A Little Taste of Poison

by R. J. Anderson

  “Anna, that’s not—”

  “For two days I’ve been in agony, not knowing what to say to Papa.” Swiping a knuckle over her wet cheeks, Annagail started up the stairs. “Especially after Mimmi told me she’d talked to you about Lilet first. So you knew. You’ve known longer than I have. And you just went on fussing over your sage-charms and said nothing at all.”

  With every accusing word, the knot of pain in Isaveth’s chest grew tighter. She wanted to tell Annagail she had it all wrong, and yet how could she? She had ignored Mimmi’s report, telling herself it was none of her business and that Lilet could handle herself. And after she’d worked so hard to convince her family she was happy, how could she blame Anna for believing it?

  “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “But Anna, it’s not like you think. If you’d only listen—”

  Annagail, three-quarters of the way up the staircase, gave no sign of having heard. “I’ve tried so hard . . .” She faltered, then started over in a more determined tone, “I’ve tried to be patient. To imagine what I might feel like in your place. But you’ve made that very difficult, Isaveth.”

  She’d never liked being called Vettie, or so she’d thought. Yet hearing her sister speak her full name was like a cold knife in Isaveth’s heart. Her mouth opened, pleading, but by the time she found her voice Annagail was gone.

  * * *

  Isaveth was sitting at the kitchen table, gazing listlessly at her still-undissolved charm, when Lilet tramped in the door with one mitten missing and her hat askew.

  “I heard the Sagelord died today,” she said, kicking off her boots. “Is it true?”

  Isaveth nodded.

  “Finally,” said Lilet with relish. “Also, Mimmi said to tell you she’s at Aunt Sal’s, playing with Pem.” She came into the kitchen, took a cup from the shelf, and began pumping herself a drink of water. “What’s the matter with you? I thought you’d be happy. Sagelord Eryx and all that.”

  Isaveth couldn’t bear it any longer. She pushed the glass jar away and buried her face in her hands.

  “Vettie?” Lilet dropped the cup into the sink and came over. “What’s wrong? Is it Papa?”

  Isaveth had never wanted to burden her sisters with the knowledge she carried, or the fear that had driven her since she first heard Eryx Lording talk about his plan. She’d told herself that Anna was too guileless and Lilet and Mimmi too young to keep such dangerous secrets anyway. But she had to talk to someone or her heart would burst. . . .

  And Lilet had fought for her. That meant she cared.

  “No, not Papa,” she said, struggling to speak past the sobs heaving her chest. “Lilet, if—if I tell you something, will you promise to listen and not tell anyone?”

  Lilet sat down next to her, spine straight and chin raised in determination. “You can tell me anything,” she said. “I won’t say a word.”

  So Isaveth spilled out her story, broken words tumbling over one another as her younger sister sat quietly, absorbing it all. She told Lilet nothing about her suspension—it wasn’t important now. But she explained how Eryx Lording had murdered Master Orien and framed Papa, his plan to deny relief to the Moshites of Tarreton, and all that she and Esmond had done to try to keep him from becoming Sagelord.

  “This decoction was supposed to dissolve metal,” she finished miserably, gesturing at the jar. “Only it doesn’t seem to work on charm-silver. And now I don’t know what else to do.”

  Lilet huffed out a breath as though listening so long had exhausted her. Then she lunged forward and grabbed Isaveth in a fierce, bony hug.

  “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “I knew you weren’t just working on some silly prank with Esmond. You were far too serious about it.” She sat back, adding more soberly, “I think you should tell Papa about Eryx, though.”

  “How can I? It was dangerous enough to cross Eryx before, but now he’s Sagelord it’s ten times worse. You know what Papa would do if he—”

  “Where are my girls?” The front door burst open and their father lumbered in, shedding snow in all directions. “Did you hear the news? A new Sagelord at last!”

  “Papa?” Annagail rushed downstairs, losing a slipper in her haste. “You mean . . .”

  “Yes!” He tore off his coat and flung it over the banister, then swept Anna into a hug that lifted her off the floor. “Now we’ll really see some changes in this city!”

