “Thank you, Anna.”

  Annagail smiled wanly, but made no reply. No doubt she was tired after all the work she’d done, and Isaveth resolved to bring her a special treat from the party to make up for it. She hugged Papa good-bye and stepped out into the cold.

  In the darkness of the coal lane, with her new coat wrapped around her and her head bowed under one of Mama’s Templeday hats, Isaveth’s confidence grew. She strolled up the wheel-rutted alley to Grand Street, took out the cab-hailer Esmond had given her, and cracked it in two. A blue spark arced into the air, and presently a taxi veered up beside her.

  “Where to, missus?”

  He thought she was a grown woman. Well, of course: What girl her age would be going out alone at this time of night? “Rollingdale Court,” Isaveth said in her huskiest tone, and climbed in. Bracing herself against the bump and sway of the taxi, she unpinned her hat and slipped her crimson berrybird mask into place. Then she sat back, watching the streetlights swim over the front of the cab as it sped toward the city center.

  She could do this—no, she was doing it. Excitement surged up in Isaveth, chasing her fears away.

  “The Sagelord’s house, if you please,” she told the driver. “I’m going to a ball.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  LIGHT STREAMED OUT the doors of the Sagelord’s mansion, pouring down the steps like liquid honey. In the midst of the circular driveway a fountain cascaded over three tiers of gleaming marble—a shocking extravagance in this weather, especially since it would take about fifty warming-charms to keep it flowing. No wonder Esmond had been busy. Shivering with nerves and anticipation, Isaveth followed the other guests inside and gave the maid her hat and coat.

  As she entered the grand ballroom, the sound of a sway band greeted her, the low plunk of a bass twining with the razz of a muted trumpet. Glow-charms hung everywhere, twinkling like tiny constellations above the crowd, and the velvety curtains were drawn, giving the room an intimate, even secret appearance. Cataracts of ice-blue silk poured down the walls, while in each corner an urn half as tall as Isaveth held ribbon-laced bundles of pine boughs and branches painted white as bone. She had never seen a room so splendid—or so full of people.

  Young and old, they surrounded her on every side: men in crisply tailored suits and embroidered waistcoats; women draped in silks, furs, and cascading strands of jewels. All wore half masks like Isaveth’s, but in a fantastic assortment of nature-themed styles—bristling fir needles and points of red maple, wildcats and bears and foxes, the fierce beaks of gorehawks and crows. It would be easy to pass unnoticed in a crowd like this.

  Servants drifted around Isaveth, offering flutes of berry squash, trays of crisp breads layered with meats and cheeses, and platters of fancy cakes so beautifully decorated that it seemed almost wicked to eat them. Isaveth helped herself to a cheese toast and sidled across the room. Surely she’d be able to spot Esmond, no matter what mask he wore. . . .

  “Psst!” came a whisper, and Isaveth turned to see Eulalie passing by on the arm of a dignified-looking man who must be her father, the Deputy Justice. She winked at Isaveth through her otter mask and vanished into the crowd.

  After a few minutes of wandering, Isaveth found several more people that she knew. First Betinda Callender, in a snowflake mask and a fluffy white gown that didn’t suit her; the horned owl was Mistress Anandri, stately in earth-colored silks; and the boar in the burgundy waistcoat had to be J. J. Wregget, escorting a shy-looking sparrow who was probably his wife. Su Amaraq wore a mask of green ivy leaves, with a matching silk halter-neck and loose slacks that swirled about her ankles—Isaveth still resented the woman, but she couldn’t help admiring her effortless style. And the boy coming through the door, with the frog mask made to fit around his spectacles . . .

  Oh no. It was Mander Ghataj. Isaveth stiffened as his gaze swept over her, then relaxed as he turned to his companion, a dove-masked girl in gray satin who must be his sister. Funny: She looked too old to be a student at the college, yet Isaveth couldn’t shake the impression that she’d met Miss Ghataj before. . . .

  “Utterly mad,” drawled a man on Isaveth’s right, and a woman chimed in, “Absolutely. I can’t see how Glow-Mor’s going to walk away from this.”

