A Little Taste of Poison (14 page)

There was no more snow that week, only a sharp drop in temperature that froze the hairs inside Isaveth's nostrils and kept all but a few stubborn protesters away from the college gate. So when she got home from school on Trustday, she was not surprised to find Papa waiting for her.

“Something's
arrived for you, Vettie,” he said, beckoning her upstairs to the room he'd once shared with their mother. On the bed sat three packages, each covered in brown paper and bearing a stamp reading
GARDENTOWN DELIVERY SERVICE
.

Mystified, Isaveth opened the first box. Inside lay a bundle of cloth with a card tucked into one of the folds:
Miss Fairpont tells me you already have a dress, so I hope this will suit. —Q

It was a coat, deep gray with a matching lamb's-wool collar so soft that Isaveth couldn't resist rubbing it against her cheek. Papa helped her into it, then turned her gently and studied her at arm's length.

“That's a fine thing,” he said. “You look very handsome, Vettie.”

But his eyes were sad, and she knew he must be wishing he could afford to buy her such fine things himself. Aching for him, Isaveth turned away and opened the second box. There lay a shiny pair of black dancing shoes with delicate T-straps and a pattern of jet beads across the toe, and in the layer beneath, a set of fur-trimmed overboots to protect them.

They fit perfectly. Either Esmond was even more observant than she'd thought, or he'd got some advice from Eulalie. She unwrapped the third box and found
a feathery half mask, crested and beaked to look like a crimson berrybird. With it on, no one, not even Eryx Lording, would recognize her.

Until now the idea of attending a ball in the Sagelord's mansion had seemed like some distant fantasy. Now it felt so real that Isaveth's heart began to flutter. She shut the mask box and pushed it away.

“What is it, my Vettie?” Papa asked. “Don't you like your presents?”

“Of course I do, they're beautiful, but . . .” She brushed a finger over the label on the shoebox:
EASSON'S FINE COBBLERY, TARRETON
. “It feels wrong to take them. I owe Esmond—and Eulalie—so much already, and I can never pay them back.”

Her father nodded soberly. “It's a hard lump to swallow, being beholden to folks who have everything.” He put an arm around her. “But just because you don't have money doesn't mean you've got no worth. Your friends must think highly of you, or they wouldn't want you at this party. And who knows, you may get a chance someday to do them a favor in return.”

Isaveth laid her head on Papa's shoulder, wishing she could tell him the real reason she had to go to the ball. But if Papa knew the risks she was taking, he'd never allow it.

“I hope you're right,” she said quietly.

*  *  *

That Fastday felt like the longest of Isaveth's life. On one hand, the protests had trickled to a stop, and her enemies were too distracted by the thought of Civilla's ball to waste time tormenting her. But she hadn't talked to Esmond since Duesday, and Eulalie's gleeful anticipation of the party had become so obvious that Isaveth had to avoid her for fear she'd give the whole plan away.

At last the final bell rang, and everyone who was anyone leaped into taxis and hired spell-carriages and raced off to prepare for the grand occasion. Isaveth made her way home at a less frantic pace, but as soon as she stepped inside the cottage, her own flurry of preparations began.

Bathing, drying, dabbing her throat and wrists with rosewater; shivering in the chill of Papa's bedroom while Annagail, lips tight with concentration, made one last adjustment to the lovely dress; sitting patiently in the kitchen while her sister dampened and restyled her hair, pinning the wind-tousled locks into smooth ripples about Isaveth's face. By the time she was ready to put on the outer layers of her glamorous disguise, the sliver of sky showing through the kitchen window was dark, and even the clanging of the nearby factories had fallen silent.

“Cake,”
said Lilet firmly, handing Isaveth the box with her mask in it. “You have to bring us back a piece of cake at least.”

“One piece
each
,” piped up Mimmi, skipping after Isaveth as she walked to the back door. “And don't forget to tell Quiz I said—”

“That's enough, my Mirrim,” said Papa, getting up from the game of crock-in-the-hole he and Annagail were playing and steering Mimmi away. “Your sister's got enough on her mind without all that. But you mind what I told you, Vettie. Ten bells, and no more.”

“Yes, Papa.” Isaveth craned around him, trying to catch Annagail's eye. “Thank you, Anna.”