  Isaveth shot an agonized look at Lilet, but Papa was too busy dancing Annagail about like a tipsy bear to notice. “Brom and I are calling the first official meeting of our new Moshite Workers’ Union tonight,” he announced. “As soon as the memorial for Lord Arvis is over, we’re going to see Eryx and sort out this relief business, and then we can all sleep sound again.” His black beard split in a grin. “I’ve never been gladder to work so hard for so little!”

  Annagail leaned her head against his shoulder, looking happier than she had in weeks. “Oh, Papa, I’m glad too. I was so worried about you.”

  Isaveth got up and began filling the teakettle, struggling to digest what she’d just heard. She’d never given much thought to what her father did when it wasn’t snowing, but now she understood—he’d been making the rounds of the local factories and taverns with her uncle Brom, Aunt Sal’s husband, and rallying other Moshites to stand up against Eryx’s relief plan.

  Except, of course, that he didn’t know the idea had come from Eryx. Like Su and most other people in the city, Papa thought any political decision that seemed cruel or unjust must be Lord Arvis’s fault.

  She should have known Papa would hear about the plan, whether she told him or not. She should have known he wouldn’t sit by and wait for others to fight when he could fight for himself. And now that her father had made up his mind, not even the truth about Eryx would turn him from it. If he’d been ready to start a rebellion against the old Sagelord, he’d be just as quick to defy the new one.

  Yet when Eryx found out about the newly formed, illegal Moshite Workers’ Union, he’d have all the proof he needed to show the city council that Moshites were lawless radicals who didn’t deserve their support. . . .

  It might be a hopeless cause, but she had to try. Isaveth set the kettle on the stove with a clang and turned to face her father.

  “Papa,” she said, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ISAVETH DID ALL SHE COULD to warn Papa about Eryx, short of revealing the plans she and Esmond had made to stop him. She told him the Lording—now Sagelord—was as wicked as his father had ever been, and that all his grand speeches about equality and justice were a lie. She’d even blurted out that Eryx had plotted Master Orien’s murder, and possibly Lord Arvis’s as well. But her words were so garbled with panic that Papa finally waved at her to stop.

  “I think you’ve been listening to too many talkie-plays, Vettie,” he said. “I can’t make sense of such a tangle, and I don’t know how you can either. If Lord Eryx is as wicked as you say, time and testing will prove it. But I’m not seeing any proof just now.”

  The worst of it was, Papa was right. The proof was still locked up in Eryx’s spell-carriage, so all she had was suspicion and hearsay to go on. How could she expect to convince anyone, even Papa, with that?

  Isaveth barely slept that night, and by morning she felt as though she hadn’t gone to bed at all. Yet she dressed mechanically, ate her breakfast, and went through the motions of heading off to school. She walked to Sage Allum’s Park and left a note for Esmond in their old letter drop, praying he’d look there when he couldn’t find her at the college. When she felt sure the house was empty, she sneaked home by the coal lane.

  She’d take a nap, she told herself as she came in the back door, just a short one, and read over the journal again. Even if all the spells she’d tried so far had failed, there had to be something she could do. But when she went to hang up her coat she found a note lying under the mail slot, announcing that J. J. Wregget wanted to see her.

/>   Somehow, he must have heard about her suspension. And now she’d have to account for what had happened. Wearily Isaveth tucked the note into her pocket and went out to catch a tram to the Glow-Mor office.

  The route to the industrial core of the city was less direct than the one to the college, and with all the stops, starts, and transfers it was nearly eleven bells before Isaveth arrived at her destination. She walked the slushy pavement to the Glow-Mor factory, the sounds of machinery pounding like a nervous heartbeat in her ears.

  “I’m here to see Mister Wregget,” she said to the woman at the front desk.

  The receptionist’s gaze narrowed, studying Isaveth. Then she tapped a button on her call box. “Good morning, Tambor, it’s Vernice. She’s here.”

  The hint that everyone in the office had been expecting her made Isaveth more uneasy than ever. The last time she’d been here the receptionist had simply waved her through, but now she rose and took Isaveth by the elbow, marching her down the corridor to the president’s suite.