  Isaveth’s stomach jumped, but she didn’t dare turn to look or her eavesdropping would be obvious. She put on a vague smile and helped herself to a pastry as the tray passed by.

  “Typical J. J., though,” remarked another man. “He always was one to bet on the lame horses. And mind you, it’s paid off more often than not.”

  “Oh, he’s been lucky,” said the woman with a dismissive sniff. “But he’s backed the wrong horse this time. Charity’s all very well, but giving a Tarreton scholarship to a Moshite? The public won’t stand for it. Glow-Mor sales are sure to crash in another week or two—from what I hear, they’re plummeting already.”

  “Crash! I don’t know about that. You have to remember it’s mostly commoners who buy Glow-Mor tablets, and they stick up for their own.”

  “Not for Moshites,” cut in the drawler. “There are plenty of poor folk who think dissenters shouldn’t be allowed to live in this city at all, let alone take the jobs—”

  “Or the scholarships,” added the woman.

  “Quite right, my love—that should be theirs. J. J. Wregget may fancy himself progressive, but he’s got no business sense. If you ask me, he’s about to get kicked right in the profits.”

  “Hmm,” said the second man. “That could be bad. A big chunk of Glow-Mor’s sales is export, and that’s mostly Wregget’s doing. If his board loses confidence and kicks him out, their foreign partners may start looking elsewhere—and that’s going to hurt Tarreton, not just Glow-Mor. . . .”

  His words trailed off as the three of them moved away. Isaveth stood still for a few heartbeats, then moved shakily in the opposite direction.

  Mister Wregget had taken a huge risk by supporting her, and now his reputation was in danger. What if the haughty couple’s prediction about Glow-Mor’s sales came true, and Wregget’s own board turned against him? If he lost his job, Isaveth’s scholarship would be the first thing to go. . . .

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” boomed a voice from the dais, so loud it could only be enhanced by magic. Everyone turned to where the Sagelord stood resplendent in his Tarreton-blue suit, unmasked and gripping a sound-crystal in one beefy hand.

  “It’s a pleasure to have all of you here to celebrate our daughter Civilla’s eighteenth birthday. My lady wife . . . Where are you, Nessa?” He half-turned, grabbed the arm of a frail-looking blond woman, and dragged her to the front of the platform. “My wife and I welcome you to this very special occasion.”

  If the Sagelord was unwell, as Mander had hinted, Isaveth could see no sign of it. His skin shone ruddy pink, and his eyes gleamed as he continued on. “I’m not a great man for sentimental speeches, especially not when it comes to my daughter. Every time I pay her a compliment, it seems to set her off. When she was in her last year at Tarreton College I told her to stop fretting about her marks because she was so pretty no one expected her to be bright, and she’s never let me forget it—Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  The crowd broke into uneasy laughter, and Isaveth winced. If Civilla Ladyship sometimes appeared distant and even icy in public, now she knew why. Who could be at ease with a great buffoon like that?

  “So I’m going to step aside,” the Sagelord said, still chuckling at his own joke, “and give you the real speech-maker in the family. My son and heir, Eryx Lording!”

  Eryx walked out onto the dais, and the room erupted in applause. To Isaveth’s left, Mander Ghataj bounced up on his toes, clapping eagerly as Eryx took the sound-crystal from Lord Arvis and stepped to the front of the stage.

  “I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight,” he said. “This is an important event for our family, and it’s an honor to share it with our trust
ed friends, loyal supporters, and valued business associates. I am sure I speak for Civilla as well as the rest of us when I say that the occasion would not be complete without you. . . .”

  He went on in this fashion for some time, praising various groups and individuals until the whole room glowed with self-satisfaction, and Isaveth felt a sour taste creeping up her throat. She wished Esmond were beside her, so at least she wouldn’t be the only person revolted by Eryx’s flattery. Where was he, anyway?

  “But my chief purpose here is to honor my sister, who has indeed grown up to be an exceptional young woman. She is refined . . . perceptive . . . and as her friends well know, she takes a keen interest in other people’s welfare.” Eryx smiled as he spoke, as though these were the finest qualities any young woman could possess. But the thoughtful pause he left between each word implied the opposite—that Civilla was fussy, meddlesome, and controlling, and he was trying to find a gracious way to say so.

