The music stopped and a gasp rose from the crowd. Lilet shamelessly scooped up one last tart, yanked the tablecloth off the wildly kicking Mimmi, and shoved her through the hedge into the neighboring garden. For a second Isaveth crouched beneath the table, too shocked to move—but as the guests surged forward, fear spurred her into motion. She stumbled over the ruins of the buffet, leaped through the shrubbery, and ran.
* * *
“Ooooh,” groaned Lilet as she crouched over the basin, her face flushed and shiny with sweat. “I’m going to die.”
Isaveth sat beside her sister in their bedroom, rubbing her back as she doubled up and retched again. In the other bed Mimmi slept peacefully, her raw heels wrapped with rags and healing salve. But Lilet had started to feel sick soon after they escaped from Lady Marcham’s garden party, and she’d been increasingly miserable ever since.
“You’re not going to die,” said Isaveth. “You just ate too much, that’s all.”
“But it was so good,” Lilet moaned. “You would have done it too, if you hadn’t been busy making goop-eyes at Eryx Lording.” She wiped her mouth on her hand and slumped against the pillows. “Ugh.”
Isaveth made a face at her. “Goop-eyes?”
“Anyway, I think that Priss girl lied about him taking her to the dance,” Lilet mumbled. “I don’t think he cares a cit for her, and she was only trying to impress her friend.”
So Lilet had been listening too. No wonder she and Mimmi had kept so quiet, even while they were fighting. “You’re probably right,” said Isaveth. “But I liked Delicia. I hope . . .”
She stopped, heat creeping into her cheeks. She’d almost said she hoped Delicia would make a good impression on Eryx Lording, but that wasn’t really what she wanted. The truth was that even as Isaveth had pelted across the grass after her sisters and scrambled over a stone wall to safety, even as they’d crept through back streets and coal-lanes all the way home, she’d been imagining herself grown up and elegant in a wine-colored gown, being introduced to the Lording as the famous author Isavera Brecon. Eryx would ask her, “Are you sure we haven’t met before?” and she would toss her head and laugh merrily because he’d never guess she was the poor little girl he’d met selling spell-tablets on the street only a few years ago. . . .
“I’m sorry I was so greedy,” Lilet whispered, her voice slurred with weariness. “But Mimmi got shoes, and . . . I wanted something too.”
Guilt twisted inside Isaveth. Even if Lilet had behaved badly, she had reason to feel slighted. She’d waited months for a dress that would fit her, and it wasn’t fair—or even decent, given how fast she was growing—to make her wait any longer. Yet it would be at least another week before Annagail got her first pay from the college. Somehow Isaveth had to earn enough money to buy Lilet that dress.
Lilet had fallen asleep, her wan face turned to the window and one hand hanging limp over the edge of the bed. Isaveth got up gently, so as not to disturb her, and carried the basin downstairs to the kitchen to empty it out.
“Is she any better?” asked Annagail, glancing up anxiously from her mending. “We don’t need to call for a healer, do we?”
“No,” said Isaveth. “She’s resting now. I’m sure she’ll be fine.” She rinsed the basin and set it aside, then took down the Book of Common Magic from the shelf and began leafing through it. Fire- and light-tablets might be easy to make, but there wasn’t enough demand for them in this weather. She had to be bolder, think bigger—and find the courage to try selling her magic again.
Chapter Fourteen
“TAKE THIS NOTE WITH YOU to Aunt Sal’s,” said Isaveth, folding it up and tucking it into Mimmi’s pocket. “Tell her I need to borrow some magical ingredients, but I’ll pay her back as soon as I can.”
Mendday morning had come at last, and Annagail had already left for her first day at the college. The sky outside the kitchen window was woolly with cloud, and a light drizzle pattered the glass—the first rain Tarreton had seen in nearly three weeks.
“Where are you going?” Mimmi asked, wrinkling her nose at Isaveth. “Nobody’s going to buy spell-tablets in this weather.”
Isaveth sighed. She’d hoped her sisters wouldn’t figure that out. “To see Papa.”
“What?” exclaimed Lilet. “That’s not fair! Why can’t we come too?”
