A Little Taste of Poison

  Her fingers stilled on the last button. “What sticky stuff?”

  As the taxi splashed through the slush-covered streets toward Rollingdale, Esmond explained what he’d discovered about Isaveth’s curse-breaking potion, taking the two charms out of his pocket to show her. He was right: The spell had worked after all—as she’d have seen for herself, if she’d only let them dry first.

  “I poured it all out,” Isaveth groaned. “I thought it was useless. And if I can’t go home—”

  “That,” said Esmond, “is the least of our problems. I brought your spell-baking ingredients, too.” He unwound her scarf from his leg and began kneading his chilled muscles. “Now that’s settled, let me tell you the plan. . . .”

  * * *

  Isaveth stared into the mirror over the dressing table, amazed at her own transformation. The girl gazing back at her looked years older, and hardly like Urias Breck’s daughter at all.

  Half a bell ago, Esmond had brought Isaveth into the mansion through the servants’ quarters and introduced her to a stern-faced woman named Olina. She’d drawn a hot bath for Isaveth and let her soak while she whisked her dirty clothes away, exchanging them for a long-sleeved maid’s dress and white apron.

  Once Isaveth was presentable, Olina led her down the corridor to a room with a quilt-covered bed on one side and a dressing table on the other, bandaged her sore wrists so neatly they looked like an extension of her starched cuffs, and sat her in front of the mirror while she pinned Isaveth’s wet hair into finger waves. A few disguising strokes of eye paint and lip tint, a white cap to cover her crown, and Isaveth’s transformation was complete. As long as she kept her head down and her eyes meekly lowered, she would be just another servant.

  “Now,” said Olina, handing her a pair of slippers, “I will show you to the kitchen.”

  It was getting late in the evening, and most of the day-servants had finished up their duties and gone home. A pale-skinned girl washing pots in the great sink glanced up as they walked in, but one look from Olina made her blanch and go back to scrubbing.

  Isaveth’s satchel waited by the stove for her, as Esmond had promised. He’d run upstairs to make a couple of calls and change his clothing—as he’d said, it would be a pity to alarm their guests. But they’d gone over the plan twice in the taxi, and Isaveth knew what she had to do. She opened the country-mage’s journal, unpacked her ingredients, and set to work.

  * * *

  Esmond was pacing the lounge when his sister came downstairs, gowned in violet with a softly gathered bodice and beaded fringes all over the skirt. She looked lovely, but fragile—in fact, very like their mother. That was, until she pursed her lips in displeasure and marched over to smooth Esmond’s hair and tug his neck cloth into shape.

  “There,” she said, appraising him critically. “Almost respectable. Is that the door?”

  The first guest to arrive was Eulalie’s father, clearly bemused to be invited to drinks at the Sagelord’s mansion when the family was still in mourning. But he took the glass Civilla offered him and settled into an armchair as the doorbell chimed again.

  J. J. Wregget and his wife came next. The president of Glow-Mor had regained his ruddy color, and he shook Esmond’s hand with such vigor that his half glass nearly fell off—but then he and Perline excused themselves and went to join Lady Nessa in her indoor garden.

  The third arrival was Delicia Ghataj, looking appropriately grave and concerned for Civilla’s welfare, but glowing with an inner radiance that made Esmond want to kick himself for not seeing the truth about her and Eryx at once. She had no idea what was coming, and it almost made him feel sorry for her.

  Governor Buldage turned up soon afterward, followed a few minutes later by Su Amaraq, so afire with curiosity it was a wonder she didn’t combust. They’d both received their drinks and were sitting down when the front door opened for the last time, and Missus Paskin walked in. She gave her coat to the butler, crossed to the lounge—and stopped, her porcelain features blank. “Where’s Lord Eryx?”

  “On his way, I believe.” Civilla lifted a crystal decanter from the cart. “Would you like a drink while you wait?”

  The woman hesitated, clearly discomfited to see so many guests, then pasted on a smile. “Why not?” she said, and sat down.

  “Missus Paskin?” asked Esmond earnestly, leaning forward on the sofa. “I heard a rumor today and I’m wondering if it’s true. Has Power-Up been trying to buy out Glow-Mor?”