Annagail smiled wanly, but made no reply. No doubt she was tired after all the work she'd done, and Isaveth resolved to bring her a special treat from the party to make up for it. She hugged Papa good-bye and stepped out into the cold.

In the darkness of the coal lane, with her new coat wrapped around her and her head bowed under one of Mama's Templeday hats, Isaveth's confidence grew. She strolled up the wheel-rutted alley to Grand Street, took out the cab-hailer Esmond had given her, and cracked it in two. A blue spark arced into the air, and presently a taxi veered up beside her.

“Where to, missus?”

He thought she was a grown woman. Well, of course: What girl her age would be going out alone at this time of night? “Rollingdale Court,” Isaveth said in her huskiest tone, and climbed in. Bracing herself against the bump and sway of the taxi, she unpinned her hat and slipped her crimson berrybird mask into place. Then she sat back, watching the streetlights swim over the front of the cab as it sped toward the city center.

She could do this—no, she
was
doing it. Excitement surged up in Isaveth, chasing her fears away.

“The Sagelord's house, if you please,” she told the driver. “I'm going to a ball.”

L
IGHT STREAMED OUT
the doors of the Sagelord's mansion, pouring down the steps like liquid honey. In the midst of the circular driveway a fountain cascaded over three tiers of gleaming marble—a shocking extravagance in this weather, especially since it would take about fifty warming-charms to keep it flowing. No wonder Esmond had been busy. Shivering with nerves and anticipation, Isaveth followed the other guests inside and gave the maid her hat and coat.

As she entered the grand ballroom, the sound of a sway band greeted her, the low plunk of a bass twining with the razz of a muted trumpet. Glow-charms hung everywhere, twinkling like tiny constellations above the crowd, and the velvety curtains were drawn, giving the room an intimate, even secret appearance. Cataracts of ice-blue silk poured down the walls, while in each
corner an urn half as tall as Isaveth held ribbon-laced bundles of pine boughs and branches painted white as bone. She had never seen a room so splendid—or so full of people.

Young and old, they surrounded her on every side: men in crisply tailored suits and embroidered waistcoats; women draped in silks, furs, and cascading strands of jewels. All wore half masks like Isaveth's, but in a fantastic assortment of nature-themed styles—bristling fir needles and points of red maple, wildcats and bears and foxes, the fierce beaks of gorehawks and crows. It would be easy to pass unnoticed in a crowd like this.

Servants drifted around Isaveth, offering flutes of berry squash, trays of crisp breads layered with meats and cheeses, and platters of fancy cakes so beautifully decorated that it seemed almost wicked to eat them. Isaveth helped herself to a cheese toast and sidled across the room. Surely she'd be able to spot Esmond, no matter what mask he wore. . . .

“Psst!” came a whisper, and Isaveth turned to see Eulalie passing by on the arm of a dignified-looking man who must be her father, the Deputy Justice. She winked at Isaveth through her otter mask and vanished into the crowd.

After a few minutes of wandering, Isaveth found several
more people that she knew. First Betinda Callender, in a snowflake mask and a fluffy white gown that didn't suit her; the horned owl was Mistress Anandri, stately in earth-colored silks; and the boar in the burgundy waistcoat had to be J. J. Wregget, escorting a shy-looking sparrow who was probably his wife. Su Amaraq wore a mask of green ivy leaves, with a matching silk halter-neck and loose slacks that swirled about her ankles—Isaveth still resented the woman, but she couldn't help admiring her effortless style. And the boy coming through the door, with the frog mask made to fit around his spectacles . . .

Oh no. It was Mander Ghataj. Isaveth stiffened as his gaze swept over her, then relaxed as he turned to his companion, a dove-masked girl in gray satin who must be his sister. Funny: She looked too old to be a student at the college, yet Isaveth couldn't shake the impression that she'd met Miss Ghataj before. . . .

“Utterly mad,” drawled a man on Isaveth's right, and a woman chimed in, “Absolutely. I can't see how Glow-Mor's going to walk away from this.”

Isaveth's stomach jumped, but she didn't dare turn to look or her eavesdropping would be obvious. She put on a vague smile and helped herself to a pastry as the tray passed by.

“Typical J. J., though,” remarked another man. “He
always was one to bet on the lame horses. And mind you, it's paid off more often than not.”

