A Little Taste of Poison

  “I’m looking for information on Tarreton’s factories,” she told the clerk in her most grown-up voice, chin lowered so he could see little more than the brim of her hat. “Do you have a directory?”

  “Right here,” said the man, leading her to a back shelf and taking it down for her. “Anything else you need?”

  “Not at present,” said Isaveth with dignity, lowering herself into a chair. She was afraid to take off her gloves in case her hands looked too childish without them, so she opened the book and began clumsily turning pages.

  She found the entry for Glow-Mor first, with J. J. Wregget listed as president and founder, and below it a brief history of the company since its beginnings some twenty years ago. It had grown quickly thanks to early investments from a noble named Lord Segravius and, to Isaveth’s surprise, Mistress Anandri.

  She ran a finger down the list of current board members, scanning one name after another. Hodgston, Bowerill, Jinh . . . none of them seemed familiar, so she leafed ahead to the entry for Power-Up and began to read.

  “There you are!” A man’s voice rang out across the office, and Isaveth started in alarm. She clapped the book shut and pushed back her chair, but too late: The stranger seized her elbow and yanked her to her feet.

  “Sneaked out of school again, the little minx,” he told the clerk confidentially as Isaveth struggled in his grip. She tried to cry out, but a charm pressed against her wrist and her whole body went numb. She could barely move, let alone speak.

  “I hope my daughter hasn’t been a nuisance,” the stranger continued, sweeping Isaveth toward the exit. “I do apologize. Good day.”

  Isaveth tripped over the doorstep, but the man did not break pace. He dragged her to a waiting spell-carriage, shoved her into the back, and climbed in after her.

  “Go,” he told the scarf-muffled driver, and the carriage veered out from the curb. Isaveth rubbed her wrist where the sage-charm had bruised it, feeling her strength return—but she was locked in, and they were speeding too fast for her to jump anyway.

  “Stop,” she pleaded, tugging at the door handle. “Let me out.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” drawled her captor. “You’ll be going for a nice little walk soon.”

  She’d heard that voice before, Isaveth felt certain. And when the driver added in crisp but feminine tones, “Probably sooner than you’d like,” her stomach lurched—they were the couple she’d overheard on the night of the ball.

  But the smirk on the man’s lips seemed familiar, too . . . and after what she’d just read about Power-Up, she knew why.

  She’d been kidnapped by Paskin’s parents.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  GOVERNOR BULDAGE HAD given Esmond the week off to mourn his father, saying he needn’t worry about midterms or anything else at present. But after just one day of Lady Nessa’s tears, Civilla’s silence, and Eryx’s sober-faced hypocrisy, Esmond couldn’t stand it any longer. He’d ordered an early breakfast and dashed off to school.

  Yet he couldn’t find Isaveth. He checked the message drop in the library and scanned the tables for her at lunch, but all he found was Eulalie Fairpont, poking glumly at her food as though hoping it would eat itself. When she got up, Esmond crossed the room to intercept her. “Where’s Isaveth?”

  “You haven’t heard?” the girl exclaimed, then winced. “Of course you haven’t. Sorry.”

  Everyone who talked to him was sorry, these past two days. He’d heard the word so many times it had lost all meaning. “Heard what?” he demanded, resisting the urge to seize Eulalie by the shoulders and rattle her.

  “She’s been suspended. She hasn’t come to school since Fastday.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Governor Buldage won’t say, and the masters aren’t talking either. But Betinda’s been telling everyone Isaveth stole her necklace—”

  “Betinda Callender?” Esmond spun in place, scanning the tables. He’d danced with the girl at Civilla’s party—her mother chaired the city arts committee, or some such—but she’d been wearing a snowflake mask and he could remember little else about her.

  Not like Isaveth, with her straight thick brows and curling wedge of hair, her olive-brown skin that turned rosy when she blushed, the bow mouth that might have been coy if not for the firm, even stubborn angle of her jaw. If he’d been an artist, Esmond could have painted her without looking.

  And now she was gone.