  Her smile became fixed. “Really, my Lilord, I had no idea you took an interest in such matters.”

  “Esmond,” said Civilla severely, “don’t be rude. No one wants to talk about business right now. Ice with yours, Laraine?”

  For a young woman of eighteen she gave a remarkably good impression of being in charge, and Missus Paskin relaxed. “Thank you,” she murmured as she accepted the glass.

  “Please excuse my brother,” said Civilla. “He’s studying civics at the college and it’s made him terribly opinionated. You know how boys can be.” She smiled around at the company, and they smiled wanly back.

  “It’s just that it seems odd,” Esmond went on before anyone else could speak. “I mean, everyone knows Missus Wregget and my mother are friends, and my father—” His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat. “My father took an interest in Glow-Mor’s welfare. So I can’t help thinking that he might have had an opinion about who ought to be running it. If he hadn’t died, I mean.”

  Laraine Paskin sat rigid as a dressed-up doll. Eulalie’s father steepled his fingers, studying Esmond with interest, while Su set her glass down and reached for her purse.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Esmond. “I’m being rude again, aren’t I? Perhaps I’d better change the subject. Good evening, Master Buldage.”

  The governor looked haunted, as though he’d begun to suspect what was going on. “And to you, milord,” he replied.

  “It was really quite brave of you, I thought, to accept a Moshite girl as a student at Tarreton College. One might even say progressive, don’t you think? The sort of thing my brother ought to approve of. You know, with his speeches about equality and justice and all that.”

  Buldage looked positively green now. “Indeed,” he croaked.

  “Except his speeches have been changing lately, I’ve noticed. Now it seems to be equality and justice for everyone but Moshites. It almost seems like a grudge of some sort. . . .”

  “Speaking of Eryx,” began Delicia in a warning tone, but Esmond interrupted her.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll get to him. Or he’ll get to us, since I believe that’s his spell-carriage coming up the drive. But I’m sure you know the sound of his wheels better than I do, since you’ve been seeing so much of each other.” He got up, crossed to the drinks cart, and poured himself a bubblewater. “Practically engaged, I’ve heard.”

  Now it was Delicia’s turn to look hunted. She sank back into her chair, avoiding Civilla’s gaze.

  Esmond turned to Missus Paskin. “Where’s your husband, may I ask? He does plan to join us soon, I hope. The party wouldn’t be the same without him.”

  Laraine Paskin set down her glass and stood. “I don’t know what all this is about, milord, but I think there’s been a mistake. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Ah, there he is!” crowed Esmond as the butler opened the door again and Mister Paskin stepped in. “Do come in; your wife’s saved a seat for you.”

  “I . . . er . . . beg your pardon?” said Mister Paskin, doffing his hat. “We came to see Lord Eryx.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Esmond cheerfully. “I’m told I sound just like him over the ringer, so I thought I’d save him the trouble of inviting you. He’s on his way now, though, and I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about when he arrives.” Esmond leaned against the wall, beaming at them. “We might even be able to help. After all, it’s not as though you’ve got anything to hide, have you?”

  A swift look passed between the Paskins, an
d for a moment he thought the pair of them might bolt. But then Missus Paskin sat down and her husband walked stiffly to join her.

  “My point was, though,” Esmond continued in the same bright tone, “doesn’t it seem like that Breck girl’s had the rottenest luck? First her father gets arrested and charged with murdering the governor of Tarreton College. It turns out he didn’t do it, but a lot of people still think he did, which leaves her with a rather unfortunate reputation.” He flicked a glance at Su and went back to contemplating his bubblewater. “Then she wins the Glow-Mor scholarship. Hurrah! But she’s barely been at the college two weeks before someone leaks her story to the newsrags. And as soon as all the ugliness from that dies down, she gets accused of stealing Betinda Callender’s necklace. It’s almost like she was meant to fail.”

  He cocked his head at the Paskins. “Speaking of Betinda, isn’t your son Tadeus rather friendly with her these days?”