“Because I need to talk to him in private.” The conversation she’d overheard at Lady Marcham’s garden party had left her with more questions than ever, but Papa would never speak about politics, let alone Master Orien’s murder, with her little sisters listening in. “Besides, Quiz is driving me, and there isn’t enough room on the cycle for all of us. Anna will take you some other day. Now go.”
Her sisters trudged out the door, grumbling. Isaveth waited until they had passed the Kerchers’ house, then reached for her hat and cardigan. Quiz had promised to meet her in the coal-lane, and she didn’t want to keep him waiting.
* * *
“Lovely weather for it,” Quiz called cheerfully to Isaveth as a spell-carriage whizzed past, spattering them with muddy water for the tenth time that morning. The rain was falling harder now, soaking through the thin knit of Isaveth’s sweater. “Wishing you’d taken the tram?”
“I’ve never been in this part of the city before,” she shouted back. “Are you sure this is the way to Dern Valley?”
“Course I am!” He stood up, leaning his weight on the pedals as the road slanted upward. “This is the shortcut.”
Doubt pricked Isaveth, but a street-boy would probably know better than she did, so she held her peace. Yet the road grew narrower and steeper every minute. Soon Quiz was puffing, his wiry muscles knotted beneath the wet fabric of his shirt. Isaveth was about to poke him and tell him to slow down when a last grunting effort brought them over the crest, and the cycle slowed to a halt.
“Well,” Quiz said breathlessly. “There’s a view.”
Dern Valley sprawled below them, all tight-clustered cottages and smoke-belching factories with an emerald ribbon of parkland winding through it. Quiz had been right about the shortcut—except that the path into the valley was dauntingly steep and as full of sharp bends as Isaveth had ever seen.
“We can’t cycle that,” she said in dismay. “We’ll have to go by the tram route.”
“Oh, that’s too slow.” Quiz’s face was flushed, his good eye glittering with excitement. “We’ll get to the jail much quicker this way. Hang on tight . . .” And before Isaveth could stop him, he kicked off, crouched forward, and shot straight down the hill.
Isaveth’s muscles locked with terror. A scream bubbled into her mouth, but she gulped it back and flung her arms around Quiz’s waist, pressing her face desperately against his spine. If only she didn’t look, it might not be so bad . . .
Or so she hoped until they hit the first bend. The cycle skidded sideways, spray hissing from the tires, and Isaveth nearly fell off her seat. She wanted to yell at Quiz to slow down, but the wind was rushing past at terrific speed, and she knew he’d never hear. All she could do was hold tighter, squeeze her eyes shut, and pray they made it to the bottom in one piece.
The cycle jerked, Quiz whooped, and for one horrible instant the wheels lifted clear off the road before landing with a sickening thump back down again. Isaveth dug her fingers into his stomach, hoping he’d take the hint—and mercifully, the cycle slowed a little as he leaned into the next turn. Still, she’d barely caught her breath before they hurtled down the slope again.
“Stop!” she screeched, pounding Quiz’s shoulder. “Stop, stop, stop!”
“Can’t!” yelled Quiz. “Don’t worry, we’re nearly there.”
Isaveth cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it. Yet the same glimpse showed her the grin on Quiz’s mud-streaked face, and she thought numbly: He’s going to kill us both. And it doesn’t frighten him at all.
They veered around two more corners, and Isaveth felt sure her heart would explode at any moment, before they shot out o
f the trees and whizzed onto level ground. Quiz stomped on the brake, and Isaveth wilted as the pedalcycle ground to a halt.
“That was horrible,” she gasped, tumbling off and collapsing by the side of the road. “Never ever do that again!”
Quiz twisted to look at her, his good eye wide. “Really? You didn’t like it? Isaveth, that’s the best hill in the city!”
Isaveth put her hands over her face, calling on all the patience she possessed. Clearly, Quiz was insane, so there was no point shouting at him. But she wouldn’t soon forget what he’d put her through. Or how happy he’d looked while doing it.
“I think,” she said, “I’d prefer to walk the rest of the way.”