  “Yes, Callender,” said Eulalie. “She’s such a spiteful little polecat, I wouldn’t be surprised if she got Isaveth in trouble deliberately. She’s been picking on her all term.”

  Isaveth had never said anything about that. Apart from the day he’d caught her weeping in the library, she’d never complained about any of her fellow students at all. How much else had she left unsaid, all those times in the bell tower?

  “Tell me.” Esmond took Eulalie’s arm, steering her out of the dining room. “From the beginning. Everything you know.”

  * * *

  They’d taken Isaveth to a warehouse a few blocks from the harbor, stacked high with crates of Power-Up tablets ready to be shipped across the lake to the neighboring country of Federatia, or out the eastern seaway to the provinces beyond. None of the toiling laborers paused or even glanced up as the Paskins strode past, dragging the charm-numbed Isaveth between them, and shoved her into a narrow, windowless room with a wooden table, a few chairs, and a single spell-lamp dangling overhead. They tied her hands and feet to one of the chairs and stepped back to appraise her.

  “So,” said Missus Paskin, “you’re the girl who invented Resisto-Paper. Who would have guessed? But it certainly explains why J. J. was so keen on you.” She whisked off her mannish hat, absently fluffing her blond curls into shape. “I’m sorry for the ropes, but after all the trouble we had finding you, we can’t risk you getting away.”

  Isaveth pressed her lips together. She didn’t need to ask why the Paskins had kidnapped her; the real question was what they meant to do if she didn’t talk.

  “Look here, Miss Breck,” said Mister Paskin, drawing up a chair next to her. “This doesn’t have to be unpleasant. Just give us the recipe and you can go.”

  And then Wregget would lose his company, which would be a poor way to repay him for all the kindness he’d shown her. Glow-Mor would vanish into Power-Up and there’d be no more scholarships for commoners, let alone Moshites. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Isaveth.

  The woman sighed. “Very loyal of you, I’m sure. But there’s no point in lying. Someone very close to you already told us what we need to know.”

  Until that moment, Isaveth had supposed that someone at Glow-Mor must be working for the Paskins and had eavesdropped on her conversation with Wregget that morning. Yet he’d shut the door—a padded privacy door thick enough to block all sound—as soon as they entered. And apart from Esmond and her own family, there was only one person close to Isaveth who knew she’d invented Resisto-Paper. . . .

  “So,” continued Mister Paskin, taking a puffer from his breast pocket and tapping it on the table, “let’s discuss terms. What did J. J. pay you? I’m sure we can match it, and add a little extra for your trouble.”

  There was no telling what these people might do to get what they wanted. But it would take more than bribery, or even threats, to make Isaveth betray a friend. She closed her stinging eyes and said nothing.

  Missus Paskin made a little clucking noise of pity. “You have no idea how money works, do you? No wonder Wregget bought you so easily. Do you realize that if you’d filed a patent on that recipe instead of selling him the rights, you’d be rich by now? And there’d be no need for all this unpleasantness.” Her voice dropped confidentially as she moved closer, slinging a hip over the corner of the table. “He’s not worth your loyalty, my dear. Even with that scholarship, he got you cheap.”

  Isaveth swallowed. She’d been so thrilled to learn that Wregget wanted to buy her recipe, and so dazzled by the five
imperials he’d offered, she’d never stopped to wonder if there might be a better way. She couldn’t blame Papa for not thinking of it, but why hadn’t Esmond?

  “Of course it’s too late to fix that now,” the woman continued, “but there’s no reason you should have to suffer. So how about this? Give us the recipe, we’ll pay you double what J. J. did—and we’ll clear up that unpleasant business at the college for you.”

  Blood pounded through Isaveth’s temples. She felt as though the earth had shifted beneath her and there was nothing left for her to cling to, nowhere safe that she could go. “How?” she asked hoarsely.

  “Oh, I’m sure we can find someone who saw the housekeeper slip that necklace into your pocket. From what I hear, she’s made no secret of disliking you, so she had good reason to do it.” Her red lips curved in a smile. “Help us, and you’ll be back at school by the end of the week.”