  “Esmond!” exclaimed Civilla, clapping a hand to her breast. “Rudeness is one thing, but this is appalling. You can’t mean to accuse our friends of deliberately ruining some poor girl’s reputation just to weaken Glow-Mor!”

  Everyone sat up at that, and Esmond did a little internal dance of glee. But he kept his expression mild as the footsteps in the hallway quickened and Eryx strode in.

  “What is this?” he demanded, and everyone began talking at once.

  “Oh, Eryx, I’m so glad you’re—”

  “Milord, I swear I didn’t know—”

  “Slander, that’s what it is! We won’t be insulted any—”

  Civilla rushed to Eryx, clutching at his arm. “Esmond’s been saying the most dreadful things,” she gasped. “I think he’s gone mad. Please do something—I must tell Mother.” She stepped past him and hurried away.

  Eryx didn’t turn to watch her go. His gaze was on Esmond, dark with reproach. “This is unacceptable. Apologize to our guests at once.”

  “Why?” asked Esmond. “I haven’t said a thing that isn’t true. And it would be a shame to stop before the exciting bit.” He straightened up to his full height. “There’s a kidnapper, an extortioner, and at least two murderers in this room, and I’m not leaving until everyone knows who they are.”

  * * *

  When the door to the kitchen swung open, Isaveth was ready. She snatched up the two bottles she’d filled and ran out after Civilla.

  “Esmond’s going to keep talking as long as he can,” Esmond’s sister told her as she pulled a key from her waistband. She opened the door to the underground tunnel and locked it behind them, twisting a glow-charm off her bracelet to see by. “But it won’t be long before Eryx calls the servants to remove him, and when they don’t come he’s going to get suspicious. We have to move fast.”

  Her eyes were glittering, fierce with intent. She looked like a warrior going into battle, and a formidable warrior at that. Isaveth nodded, and the two of them raced for the carriage house.

  Eryx’s sportster was sitting in the middle bay, spell-engine ticking as it cooled. Isaveth poured her first bottle over the passenger-side handle while Civilla kindled a warming-charm to help the potion dry.

  “Esmond thought you believed Eryx,” said Isaveth, watching the decoction ooze around the handle and the charms behind it. Hurry, hurry . . . “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

  Civilla sighed. “Because I was afraid. For him, and for myself. The house was full of spies, and Esmond was so young, and so angry . . . I was afraid that if he knew my plan, he might let something slip by accident.”

  How different things might have been if the two of them had only talked to each other. Yet Civilla had been so anxious to protect Esmond and guard her own secrets that he’d ended up thinking she didn’t care. . . .

  Much like Isaveth and Annagail.

  “You underestimated him,” Isaveth said softly. “Like he underestimated you.”

  “I’m afraid so. But I can’t blame him for thinking I was no threat to Eryx when I’d tried so hard to appear that way. Are we ready?”

  “Not yet,” said Isaveth, squinting through her charm-glass. The aura of power around the door was fading, but the potion wasn’t fully dry. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand, though. If you didn’t want Eryx to become Sagelord, why did you try to stop Esmond investigating your father’s death?”

  “I thought he might be accusing . . . someone very dear to me. And I couldn’t bear that.”

  “You mean Delicia.”

  For several heartbeats Civilla was silent. Then she said, “She’s been in love with Eryx since we were fifteen. I thought that if she knew what he was like she’d change her mind about him, but . . .” She gave a sad smile. “Perhaps I misjudged her, too.”

  It was hard to know what to say to that. Isaveth turned back to the door—and her heart leaped. “It’s done. You can try it now.”

  Civilla reached for the handle. Her slim fingers touched it, curled tight . . . and with a click, the door popped open.

  The case was on the passenger side, just as Esmond had said. Isaveth examined it carefully to make sure there were no more wards or alert-charms to bypass, then eased it out and laid it on the seat.

  “Let me,” said Civilla. Before Isaveth could protest, she thumbed up the latches and opened the case.

  Dear Isaveth, read the topmost letter—but it was all she saw before the whole pile of documents burst into flame.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  CIVILLA REELED BACK, flinging up an arm to protect herself as Isaveth hurled the last of her potion onto the blaze—but it was useless. Not until Isaveth seized a blanket from the back of the carriage and smothered the case with it did the fire die out, and by then there was nothing left but black ashes and a few crumbling scraps of paper.

