* * *
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.”
“Eek, you’re right!” Eulalie scooped up her books and dashed out.
Isaveth’s next class was closer than Eulalie’s, so she packed her new dress away and walked up the hill at a more leisurely pace. When she reached the Antiquities Building, however, she found the lobby crowded with students huddled around the latest edition of the Trumpeter. A third-year boy was reading aloud to the others:
“ ‘. . . aware it would be a controversial decision,’ Governor Buldage said. ‘But Mister Wregget was most emphatic about his choice of Miss Breck, and we found no reason to refuse her. . . .’ ”
A cold fist closed around Isaveth’s heart. The gossip Paskin had started had finally spread beyond the college—and now, thanks to Su Amaraq and the Trumpeter, the whole city knew her name.
* * *
All through Uropian History, Isaveth felt sick with apprehension. But she breathed slowly to ease her panic and reminded herself to stay strong. No matter what the newsrag said about the “controversial” nature of her scholarship—whether it described her as a commoner, a Moshite, Urias Breck’s daughter, or all three—Isaveth had nothing to be ashamed of. So she resisted the temptation to bolt as soon as Master Eddicot dismissed them, and walked to the dining hall as usual.
It was hard to eat with so many eyes upon her—she’d seen several heads twist in her direction, even a pointing finger or two as she sat down. Eulalie prattled away on her left side, but all the other seats around Isaveth remained empty, and a group of second-year girls veered away from her as they passed. A leaden weight dropped into Isaveth’s stomach. She covered her half-finished plate with her napkin and pushed it away.
Perhaps she should ask Eulalie to help her find a copy of the article, so she’d know what it said. But Isaveth barely had time to open her mouth before the other girl jumped up.
“Got to go!” she exclaimed, and dashed out of the dining hall.
That was disappointing, but Isaveth tried not to let it upset her. Eulalie might have a habit of vanishing at odd moments, but she always came back. Pretending not to notice Seffania and her friends whispering at the other end of the table, Isaveth stood up and set off to find a copy of the Trumpeter.
There were several newsrags in the common room, but other students were already reading them. By the time one boy finally left his copy of the Trumpeter unattended, the bell was ringing for afternoon classes and Isaveth had to run to Calculation instead.
Fortunately Master Valstead was late, so even after stamping her boots dry and hanging up her overcoat she made it to the classroom before he did. She hurried to her desk—and stopped short, arrested by the words scrawled in black charcoal across its surface.
NO RATS IN OUR COLLEGE
There was no use asking who had written the message. Ghataj had come in soon after she did, and the rest of her classmates were gazing blandly ahead, betraying no hint of guilt or sympathy. She was standing there helpless, a dull ache spreading through her chest, when Master Valstead strode in.
“Sit down, Miss Breck,” he said curtly.
Either he hadn’t noticed the writing, or—more likely, considering how big the letters were—he just didn’t care. Clenching her jaw as her eyes started to prickle, Isaveth dropped into her seat and took out a handkerchief to rub the horrible words away.
Chapter Eleven
GLOW-MOR AWARD CAUSES CONTROVERSY
A four-month delay in the announcement of the coveted Glow-Mor Light and Fire Company scholarship, which offers free tuition to Tarreton College for exceptionally promising students, led many to assume that the company had found no suitable candidate this year. However, as reporter Su Amaraq confirmed in an exclusive interview with college governor Hexter Buldage (see morn
ing edition), the scholarship has been awarded to Miss Isaveth Breck, a stonemason’s daughter currently living with her father and sisters in a small rented house on Cabbage Street.
According to Governor Buldage, Miss Breck joined the student body at the start of fallowtime term, and her work so far is satisfactory. However, her father Urias recently spent time in prison, and his dissenter views have caused some within the college to question Miss Breck’s suitability as a candidate.
“I’m not saying she isn’t clever,” said one student who preferred not to be identified, “but I don’t think it’s right to teach Sagery to someone who doesn’t revere the Sages. The invocation is an important part of our magical heritage, and it’s disrespectful not to say it. If Moshites want the privilege of attending Tarreton College, they should learn to respect not only our laws, but our traditions.”