  “She is also, as my father remarked—though perhaps not in the words Civilla herself might have chosen—easy to look at, which I’m sure explains the many eligible young bachelors I see before me tonight. Though for myself, I can only feel fortunate to have a sister with such . . . excellent taste in friends.”

  His voice caressed the last phrase, and his gaze lingered on someone in the crowd. All around Isaveth, necks craned as people tried to see where he was looking—but then Eryx cleared his throat and stepped back. “Honored guests, I present to you my sister, Civilla Ladyship!”

  With that, he bowed and walked off the stage, taking the sound-crystal with him. So when Civilla climbed up onto the dais, she had to raise a hand and wait for the applause to die down before she could speak.

  “Good evening,” she said, each syllable clear and precise. Isaveth could only admire her poise—after all those back-handed compliments, she must be furious. “Thank you all for rising so magnificently to the theme of tonight’s party—celebrating the flora and fauna of our beautiful country. My brother Esmond Lilord will be helping me judge the best mask of the evening, and when the unmasking takes place at midnight, our winner will receive a prize. Now enjoy the music of Syl Simms and his Royal Colonians, and let the party begin!”

  The orchestra struck up a lively tune as Civilla stepped off the platform—not vanishing through a side door as her parents and Eryx had done, but walking down to take the hand of a slim young man in white who waited for her below. As he whirled her onto the dance floor, the light caught the glint of his half glass, and Isaveth realized with a start that it was Esmond.

  “Er, miss?”

  The voice sounded so polite, she would never have recognized it if she hadn’t already known he was there. Paskin, eyes wide and hopeful behind the dark stripe of his redcoon mask, was holding out his hand to ask her to dance.

  It was tempting to toss her head and turn her back on him, but while Isaveth had every reason to resent Paskin, the noble girl she was pretending to be had none. She swallowed her revulsion and let him lead her onto the floor.

  “I see you’re going to make me do all the talking,” he teased a few moments later as they whirled through the old-fashioned dance. “The masks are just for fun, you know. You won’t get a prize for being the most mysterious girl at the ball.”

  Isaveth smiled thinly and kept counting steps in her head, trying not to shudder at the spidery touch of Paskin’s fingers against her spine. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, if a little bland and over-groomed for her taste, and no doubt another girl would have been pleased with his attentions. But nothing could erase the memory of how cruel he’d been to her, and as soon as the song ended, Isaveth dropped his hand and scuttled away.

  “Was that as horrible as it looked?” muttered Eulalie as she wandered past.

  “Worse,” Isaveth whispered, “but thanks for the lessons.” She was about to ask Eulalie where her mother was when the next set of dancers took the floor—including Eryx Lording, who came strolling up from the main entrance looking more smug than ever. He walked straight to Mander Ghataj’s dove-masked sister, took her hand, and pulled her into the dance.

  They made a handsome couple—though the possessive way Eryx steered Miss Ghataj about the floor, and her willingness to let him, made Isaveth feel nauseated. Especially since she’d once dreamed of dancing with Eryx like that herself. . . .

  “Delicia Ghataj,” breathed Eulalie. “So that’s who he had his eye on.”

  The name jolted Isaveth: No wonder the older girl seemed familiar. A few months ago Isaveth had sneaked into a fancy garden party and overheard Delicia chatting with two other girls about politics. Her admiration for Eryx Lording had been obvious, as was her desire to see the poor folk of Tarreton treated fairly—and Isaveth had liked her for it, since at the time she’d been just as unaware of Eryx’s true motives as Delicia.

  She knew better now, of course, but Delicia didn’t, and when Eryx drew the young woman closer and murmured in her ear, her smile was so dazzling it hurt. Isaveth shuddered and turned away.

  * * *

  Nine bells, Esmond had told her. That was when he’d give Isaveth the signal, and she’d slip out to hunt for the documents. But the clock had scarcely rung eight yet, so Isaveth was left to drift about the room, unable to sit in case one of her other schoolmates tried to strike up a conversation or asked her to dance. She also had to keep her distance from Eryx, who had left the dance floor and was greeting one group of guests after another, shaking hands and smiling as though he were the host of the party.

