A Little Taste of Poison (11 page)

*  *  *

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.”

B
Y 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.”

*  *  *

Eulalie insisted on starting Isaveth's dancing lessons the next day, as soon as classes were over. She met her on the steps of the Arts Building and whisked her up two flights to an empty music room, locking the door behind them.

“Now,” she said, clapping her hands. “We haven't got a crystal set, so you'll have to put up with me humming, but lucky for you I've got a good ear. Let's start with the three-step, shall we?”

At first the lessons were more painful than fun—Isaveth
kept stepping on her partner's toes, and she moved so stiffly that Eulalie joked she must have dropped a poker down the back of her dress by accident. But as the week wore on, Isaveth learned to move to the music and accept Eulalie's guidance instead of resisting. By Fastday she had made enough progress to trade the old-fashioned partner dances for a livelier modern style, and soon the two girls were kicking and flapping all over the room, giddy with laughter.

“I'm hopeless at that one,” gasped Isaveth. “We'd better give up.” She staggered to the window and leaned against it, cooling her forehead on the frosty glass.

“Never,” said Eulalie, capering to join her. “I shall make a champion hotfoot of you yet . . . say, who's that?” She pointed to the steps of Founders' Hall, where Governor Buldage was speaking to a young woman with bronze skin and a dramatic cobalt-blue hat.

“I can't tell,” said Isaveth, squinting. Buldage seemed to be doing most of the talking, though from this distance it was impossible to make out his expression, let alone overhear. It wasn't until Isaveth spotted the notebook in the woman's hand that she realized who Buldage's companion must be.

“That's Su Amaraq,” she said. “She's a reporter with the
Tarreton Trumpeter.
” And one of Eryx Lording's
supporters, at least for now. Esmond thought Su was too clever not to see through his brother eventually, but then he'd once thought the same about Civilla. . . .

“Really?” Eulalie perked up. “There must be a scandal brewing. The
Trumpeter
always prints the juiciest stories.”

“And the biggest lies,” said Isaveth flatly. She'd learned that all too well after Papa was arrested—the
Trumpeter
, like the
Citizen
and all the other legal newsrags in the city, was little more than a mouthpiece for the Sagelord. “I wonder what she's after this time?”

The journalist tucked away her notebook and offered her hand to Buldage, who bowed and retreated. Then, with a smile on her lips and a confident lift of her chin, Su Amaraq strode off toward the gate.

“She's awfully glamorous, isn't she?” remarked Eulalie, gazing after her. “Like a two-reel actress. I bet she has the most exciting life.”

Isaveth was silent. Not long ago she'd admired Su as well, believing the young reporter could help clear her father's name. But after reading some of the articles Su had written about Papa and his fellow dissenters, Isaveth couldn't look at the woman without feeling betrayed.

“Yes,” she said, turning away from the window. “I'm sure she does.”

*  *  *

“I found something for you,”
Eulalie told Isaveth the next Mendday. She glanced around the Sagery classroom to make sure the other students had gone, then pulled a package from her bag and handed it to Isaveth. “Mother bought it for me last year thinking I'd grow into it, but I stayed short and got all curvy instead.” She patted her hips smugly.

Isaveth wasn't sure whether to believe her, but it would be rude to accuse Eulalie of lying, so she opened the wrappings and drew the dress out. It was a silky column with puffed shoulders, dyed a deep crane-berry red and almost Isaveth's size. When she held it up, the hem fell past her ankle, but Annagail could take it up for her—and make it fit perfectly, too.

She laid the gown back in its wrappings and gave Eulalie a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered, and the other girl beamed.

“You're going to look gorgeous,” she said. “I hope Betinda Callender chokes with envy. Now we just have to find you some decent shoes.”

“I can look after that.” She'd need a better coat as well, but she wasn't about to say so—not to Eulalie, anyway. She'd manage somehow, even if she had to swallow her pride and ask Esmond to lend her the money. “But you'd better go, or you'll be late for music.”