A Little Taste of Poison (7 page)

What was Esmond thinking, making a fuss of her where everyone could see? “Y-yes, thank you,” Isaveth stammered.

“Excellent.” Esmond's gaze slid to Paskin and his mates. “These fellows aren't giving you trouble, are they? They seem to be hanging about where they
aren't wanted
.” He adjusted his half glass pointedly, and with mumbled apologies the younger boys hurried away.

“They
were being quite rude, actually,” called Eulalie. “I think the masters ought to hear about it.” She turned back to Esmond, adding in a normal tone, “Thanks, that was good of you. I'm Eulalie Fairpont.”

“Fairpont, Fairpont . . . ah, the Deputy Justice's daughter?” Esmond rocked back on his heels, breath frosting the air, and studied Eulalie with interest. “How is your father liking his new job?”

“Well, it's an awful lot of responsibility, but it's a great honor, too. Or at least that's what Daddy says.”

“I didn't know the Lord Justice had appointed a deputy,” said Isaveth, recovering at last. “When did that happen?”

“A few weeks ago,” Eulalie told her. “Apparently there was a bit of a ruckus about corruption inside the Lawkeepers, and the Lord Justice always seems to be out of town these days, so the Sagelord appointed Daddy to look into it.”

“Which was clever of him, if you don't mind me saying so,” said Esmond. “Because not only was Advocate Fairpont the one who discovered the corruption in the first place, he's an outsider—and he comes from the same town as Auradia.”

Meaning that appointing him would make it look as though Lord Arvis actually cared about bringing justice to the city. “I see,” said Isaveth.

“Anyway,”
Esmond told Eulalie, “nice to meet you. But if you'll excuse me, I'm getting chilly.” He blazed a smile at Isaveth and sprinted back to the Sporting Center.

“Well!” said Eulalie, when he was gone. “You might have told me you knew Esmond Lilord. However did that happen? Everyone says he's an awful snob, even to other nobles.”

“Oh?”

“Quite. He hasn't made one friend since he came here, and that's not for lack of people trying.” She gave Isaveth a speculative look. “You must have made quite an impression . . . oh, look at that blush!”

Inwardly Isaveth cursed her fallowtime complexion—if her olive skin were tanned browner, her embarrassment wouldn't have been obvious. “It's not like that,” she said. “We only met because he bumped into me on the street. He felt badly about knocking me over, so he's been extra nice ever since to make up for it.”

Which was the truth, more or less. She was silently congratulating herself for coming up with such a good answer when Eulalie asked, “When did he meet your family, then? During the trial?”

Isaveth stopped breathing.

“I'm sorry, that was awful of me. It's just that my father
is
the Deputy Justice, so when I heard your family name
was Breck, I couldn't help putting the pieces together.”

Of course not. Like Paskin, she'd seen at once that Isaveth wasn't noble, or even merchant class. Only instead of mocking her, she'd chosen to pity her instead. “I should be going,” Isaveth said in a strangled voice, and turned away.

“Not that it matters!” exclaimed Eulalie, grabbing her arm. “Daddy always did think your father was innocent, and I don't care a pebble about money or politics or . . . or any of those other things. I think it's marvelous you're here.” She gazed up at Isaveth, brown eyes imploring. “We can still be friends, can't we? Or at least give it a try?”

Isaveth hesitated, torn between longing and doubt. Few of her old schoolmates had cared to be seen talking to a Moshite girl, let alone spend any time in her company. But here was Eulalie, whose father was one of the most powerful men in the city, practically begging to be her friend. It made no sense.

Yet hadn't she learned from Esmond that being rich never kept anyone from being lonely? Eulalie was an outsider like herself, and perhaps that was reason enough.

“Well,” Isaveth said slowly, “if you're sure—”

“I am, I am!” Eulalie bounced around her. “I want to know all about you. But I've got to run or I'll be late for music. I'll see you in the dining hall, all right?”

She pelted off up the hill, boots skidding in all directions. But at the top she turned to wave, and Isaveth, dazed with surprise and dawning happiness, waved back.

Maybe she didn't have to hide who she was to fit in here, after all.