  J. J. Wregget was waiting for her, no longer the robustly cheerful figure she’d met a few weeks ago but a subdued and even shrunken man. “Thank you, Tambor,” he murmured as his private secretary took her coat. Then, with a nod to the receptionist, he ushered Isaveth into his office.

  “I didn’t do it, sir,” she blurted out as the heavy door swung shut. “After all you’ve done for me, I would never—”

  Wregget waved a hand to stop her. “Of course not, my dear. I had all the details from Mistress Anandri yesterday, and she is convinced that you are as innocent as I am.” He sighed. “For all the good it does either of us.”

  “Sir?” asked Isaveth, taken aback. If he hadn’t called her here to ask for an explanation, what did he want?

  The president paced behind his wooden desk, picking up a paperweight and setting it down again. “We are in similar straits, Miss Breck. Last night my board of directors voted to replace me.”

  Isaveth’s lips parted in dismay. “Because I got suspended?”

  “By no means!” exclaimed Wregget with a spark of his old spirit. “I would be a poor excuse for a businessman if I laid all my troubles on the shoulders of one young lady. No, I fear they have been growing restless for some time. I can only blame myself for not seeing it sooner.”

  He motioned for Isaveth to sit, then rolled back his own chair and did likewise. “My directors claim that my poor judgment in selecting you as a candidate drove them to action. They say I’ve exposed the company to scandal, and that firing me is the only way to save Glow-Mor’s reputation and ensure its continued success. But that’s all fiddle-faddle—our sales these past weeks have been better than ever.”

  He drummed his fingers against the desk. “What they really want is to sell the company to my biggest rival, who’s made them such a handsome offer they can’t see beyond their own pockets. But I built this company up from nothing, and I won’t let it go without a fight!”

  Isaveth sat forward. “Your biggest rival? That would be Power-Up, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Ever since we started using Resisto-Paper to wrap our spell-tablets, we’ve leaped ahead of them in the market. Especially when it comes to exports—and Power-Up’s owners are shipping folk, so they don’t like that at all.”

  A suspicion was taking shape in Isaveth’s mind, but it was still hazy. She needed to know more. “So how can you fight them? If your own board wants to get rid of you—”

  “Ah, but I have one advantage they can’t afford to lose.” He puffed up proudly. “The secret ingredient for Resisto-Paper, which only you and I know.”

  Neevils. Little black bugs that infested grain and flour, neevils were usually sifted out and discarded early in the process of making spell-tablets. But since Isaveth had sold her recipe to Wregget, he’d been putting them to good use instead.

  “How can that be?” Isaveth asked. “The workers who make the paper know, surely?” And though Wregget seemed to have forgotten it for the moment, Esmond and Mistress Anandri knew as well.

  “They know the recipe includes a black powder which comes to them ready-ground,” said Wregget. “But I’m too clever a hen to keep all my chicks in one coop, Miss Breck.” He waggled a finger at her. “The secret ingredient comes from an off-site supplier, through a long-time associate whose loyalty is to me and not Glow-Mor. The supplier delivers the powder to him, and he delivers it to the company that makes the wrappers, so nobody knows where it comes from. You see?”

  Isaveth did, though she wasn’t sure what any of it had to do with her. “So the board can’t fire you without losing the recipe, which is the reason Power-Up wants to buy your company in the first place. Do they know that?”

  “They do now,” Wregget said, with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “I gave them my ultimatum this morning. They have until Trustday to decide whose side they’re on . . . and then, my dear, we shall see.”

  Already he seemed happier, more like his old confident self. Yet Isaveth feared his troubles were only beginning. “But sir, I’m still suspended from the college. And I don’t think they’ll let me come back.”

  She was about to add that when Su’s story broke it would hurt Glow-Mor’s reputation even more than the news that their scholarship student was a Moshite, but Wregget interrupted her. “Bullying and slander won’t stop me, Miss Breck, so don’t let them stop you either. One way or another, we’ll get you back in that school where you belong. Even if I have to go begging to Er— excuse me, to Sagelord Eryx himself.”