  So Meggery wasn’t part of their conspiracy—not knowingly, at any rate. That made sense: much as the housekeeper resented Isaveth, she wouldn’t risk her job by planting false evidence against a student, any more than Isaveth would have risked her scholarship by stealing. That was the way of spoiled, wealthy folk like Betinda and the Paskins, who could afford to be dishonest because they had nothing to lose.

  “I don’t know,” Isaveth mumbled. “After everything . . . I’m not sure I want to go back.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said the man, with a languid wave of his puffer. “A girl like you going to Tarreton College? You’d be a fool to throw away a chance like that.”

  It was true, of course—yet she wasn’t just feigning reluctance. Isaveth was tired of being the only student in her classes who knew what it felt like to go hungry, to spend nights shivering under the blankets because there wasn’t enough coal, to have to keep wearing old shoes long after they were outgrown. Tired, too, of hiding her friendship with Esmond and living in fear of his brother’s spies. And if Eulalie had betrayed her, she would never trust any of her schoolmates again.

  “Maybe,” Isaveth said thickly. “But I won’t go back if it means costing an innocent woman her job. Especially since it was your son who put Betinda’s necklace in my pocket.”

  A muscle jumped in Mister Paskin’s cheek, and his wife sat up sharply. If they’d counted on Isaveth not guessing their identities, they knew better now.

  “I see,” said Missus Paskin. “Aren’t we clever. Well, let me put it this way.” She leaned closer, her painted face close to Isaveth’s. “We are one of the most powerful families in this city. You are an insignificant little chit of no breeding whatsoever, and your father is a known radical who was recently accused of murder. Do you really think you’re in a position to bargain? Give us that recipe or we’ll ruin you. That is our final offer.”

  The intensity in her black-rimmed stare was terrifying: She clearly meant every word. Isaveth pressed back, squirming against the ropes that bound her—but even if she could free herself, what difference would it make? The Paskins would catch her before she’d taken a step.

  What do I do? Merciful All-One, help me!

  But no insight burst upon her, and no peace flooded in to wash her fears away. Isaveth gulped and burst into hiccupping sobs.

  Mister Paskin shifted uneasily, tapping puffer-ash onto the floor. “Darling, why don’t we step out for a moment? Let her calm down a bit, and I’m sure she’ll see reason.”

  “We can’t wait all day,” snapped the woman, but he gave her a beseeching look and she sighed. “Oh, all right.” She strode out and her husband followed, closing the door after them.

  Isaveth rubbed her wet cheek against her shoulder, struggling for calm. She wasn’t strong enough to break her bonds or flexible enough to slip out of them; there was nothing here she could use to cut herself free. Her only hope was rescue—but at this time of day, who would notice her missing, or know where to look for her even if they did?

  She was slumped in the chair, eyes swollen and nose stuffed up from crying, when the door eased open and Mister Paskin slipped in. He cast a furtive glance behind him, then took out his handkerchief and began awkwardly wiping Isaveth’s face.

  “My wife is, er, a passionate woman. I’m sorry she frightened you. When she gets over her temper, I’m sure she’ll be sorry too.”

  Isaveth turned her nose into the handkerchief and blew as hard as she could. The man’s face spasmed in disgust, but he composed himself and folded the sodden cloth away.

  “In any case,” he went on reasonably, “there’s no need to use threats on a bright young lady like yourself. Now you’ve had some time to think it over, I’m sure you recognize how short-sighted it is to risk your whole future over some silly recipe. Why, you wouldn’t even be in this situation if old Wregget wasn’t so greedy about keeping your invention to himself.”

  Or if you weren’t so greedy about wanting it, thought Isaveth.

  “Resisto-Paper is a great invention, and it was clever of you to discover it. But right now your recipe’s only putting more money into J. J.’s already silk-lined pockets. Wouldn’t it be better to share, and help all of Tarreton’s spell-factories at once? Think of the new workers we could hire, once we cut our production costs. Your father, for instance.”

  Isaveth’s head jerked up at that, and Mister Paskin gave an encouraging nod. “That’s right,” he said. “It’s not just about Glow-Mor or Power-Up, it’s what’s best for everyone. If Wregget’s board could see that, surely you can too. Don’t let that old fox flatter you into protecting him—as my wife says, he doesn’t deserve it. And you can’t save him anyway.”