G
IDDY WITH THE DELIGHT
of having made a new friend, Isaveth spent her history class listening to Master Eddicot drone on about the Wars of the Great Houses without really hearing a word of it. When the lunch bell rang she rushed to the dining hall, eager to see Eulalie again.

When she found her sitting at one of the long tables, however, Isaveth's excitement fizzled out. “I can't sit here,” she whispered, gesturing at the gold-rimmed dishes and silver cutlery.

“Rubbish,” said Eulalie. “I don't see any place cards, and there's plenty of room.” She plucked a roll from the basket and began cutting it. “Come on, help yourself.”

“But I brought a lunch from home. . . .” The words stuck in Isaveth's throat. Even if Eulalie already knew she was poor, it hurt to admit she couldn't afford to eat at the college.

“Don't worry. I'm sure it'll keep.”
Eulalie waved to one of the servers, who crossed the room to attend her. “Miss Breck will be eating lunch with me from now on. Would you add her to the Fairpont account, please?”

Isaveth started to protest, but Eulalie gave her a hurt look and she trailed off. She didn't want charity, but she didn't like to offend the other girl either. “It's very kind of you,” she murmured.

“It's nothing,” said Eulalie airily. “Daddy won't notice, I'm sure, and if he does he won't grumble. It's only a few cits a day, after all.” She handed the roll to Isaveth and began buttering another. “Now eat up, so we can get out of here.”

Isaveth sat down as the server drew up his cart and began ladling out the soup of the day—a creamy mixture of lake trout and potatoes, with a sprinkle of cheese on top. A few girls around them pushed their bowls away, but Eulalie lost no time digging into hers, and Isaveth followed her example. She wasn't sorry: The soup was the tastiest thing she'd eaten in months, and the buttery roll made it even better.

She'd nearly finished when a familiar blond head caught her eye. Esmond sat at the end of the nearest boys' table, silent amidst his jostling, laughing classmates. His spoon traced circles around his bowl, but he never
raised it to his lips. Had something upset him that Isaveth didn't know about? Or was that bleak expression the one he always wore in public?

Eulalie nudged her, and Isaveth realized she'd been staring. She dropped her gaze and went back to eating her soup.

*  *  *

Eulalie hadn't been exaggerating when she said she wanted to know everything. They'd barely left the dining hall before she began firing off questions about Isaveth's family and how she'd come to Tarreton College. As they walked the corridors, Isaveth did her best to satisfy her new friend's curiosity—though she made little mention of Esmond, and none of Eryx Lording. She liked Eulalie and hoped she could trust her, but it might not be safe to tell her too many secrets yet.

There seemed no harm in Isaveth mentioning how she'd sold her magic-resistant paper recipe to J. J. Wregget, however, or the scholarship he'd given her in return—and when Eulalie clapped and exclaimed, “I knew you were clever!” Isaveth glowed with pleasure. She was still basking in the compliment when the other girl added, “No wonder Paskin's so cross. He made a bet with Natty Crick that there'd be no Glow-Mor scholarship this year, and he was sure he'd win because his mother knows
someone who works there. Now he has to pay Natty five regals, and look like a fool besides.”

Isaveth's elation burst like a soap bubble. If Paskin had an inside connection to Glow-Mor, then no wonder he'd known she was a commoner. Did he know she was Moshite as well?

“Anyway,” Eulalie added, “I think Mister Wregget was right to offer you the scholarship. Nobody here likes to admit it, because Tarreton College used to be the best magical school in Upper Colonia, but in the last few years it's really fallen behind. Too stuck on old traditions, my father says.”

Isaveth was beginning to like Deputy Fairpont. He sounded like a sensible man. “What traditions?”

“Oh, treating Sagery as the most important kind of magic, for one thing, when it's really too fussy for most people to use at all. It might be different if we could mass-produce charms like we do spell-tablets, but—”

“We can't? I thought it was just too expensive.”

“That's only part of it. Sage-charms all have to be made by hand, and since they're attuned to the person who crafts them, there's no way to tell if they'll work for anyone else. So making charms is really just a fancy way to show you're a noble.”

No wonder the other students at the college were so
keen to learn it, then. Isaveth nodded, inviting Eulalie to go on.