  A lot of good that would do. “Thank you, sir,” Isaveth replied, trying not to show her disappointment. “I appreciate it. Was that why you sent for me?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, why you sent the note asking me to come here,” explained Isaveth, and when the president looked blank she added, “This morning.”

  J. J. Wregget’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t send for you. I thought you’d come on your own. Do you still have the note? May I see it?”

  “It’s in my coat,” said Isaveth, starting to rise, but Wregget waved her down again.

  “Tambor!” he bellowed, and after a brief pause the secretary opened the door. “Bring the young lady her overcoat.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the man promptly, and returned a moment later to help Isaveth put it on. She reached into her pockets, but both were empty.

  “I don’t understand,” she murmured. “I had it when I left the house.” Could it have fallen out on her way from the tram?

  “Hmm. Quite the little mystery.” Wregget heaved himself from his chair, extending one big hand in farewell. “Well, whatever your reasons, I’m glad you came. We’ll get through this, Miss Breck. Don’t lose heart.”

  * * *

  Isaveth walked slowly away from the Glow-Mor factory, collar turned up and head bowed beneath the brim of her bell-shaped hat. Her head spun with all that J. J. Wregget had told her, and she kept mulling over the details, trying to make them fit.

  So Wregget’s board had turned greedy and wanted to sell out to Power-Up. Could that be why they hadn’t tried to stop him offering Isaveth the scholarship? They’d known his decision would be controversial, so all they had to do was leak Isaveth’s story to the newsrags and hope the backlash would give them the excuse they needed to get rid of him.

  Except it hadn’t worked. Isaveth’s fellow Moshites had rallied around her and shored up Glow-Mor’s sales until the kettle-storm of controversy died out. So Wregget’s enemies were forced to try again. . . .

  But who were those enemies, exactly? Could they include the couple she’d overheard predicting Wregget’s ruin at the ball? Perhaps they were the same wolf-masked pair who’d visited Lord Arvis in the gaming room, and he’d made the fatal mistake of telling them something they didn’t want to hear?

  Lost in thought, Isaveth wandered straight past the tram stop and had crossed two more streets before she realized that none of the factories and warehouses about her looked famili
ar. By then it made no sense to turn back, so she continued on.

  “Give us a smile, pretty!” crowed a voice across the street, to the tune of whistles and rough laughter. Isaveth’s face flamed and she hurried to the next stop, hoping the tram would come soon.

  Delivery wagons clopped in and out of the factories, and passing spell-carriages sprayed slush over Isaveth’s feet. She was craning to see into the distance, wondering if the tram had met with an accident, when a taxi pulled up next to her. “Where to, miss?”

  “Oh,” said Isaveth, backing away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t call for you.”

  “Are you Miss Breck? A Mister Wregget called, and he’s paid your fare home.”

  Isaveth hesitated.

  “Come on then, miss, I can’t sit here all day!”

  Part of her felt foolish for not getting into the cab at once. Yet something didn’t feel right to her, so Isaveth shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  Shrugging, the man rolled up his window and drove away. Isaveth walked back to the curb, restless with nerves and impatience. There! A tram at last. She climbed on and dropped gratefully into a seat.

  As the spell-powered trolley picked up speed, Isaveth calmed herself and tried to focus. What—or who—was the connection between her troubles and J. J. Wregget’s? The loss of Betinda’s necklace was too cunningly timed to be coincidence, so it seemed likely that the Callenders were involved. Perhaps they worked for Glow-Mor or held some stake in the success of its rival?

  The quickest way to find out would be to pay a visit to Power-Up. But Isaveth was too young to be out of school at this time of day, and any questions she asked would raise suspicion. The safer option was to look up the company in the city records office, which could give her the names of Power-Up’s owners at the very least, and perhaps a listing of its directors and other employees as well.

  Isaveth rode the tram to the city center, pulled the bell cord, and stepped off. The sloppy crust of snow that covered the sidewalks elsewhere was all but melted here, and grit crunched beneath her boots as she dodged past wandering shoppers, beggars, and street-boys, heading for the records office.