Despite the controversy, Glow-Mor president J. J. Wregget expressed no regret. “Miss Breck has shown great promise as a student of magic,” he said, “and I believe talent and hard work should be rewarded. I have every confidence that she will be a credit to Tarreton College and an asset to our city in the future.”
A source close to the president, however, revealed that not all within the company share Mister Wregget’s confidence, and some are concerned that his decision may harm Glow-Mor’s reputation as Tarreton’s leading manufacturer of spell-tablets for home and commercial use. . . .
“Ugh!” said Lilet, slapping the newsrag shut. “What a horrible story.”
She’d crumpled the pages in her anger, and Isaveth smoothed them before folding up the Trumpeter and setting it beside Papa’s plate. An afternoon of blowing snow had left knee-deep drifts across the city, so he was still out shoveling—but this news wasn’t something Isaveth could hide from him, no matter how much she wished otherwise.
Annagail’s brow creased in distress. “I thought Mister Wregget promised not to say anything to the newsrags. Why would he break his word?”
The blessing candles still flickered at the center of the table. Isaveth cupped a hand around each flame as she blew them out. “I don’t think he had a choice,” she said. “After that interview in the Trumpeter this morning, it would have looked even worse if he’d refused to talk at all.”
“Does this mean you have to quit school?” asked Mimmi anxiously.
“Not unless Governor Buldage says so. I just thought you should know what the newsrags are saying.” People were bound to have strong opinions about the article, and it would be cruel to leave her sisters unprepared. “Now go play outside with Lilet, and I’ll make you hot malty-milk when you come in.”
Mimmi scampered off to fetch her coat, and silently Lilet followed. Isaveth waited until the door slammed behind them, then turned to Annagail.
“I know you were afraid of this, but at least now it’s in the open. And I’m sure Mister Wregget knew it would happen eventually. The masters, too.”
Annagail fetched a cloth and began wiping the table, not looking at her. “You think you can do this, then. You really think they’ll let you stay.”
Isaveth hesitated. She longed to pour out her troubles, from Paskin and Betinda’s bullying to the message she had found on her desk, but how could she? Anna had enough on her mind already with running the household, finishing her last year of school, and studying for her healer’s examinations. It would be selfish to ask her to carry any more burdens.
“Why not?” Isaveth said brightly. “I’m keeping up with my assignments, and I’ve done well on all the tests I’ve taken so far. Don’t worry, Anna, it’ll blow over. But . . .” She stooped to retrieve the package from her school bag. “I need your help with something.”
Annagail’s hand stilled on the washcloth. “What is it?”
“Quiz invited me to his sister’s coming-of-age ball, and my friend Eulalie gave me something to wear.” Isaveth drew the curtains, then skinned out of her school clothes and pulled the dress over her head. It slipped down her body like cool water.
“Oh, Vettie!” Anna gasped as Isaveth turned to face her. “It’s beautiful. But . . .”
Please don’t ask me. Please don’t.
“Have you talked to Papa about this?”
So much for that. “Not yet. I wanted to get everything I’ll need for the ball first, so he’ll know it won’t be too expensive.”
“So he’ll know it’s too late to refuse, you mean.”
“Something like that,” Isaveth admitted. “But oh, Anna, I really want to go. Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would,” said Anna with a touch of impatience. “And it was very kind of Quiz—Esmond—to invite you. But after this?” She gestured to the paper. “Vettie, you can’t! When people find out who you are . . .”
“They won’t. It’s a masked ball, and I’ll be gone before the unmasking.” Besides, there’d been no picture with the articles, so most people wouldn’t recognize Isaveth’s face even if they saw it. “Please, Anna. Esmond asked me specially, and it’s important.”
“Important because he asked you? Or because you want to go?”
Annagail was usually the most sympathetic and helpful of her sisters; why was she being so stubborn? “I can’t tell you any more than that,” said Isaveth. “It’s to do with Esmond’s family, and it’s private. But he really does need me, and I can’t let him down.”