  Isaveth snatched up the pieces that remained, scanning them desperately. Surely there had to be something there that would prove Eryx’s guilt. But the few words that were left made no sense to her, so how would they convince anyone else? Letting the papers fall, she sank down on the sportster’s running board and buried her face in her hands.

  They’d lost everything. There was no way to stop Eryx now.

  Civilla’s hand brushed Isaveth’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I should have guessed he’d have one last safeguard inside.” She began leafing through the scorched papers, then drew a sharp breath.

  “What?” asked Isaveth, twisting around. “What is it?”

  Civilla stood unmoving, eyes fixed on something in her palm. A little envelope, rumpled and ash-smudged, but otherwise miraculously intact. “I found it in the pocket,” she said slowly—then her lips parted and a gleam came into her eyes. Thrusting the envelope into her bodice, she started for the door.

  Isaveth leaped up. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the house,” said Civilla. She picked up her skirts, heedless of the black ash staining her fingers, and hurried down the steps to the passage. “Eryx thinks he’s beaten us, but he’s wrong.”

  A tiny ember of hope flickered in Isaveth. Had Civilla found something she’d overlooked? She ran after the older girl, then slowed to a discreet walk as they re-entered the mansion.

  “. . . kidnapped right out of the city records office.” Esmond was strolling about the lounge as they entered, talking so rapidly that even Eryx couldn’t get a word in. “And the funny thing is, it happened not long after you told Miss Breck that Power-Up had been scheming to buy out Glow-Mor.” He turned to the man sitting behind him. “Isn’t that right, Mister Wregget?”

  Olina had obeyed her mistress well. As soon as Civilla and Isaveth vanished into the tunnel, she’d gone to tell Wregget, and he’d trotted back to rejoin the party—another nasty shock for the Paskins, no doubt.

  “Yes, that’s—” Wregget began, but Esmond didn’t let him finish.

  “Or perhaps I should say, right after you told Miss Breck you’d never give up her secret recipe for Resisto-Paper. Which was extremely interesting to the people list
ening on the other end of this.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a silver bracelet with a coil of wire and a tiny sound-crystal attached.

  “You may as well take this, Mister Paskin,” he said, dropping it onto the tea table. “Mister Wregget’s secretary won’t be spying for you anymore.”

  Missus Paskin leaped up, quivering with rage. “How dare you! We are respectable business people, and we have every right to make an offer for Glow-Mor if we choose. This trumped-up story about spying and kidnapping is—”

  “Trumped-up?” asked Esmond, the last of his humor vanishing. His voice dropped half an octave, and there was nothing silly about it now. “Tell that to the girl you abducted, tied up, and threatened to kill if she wouldn’t cooperate. Better yet, tell that to the man your husband shot for daring to help her—oh, wait, you can’t. Because his body’s at the bottom of Lake Colonia, next to a freighter your family owns.”

  Missus Paskin froze.

  “Those are filthy lies,” Mister Paskin sputtered. “You have no proof!”

  “On the contrary. Miss Breck?”

  And here she’d thought Esmond was too busy talking to notice her. Isaveth stepped through the doorway, unwinding her bandages, and held out her rope-burned wrists for all to see.

  “Thank you,” said Esmond as the Paskins gaped at her. “Mind you, we all know what the word of a Moshite girl is worth in this town, especially one who’s just been accused of stealing—so it’s a good thing she wasn’t the only witness. Remember when Barto rang to tell you about the street-boy who’d been snooping around the warehouse, Mister Paskin? That was me.”

  Missus Paskin rounded on her husband. “You fool,” she snapped, then whirled back to the stone-faced Deputy Fairpont. “I knew nothing about this! If my husband killed someone that was his decision, not mine!”

  “You mean Lanzy’s murder, Missus Paskin?” Esmond asked. “Or are you talking about my father’s as well?”

  Dead silence. Su stopped scribbling in her notebook, and Eryx went so still he might have been made of wax.