  Fortunately, Civilla was doing her own socializing on the other side of the ballroom, and the crowd that had gathered around her was mostly women and a few middle-aged men—people with no reason to notice Isaveth, let alone speak to her. Edging over, she tucked herself behind a portly couple in matching beaver masks and did her best to look inconspicuous.

  “So enjoyed your visit to our society meeting last week,” the woman was saying effusively. “I went home and told Mister Gullinger all about it. . . .”

  Civilla made some reply, but Isaveth had already lost interest in the conversation. She had drifted into a daydream where Auradia Champion marched into the ballroom with a squad of Lawkeepers and arrested Eryx, when the man in front of her spoke: “Where’s Lord Arvis got to? I haven’t seen him since the start of the ball.”

  Civilla gave a light, not quite convincing laugh. “Oh, you know my father. He’s got no patience for small talk, and he hasn’t danced in years. He’s probably gone off to talk business somewhere, but I’m sure my mother will coax him back eventually . . . oh!” She turned as a slick-haired boy touched her elbow, his teeth bared in a hopeful, crooked smile. “Yes, of course. Please excuse me.” She followed him to the dance floor, leaving her crowd of admirers to scatter.

  “Such a charming young lady,” gushed Missus Gullinger as she and her husband ambled away. “She really makes quite an impression. Not like her mother, the poor darling; she looks like a fairweather breeze could blow her over. . . .”

  Left alone, Isaveth glanced at the open door. The ballroom was growing stuffy, and she longed for fresh air. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to step outside for a little while? She glanced at Esmond, who was still dancing, then set down her flute of berry squash and slipped out.

  She knew the layout of this floor from her previous visits to the house—the library to one side of the entrance hall, a spacious lounge on the other. Both were full of noisy, puffer-smoking guests, so she passed them by, heading for the quiet of the east wing.

  First came the gaming room, but when she put an ear to the door, the murmurs coming from inside told her it was already occupied by at least two people—and one of them was Lord Arvis. She couldn’t make out any of the conversation, so Isaveth moved on.

  She was hovering by the next door, debating whether to chance it, when a glimmer at the end of the hallway caught her eye. There stood a pair of glass doors with moonlight slanting through them, and no signs of movement within. Cautiously
Isaveth sidled up, pressed down the latch. . .

  And stepped forward into paradise.

  The air breathed fragrance, the sweet aroma of a hundred flowers. Ferns arched from a pot beside her, while an exotic tree covered with scales of overlapping bark filtered the moonlight above. Pots dangled from the ceiling, overflowing with vines and blossoms, and beds full of dwarf shrubs and other ornamental plants lined the walls. Isaveth had never seen such a beautifully kept garden—there was scarcely a wilted leaf to be seen anywhere, and the blooming plants were spaced so expertly that there would be flowers all year around. She strolled down the aisle, gazing up at the stars through the glass ceiling, and did a little twirl for sheer happiness.

  She had eased back her berrybird mask and was sniffing a cluster of heart-lilies, wondering whether the tiny yellow-capped mushrooms she could see growing nearby were edible, when the doorknob rattled. Isaveth dived behind a planter, peering wide-eyed through the foliage as the double doors opened and a woman stalked in.

  Not just any woman, either. It was Civilla Ladyship, and she was furious.

  “Shut the door, Eryx,” she snapped. “I knew I’d regret letting you introduce me tonight, but this is unbelievable.”

  “What have I done that’s so upsetting?” asked the Lording. “Really, Cilla, I don’t see—”

  “Cutting me down to make yourself look clever—that didn’t surprise me. But practically proposing to Delicia in front of everyone, so they’ll be talking of nothing but you and her for the rest of the night? How dare you.”

  “There’s no reason to get emotional,” said Eryx. “I didn’t propose; I merely confessed my admiration. Surely you don’t disagree? I thought you liked Delicia.”

  Civilla folded her arms. “I do. And that is why I never want to see you flattering her, dancing with her, or showing her any kind of special attention again.”