Anna sighed and reached for her sewing basket. “All right, get up on the chair and I’ll pin you. Only promise you’ll tell Papa as soon as—”
The front door creaked, and a gust of cold air swept in. “Is there anything to eat in this house?” came an amiable bellow from the hallway. “I’m hollow as an old boot!”
Convincing Papa to let her go to the ball proved even more difficult than persuading Anna—especially once he’d seen the article in the Trumpeter, which made him scowl so darkly his brows almost hid his eyes. But Isaveth argued and pleaded with him, insisting that both Esmond and Eulalie would be looking out for her and that backing out of the party now would be letting her enemies win, until Papa groaned and waved at her to stop.
“Enough, enough,” he said. “It’s like trying to light a pipe in a blizzard. If your heart’s set on going, Vettie, then you had better go. But be careful,” he continued, half-muffled by the arms she’d flung about his neck, “and I want you home by ten bells, or Esmond Lilord will answer to me. You tell him that.”
Isaveth kissed his cheek gratefully. “I will, Papa.”
* * *
By the time Isaveth’s tram stopped at the college the next morning, a crowd of protesters had gathered at the gate. She rubbed the frost off the inside of the window and peered out, trying to read the signs they were holding.
KEEP OUR COLLEGE NOBLE, read one. NO REWARDS FOR REBELS, said another. Then a taxi pulled up behind the tram, and with a flash of cobalt and fur-trimmed wool Su Amaraq stepped out. She’d come to report on the protest—and no doubt press Isaveth to give her an interview as well.
Isaveth squirmed lower in her seat. Bravery was all very well, but she was neither tall nor strong, and if she had to battle her way through that crowd she might never get to class at all. Besides, the last thing she needed was her picture all over the newsrags. She waited for the door to close, and rode the tram around the corner to the next stop.
Fortunately, the servants’ entrance to the college was unguarded, so Isaveth made it down the hill to the charmery before the bell stopped ringing. Eulalie smiled as she came in, which was heartening—at least until Paskin stormed in, panting and red in the face, and glared at Isaveth as though she’d cheated him.
“Sneaky little rat,” he muttered as he sat down. Which was when Mistress Corto turned with majestic dignity from her wall slate and asked, “Mister Paskin, where is your late card?”
Paskin looked blank. “My . . . what?”
“I see. Well, you had better go and get one.” She nodded at the door. “Go on. I’m sure the governor’s secretary will assist you.”
Which sounded fair, except that the governor’s office was all the way up the hill, on the second floor of Founders’ Hall, and his secretary was one of the least friendly people Isaveth had ever met. Paskin looked stunned for a moment, then got up stiffly and walked out.
Isaveth could have hugged Mistress Corto, but that would be unwise. So she buried her face behind her workbook, hiding her smile, until her teacher finished her introduction to negation-charms and led them into the workroom.
Today’s assignment was a shade-charm—not as potent as the dark-tablets in the Book of Common Magic, but a subtler, illusion-laced spell that allowed the caster to see out even as it discouraged outsiders from seeing in. Isaveth bent to the task, giving it her full attention, and a familiar contentment eased over her. She’d grown to love charm-crafting, and with Mistress Corto in charge she was safe, at least for now.
Yet despite what Su Amaraq’s not-so-mysterious informer had implied, Isaveth hadn’t tested a single charm, let alone refused to say the invocation over it, since the ill-fated floater. Mistress Corto had merely examined each of her finished spells with her charm-glass and dropped them into a box with Isaveth’s name on it, to be kept until the end of term.
She did the same for everyone, of course, but it seemed like a waste to Isaveth. After all, her scholarship was paying for the ingredients, and it wasn’t as though the charms she made were much use to anyone else. So when she noticed that Eulalie and Seffania had both spoiled their first attempts and had to start over, she discreetly pocketed her finished shade-charm and slipped back to the ingredients table to make another. The ball was fast approaching, and if anything went wrong it would be good to have a defensive spell or two that didn’t immediately mark her as a commoner.
She’d just handed the duplicate charm to Kif when the bell rang, and Eulalie bounded across the workroom to join her. “Wasn’t it glorious?” she crowed as the other students filed out. “The look on Paskin’s face! I hope the secretary bit his ear off.”