“Back in Listerbroke, I had a course on Common Magic in my fifth year of Primary, and we all burned our fingers and thought it great fun. Here they don't start learning it until Secondary, and everybody moans like they're being tortured.”

Having seen as much yesterday, Isaveth couldn't disagree. “Yes, but what's that got to do with my scholarship?”

“Well, the point is to encourage new ideas, isn't it? That's hardly going to happen if all Glow-Mor does is hand out free tuition to the same lazy gobblewits who've been going to the college all along.”

Isaveth was silent, digesting this. Maybe Wregget's eagerness to sponsor her, and even the college's decision to accept her, made more sense than she'd thought. Though she couldn't shake the feeling there was something strange going on. . . .

“You've gone all serious,” said Eulalie. “What is it?”

Isaveth shook herself out of reverie and managed a smile. “Just thinking. After all, if you're right about the scholarship, that's my job.”

*  *  *

Isaveth's first class of the afternoon was Calculation, which had seemed easy enough yesterday, but today
included some unfamiliar measurements that left her baffled. What did AV stand for? Was ten AV the same as a hundred RV, or a thousand, or only one? Isaveth began leafing through her lesson book, hoping to find an explanation.

“Miss Breck,” said the clear, cutting voice of Master Valstead. “This is not the time for idle page flipping. Please address yourself to the equations on the board—unless you find them too simple for you?”

His eyes were cold as a frozen lake. Hastily Isaveth flipped the book shut. “No, sir.”

She was staring at the formulas, wondering if she could guess the right answer, when pain lanced into her back. She jumped, twisted around—and met the innocent blue eyes of Betinda Callender, the girl who'd accused her of showing off in Common Magic.

Yet Betinda's hands were folded demurely on her workbook, and there was no weapon in sight. Perhaps Isaveth had imagined it. Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes and turned away.

Minutes passed, and the pricking sensation had begun to fade when she felt a fresh stab, this one harder. “Stop it!” Isaveth hissed, but Betinda only smirked at her.

“Miss Breck!” Master Valstead snapped. “I do not know what behavior was tolerated at your former school—”

“Trash Heap Primary,”
whispered Paskin, and titters and snorts rose from his seatmates as the teacher continued.

“—but if you cannot remain quiet and face the front of the class, you will be asked to leave. Unless there is some reason you need to see Miss Callender's work in order to complete your own?”

Was he accusing her of cheating? The blood drained from Isaveth's cheeks, then flooded back again. She wanted to tell the master what Betinda had done, but the only proof she had were the two throbbing spots on her back, and she couldn't show him those without undressing.

“Well, Miss Breck?”

The whole class was looking at her. Isaveth cleared her throat. “No, sir. I'm sorry, sir.”

“Good,” said the master, and began chalking up another set of equations.

So now she had another teacher who despised her. And as a third savage poke made Isaveth flinch, it was clear she'd made a new enemy as well.

She tried to steel herself, gritting her teeth and sliding as far forward as the desk would allow. But the fourth jab hurt so much she couldn't help it. She gasped, and Master Valstead swiveled to glare at her. Tears
stinging her eyes, Isaveth began packing up to leave.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a boy. He was short and compact, with dark olive skin and a face as round as his spectacles, and there was something oddly familiar about him. “Miss Callender has been poking Miss Breck with her lead-point, sir. I saw her do it just now.”

“How dare you!” exclaimed Betinda, rearing back in indignation. “What a horrible lie!”

“Miss Callender?” asked Master Valstead. “Do you require Miss Breck's attention for some reason?”

“Sir, I would never.” She pressed a hand to her chest, looking wounded. “I can't think why Ghataj would accuse me of such a thing.”

The master shifted his gaze to the boy, whose expression stayed resolute. At last he said, “Mister Ghataj, please exchange desks with Miss Callender. If Miss Breck's welfare is of such concern to you, you may consider yourself responsible for guarding it.”

Giggles rippled through the class, and the boy winced. But he gathered his books and got up to let Betinda take his seat.

Isaveth exhaled a silent prayer of gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered to Ghataj, not daring to look back.