* * *
“Got a girl here says she’s Urias Breck’s daughter.” The officer at the gatehouse spoke brusquely to the charm-band on his wrist. “And her boyfriend. I’ve searched them, and they’re clean. All right to let them in?”
After a long, wet walk past several factories, a brick works, and a gravel pit, they stood at the entrance of the Dern Valley Jail, with its iron gates and towering wall crowned with thorn wire. Isaveth was uncomfortably conscious of being soaked through and muddy from knee to ankle, but it wasn’t until Quiz took her hand that she realized she was trembling. Still, she didn’t want to seem babyish, so she withdrew her fingers and gave him a thin smile instead.
“Go on, then.” The officer jerked his head toward the gates. “Up the steps, through the front door, and show yourself at the visitors’ station. Leave the cycle here.”
The Dern Valley Jail had the same unassailable appearance as the Keeper Station, its stone facade inset with twisting pillars, and rising four floors to the peaked, templelike roof above. Yet the prison block behind it was plain by contrast, more like a livestock barn than a place for human beings. And when Isaveth saw the stern, bearded face of Sage Armus carved above the entrance, and the fierce-looking serpents that formed the arch of the door, part of her wished she’d hung on to Quiz’s hand after all.
The receiving area inside was more gloomy still, floored in black granite and lit by globe-lamps hanging on chains from the ceiling. Once Isaveth and Quiz had presented themselves to the woman at the desk, she unlocked a heavily barred door behind her and led them through.
Stark gray walls surrounded them, the plaster cracked in places to show the concrete beneath. The corridor opened into a rotunda ringed with metal catwalks, where more guards paced and swung their red-banded batons. A gallows beam jutted out from the wall, its frayed noose dangling over emptiness. Isaveth shuddered.
“In here,” the officer said, opening a second door. Hesitant, Isaveth stepped through into a dim, stale-smelling room, a little wider than her outstretched fingertips and perhaps four times as long, with a double-paned window across the center. And behind that wall of glass, his shaggy head bowed and his cuffed hands in his lap, sat her father.
The sight of him, so familiar and so dear, choked Isaveth speechless. She started forward, but the officer stopped her.
“Sit there,” the woman said, pointing to a chair on the near side of the window. “Don’t get up until you’re finished.” Then she turned to Quiz and added, “One visitor at a time. You want a turn, you wait with me. Either way you get ten minutes with the prisoner, no more. Understand?”
Quiz’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. He followed the officer out, and the door swung shut behind them.
Isaveth tried to drag the chair closer to the window, but it was bolted fast. She could feel the guard watching them through the eye-slot in the door. “Papa?” she whispered.
Slowly her father raised his head, and Isaveth clapped a hand to her mouth. His cheek was purple with bruises, and one eye had swollen nearly shut.
“My Vettie.” His voice sounded hoarse, but it held all the tenderness she remembered. “How did you get here? Don’t tell me you came all this way alone.”
“No,” she replied shakily, unable to tear her eyes from his battered face. “A friend gave me a ride. Papa, what happened to you?”
“Ah, it was only a foolish accident. Nothing worth talking about.”
A lie so obvious could mean only one thing: He didn’t want Isaveth to know what had really happened.
Unless it was the guard he feared, because she knew and had warned him not to tell anyone. . . .
Sickness crawled up Isaveth’s throat. Did she dare ask Papa the questions that were burning inside her, or would it only make things worse for him if she did?
“How are my girls?” her father went on. “Are you getting along all right without me?”
Isaveth’s eyes pricked with tears. “Oh, Papa, we miss you. But we’re doing fine. You don’t need to worry about us.”
“Good, good.” He scratched his beard awkwardly with his manacled hands. “Well, you needn’t worry for me, either. I’ve had a talk with the Lawkeeper-General, so he knows where I stand. And I’m sure the Lord Justice will do the right thing, when the time comes.”
This was horrible—more like talking to a friendly stranger than the father she knew and loved. How could Isaveth help him if all they could do was tell cheerful lies to each other and act as though nothing was wrong?
“That’s wonderful,” she said, trying to sound as though she believed it, and leaned closer to the glass. Maybe if she lowered her voice and spoke quickly, the guard at the door wouldn’t hear. “Papa, I’m trying to prove you didn’t kill Master Orien. But there are a few things I don’t understand. Please, can I ask you some questions?”