  Isaveth tensed. “What do you mean?”

  Mister Paskin sat down on the table, relaxed and confident. “I mean he’s going to lose his company one way or another. Lord Arvis might have been happy to let Wregget do as he pleased, but there’s a new Sagelord in charge now, and he knows who his real friends are.”

  “So you’re working for Eryx?” asked Isaveth. “Or is he working for you?”

  The man smiled, as though her ignorance charmed him. “Never mind that,” he said. “Let’s keep it simple. Tell me the recipe, and you can go home right now. I’ll even call you a taxi.”

  So much for doubling Wregget’s offer, or restoring her to the school’s good graces. The more these people bargained with her, the less she had to win. “What if I don’t?”

  Paskin’s father shrugged. “Then we send J. J. a note telling him you’ve been kidnapped—and that if he doesn’t give up the recipe we’ll kill you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “MANDER GHATAJ, ISN’T IT?”

  The boy glanced up and turned a shade paler. “Milord,” he said, starting to rise.

  “No need to be formal.” Esmond circled the table, pulling out a chair for Eulalie and another for himself. The librarian made a shushing gesture, but Esmond ignored him. “We’re practically family, if the way Eryx looks at your sister is any indication.”

  He’d meant it as dry humor, but Mander froze like a hunted deer. “What?” asked Esmond, and then it struck him. What had Isaveth said about the oath Eryx had sworn to Civilla? Something about not paying any more attention to Delicia after the ball than before. . . .

  “They’re engaged, aren’t they?” Eulalie breathed. “They were just waiting for Lord Arvis’s blessing to announce it.”

  “Except,” Esmond finished slowly, “he said no. Or at least, not yet. That’s why your sister was unhappy.”

  Jaw clenched, Mander began stuffing books into his bag, but Esmond stopped him. “Even if it’s true, it doesn’t matter right now. I’m here to find out what happened to Isaveth.”

  The boy’s shoulders drooped, and he let the bag go. “I tried to tell the masters she couldn’t have taken the necklace. But Betinda and her friends said I was lying.”

  No surprise there. “Eulalie says you’ve stood up for Isaveth before. When did Betinda start bullying her?”

  Mander said nothing.

  “Look,” E
smond said with growing impatience, “I’m trying to find out how Isaveth got suspended from the college and if there’s any way to get her back. Do you want to help, or do you only care about toadying up to my brother?”

  “If I did,” Mander shot back, “I’d have told your brother when I saw you talking to Isaveth in the library. But she asked me not to, so I didn’t.”

  So he did have a spine after all. “Good for you,” said Esmond. “Tell me about Betinda.”

  Mander glanced at Eulalie, who gave him an encouraging nod. Then he adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat, and explained how he had ended up sitting behind Isaveth in Calculation. His voice was level, but Esmond saw the spark of anger in the boy’s eyes and felt his own fury rising to match it.

  “I’m a fool,” Esmond said bitterly, when Mander had finished. “I knew it wasn’t easy for her after Su wrote that article, but I didn’t realize they’d turned on her so soon.” He slid his fingers under his half glass, pressing away a twinge of headache. “Why would they single Isaveth out even before they knew she was Moshite? And why would anyone hate her enough to do this?”

  A gloomy silence descended over the table, until Eulalie spoke. “Paskin danced three times with Betinda at your sister’s ball,” she pointed out. “And they’ve been seeing a lot of each other since.”

  Tadeus Paskin. The boy who, according to Eulalie, resented Isaveth for winning the Glow-Mor scholarship and spoiling his five-regal bet. There was more to it, though; there had to be. “Paskin,” muttered Esmond. “Why is that name familiar? Who are his parents?”

  “His mother’s a shipping heiress, I think,” said Eulalie. “And they own some sort of spell-factory. . . .”

  “Power-Up!” Esmond’s fist thumped the table. The librarian popped up, ready to scold him, but he was already halfway to the door.