“Oh, he's been lucky,” said the woman with a dismissive sniff. “But he's backed the wrong horse this time. Charity's all very well, but giving a Tarreton scholarship to a Moshite? The public won't stand for it. Glow-Mor sales are sure to crash in another week or two—from what I hear, they're plummeting already.”

“Crash! I don't know about that. You have to remember it's mostly commoners who buy Glow-Mor tablets, and they stick up for their own.”

“Not for Moshites,” cut in the drawler. “There are plenty of poor folk who think dissenters shouldn't be allowed to live in this city at all, let alone take the jobs—”

“Or the scholarships,” added the woman.

“Quite right, my love—that should be theirs. J. J. Wregget may fancy himself progressive, but he's got no business sense. If you ask me, he's about to get kicked right in the profits.”

“Hmm,” said the second man. “That could be bad. A big chunk of Glow-Mor's sales is export, and that's mostly Wregget's doing. If his board loses confidence and kicks him out, their foreign partners may start looking elsewhere—and that's going to hurt Tarreton, not just Glow-Mor. . . .”

His words trailed off as the three of them moved away. Isaveth stood still for a few heartbeats, then moved shakily in the opposite direction.

Mister Wregget had taken a huge risk by supporting her, and now his reputation was in danger. What if the haughty couple's prediction about Glow-Mor's sales came true, and Wregget's own board turned against him? If he lost his job, Isaveth's scholarship would be the first thing to go. . . .

“Ladies and gentlemen!” boomed a voice from the dais, so loud it could only be enhanced by magic. Everyone turned to where the Sagelord stood resplendent in his Tarreton-blue suit, unmasked and gripping a sound-crystal in one beefy hand.

“It's a pleasure to have all of you here to celebrate our daughter Civilla's eighteenth birthday. My lady wife . . . Where are you, Nessa?” He half-turned, grabbed the arm of a frail-looking blond woman, and dragged her to the front of the platform. “My wife and I welcome you to this very special occasion.”

If the Sagelord was unwell, as Mander had hinted, Isaveth could see no sign of it. His skin shone ruddy pink, and his eyes gleamed as he continued on. “I'm not a great man for sentimental speeches, especially not when it comes to my daughter. Every time I pay her a
compliment, it seems to set her off. When she was in her last year at Tarreton College I told her to stop fretting about her marks because she was so pretty no one expected her to be bright, and she's never let me forget it—Ha! Ha! Ha!”

The crowd broke into uneasy laughter, and Isaveth winced. If Civilla Ladyship sometimes appeared distant and even icy in public, now she knew why. Who could be at ease with a great buffoon like that?

“So I'm going to step aside,” the Sagelord said, still chuckling at his own joke, “and give you the real speech-maker in the family. My son and heir, Eryx Lording!”

Eryx walked out onto the dais, and the room erupted in applause. To Isaveth's left, Mander Ghataj bounced up on his toes, clapping eagerly as Eryx took the sound-crystal from Lord Arvis and stepped to the front of the stage.

“I'd like to thank you all for coming tonight,” he said. “This is an important event for our family, and it's an honor to share it with our trusted friends, loyal supporters, and valued business associates. I am sure I speak for Civilla as well as the rest of us when I say that the occasion would not be complete without you. . . .”

He went on in this fashion for some time, praising various groups and individuals until the whole room glowed
with self-satisfaction, and Isaveth felt a sour taste creeping up her throat. She wished Esmond were beside her, so at least she wouldn't be the only person revolted by Eryx's flattery. Where was he, anyway?

“But my chief purpose here is to honor my sister, who has indeed grown up to be an exceptional young woman. She is refined . . . perceptive . . . and as her friends well know, she takes a keen interest in other people's welfare.” Eryx smiled as he spoke, as though these were the finest qualities any young woman could possess. But the thoughtful pause he left between each word implied the opposite—that Civilla was fussy, meddlesome, and controlling, and he was trying to find a gracious way to say so.

“She is also, as my father remarked—though perhaps not in the words Civilla herself might have chosen—easy to look at, which I'm sure explains the many eligible young bachelors I see before me tonight. Though for myself, I can only feel fortunate to have a sister with such . . .
excellent
taste in friends.”