Her father stiffened, his gaze flicking to the door. Then he sat up, and the false smile vanished. “Ah, Vettie. You’re a brave girl, but you shouldn’t be mixing yourself up with all this. It’s a bad lot of trouble I’m in, and I couldn’t bear to think of you getting hurt.”
Startled, Isaveth twisted around. The eye-slot was empty, and no sound or movement came from the other side. Had the guard been called away on some errand? Or had Quiz distracted her somehow?
Either way this might be her only chance to talk freely, so she’d better make the most of it. “It’s all right, Papa,” she said, turning back to him. “I’m not doing this alone.” Quickly she explained about Quiz and the things they’d discovered about Orien’s murder. “Do you think the governor suspected someone was plotting to kill him? Did he act nervous or worried at all?”
“He did seem a bit distracted,” Papa mused. “Though it was late and he’d had a busy day, so I didn’t make too much of that. I was a bit gruff with him at first, not being best pleased over the way he’d treated me before, so that might have had something to do with it. But once he apologized and explained himself, we got on all right.”
“Explained?” asked Isaveth. “What did he say?”
“Well, we talked about a lot of things that won’t interest you, but the sum of it was that he thought I was the right man for the charmery job, Moshite or not. Seems the Sagelord had recommended some other fellow, but Orien didn’t like the look of him—said there was something shifty about his eyes. So he sent a message boy to track me down instead.”
Had the shifty-eyed man guessed that the governor planned to reject him and hire Urias Breck in his place? If so, that might be a motive for him to murder the one and frame the other. “Do you know who the other man was?”
“Well, of course I asked, being curious. I thought I might know him, or at least have heard something about his work. But the governor wouldn’t say.”
That was a shame, but presumably the man’s name would be in the appointment book, so she and Quiz could always look him up later. “Was there anyone else in the college when you left?” Isaveth asked. “Another workman, perhaps, or one of the masters?”
Papa chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I met a cleaning maid coming up the stairs as I was going down. And I spoke to the porter on my way out.”
“All right,” Isaveth said, trying not to sound too disappointed. She’d hoped he might confirm her suspicions about Master Buldage. ??
?Is there anything else you can think of? Something that could help prove you didn’t do it?”
“If I did, Vettie, I’d tell you.” Papa heaved a sigh. “I’d have been glad of a good advocate to help me make my case. But the fellow they sent me made no secret of how he felt about Moshites, and I feared he’d be more harm to me than help.”
So that was why he’d declined counsel. It hurt Isaveth to think of Papa having to face this man’s contempt, on top of everything else.
“One more thing, then,” she said. “When the Lawkeepers came to arrest you, you didn’t resist them at first. Until they said you might be truth-bound. . . .”
He winced. “Ah, sweetling, don’t make me speak of that. It was a foolish thing I did, fighting them, and I fear I’ll pay for it yet. But whatever you may think of me, I swear I didn’t kill the governor—”
“Oh, no, Papa!” Isaveth burst out. “I didn’t mean it like that! I was only trying to understand!”
His expression softened. “My Vettie,” he said, stretching his cuffed hands to the window, as though he could reach through it and touch her face. “So like your mother.”
He didn’t want to tell her, that much was clear. “Please,” Isaveth urged. “It could be important. Why don’t you want to be truth-bound? What are you afraid of?”
Papa was quiet, his head bent. At last he said, “Truth-binding’s not a gentle thing, Vettie. Still, I’d not fear their questions if I could be sure it was only me they meant to ask about. But there’s a difference between giving up your own secrets and betraying someone else’s.”
“You mean . . .” Isaveth was aghast. “The Workers’ Club? They’re the ones you’re protecting?”
A heavy rasp and click echoed through the room, and the door swung open. Surely it hadn’t been ten minutes already? Isaveth turned to protest—but it was Quiz standing in the doorway, his cap clutched humbly in his hands.
“Sorry,” he said. “Time’s running out, and the guard’ll be back any minute. I wanted to have a word, if that’s all right.”