A Little Taste of Poison (2 page)

Eryx sighed. “We've talked about these delusions of yours before, Esmond. Is there a point to this?”

“Maybe not,” said Esmond. “But it's an interesting thought. After all, if I'm not allowed to talk to Isaveth anyway, what's to keep
me
from telling Father the whole story?”

Eryx regarded him steadily for a moment. Then he snatched up Esmond's sheet of writing paper, crumpled it, and tossed it into the fire. “I think you'd find that less satisfying than you imagine,” he said coolly. “Remember what happened the last time you accused me in front of Father?”

A dull heat spread beneath Esmond's collarbones. He wouldn't soon forget the agony of Eryx's fencing sword lashing his eye, or the keener torment when Esmond realized that no one—not his mother, not the Sagelord, not even his sister Civilla—was prepared to believe it had been anything more than an accident.

That was the curse of having a silver-tongued demon for a brother. If it came to his word against Esmond's, Eryx would always win.

“In any case,” Eryx went on, “if you want to sulk over missing your girlfriend, that's your business. But you know how Mother feels about family dinners. You wouldn't want to upset Mother, would you?”

Esmond was tempted to treat that question with the scorn it deserved. Lady Nessa's fragile nerves were notorious: She'd always be anxious about something, whether her youngest son came to dinner or not. But Lord Arvis was also waiting, and defying him was another matter.

Grudgingly Esmond picked up his half glass, hooked it into place, and rose. He was taller than his brother when
they stood side by side, but Eryx didn't allow him that satisfaction; he turned and strode out, leaving Esmond to trail after him like a servant—or a dog.

Dear Isaveth:

I'm afraid I'm a stinking failure as a detective, which means the men who killed Governor Orien and nearly got your papa hanged for it are never going to pay. Also, Eryx caught me writing to you, and if he tells Father I've been “fraternizing with commoners” again I won't have to worry about his dodgy liver—he'll die of apoplexy instead.

But that was black humor, and self-pitying besides, and Isaveth wouldn't think much of either. She'd watched her mother die of a wasting illness and her father get dragged off to jail, and it had only made her more determined to stand up for justice and protect the people she loved. Esmond's family might not need him—or even care about him—the way that Isaveth's did, but he could do better than that.

Dear Isaveth:

I'm afraid we've had a bit of a setback, and by “a bit” I mean “I just found the only evidence we had
against Eryx burned and smashed to bits,” which is the opposite of what I'd hoped to tell you. But I haven't forgotten what my brother did to your family, and I promise that somehow, I'll make him pay for it. Don't lose heart.

P.S. Have you decided if I can kiss you yet?

That was better. More like Quiz, the jaunty street-boy he'd pretended to be when he first met Isaveth, the bold and funny part of him that she liked best. Even if the last thing he'd said to her had been so embarrassing that he could only recover by turning it into a joke, they were still friends and he hoped to keep it that way.

For now, though, writing Isaveth was out of the question. It could be weeks before Esmond's brother stopped watching him, and if one of Eryx's spies found their secret letter drop it would be disastrous. He could only hope she'd be patient, and not worry too much that he hadn't replied.

“What do you mean, boy, keeping us all waiting on you?” demanded Lord Arvis as Esmond came into the dining room. His father sat at the head of the long table, a big man whose muscles had long ago turned to fat, eyes deep-set in a sallow and blotchy face. Esmond's mother had once remarked wistfully that in his youth
the Sagelord had been handsome, even dashing. But that was hard to imagine now.

“I apologize, sir,” Esmond answered, chin up and voice strong. The Sagelord hated slouching, mumbling, and all other hints of cowardice. He also despised excuses, so Esmond added, “I should have been paying attention.”

“I'll say you should,” growled his father. “Sit down and let's get on with it.”

He snapped his fingers and the footmen leaped to attend him, filling his wineglass and whisking a cloth napkin into the scant space between his belly and the table. A platter of bread, pickled vegetables, and cheese was set before him—Lord Arvis would have nothing to do with soup, though his wife ate little else—and the evening meal began.

“My darling,” Lady Nessa murmured as her husband raised the glass to his lips. “Your liver . . . ?”

Lord Arvis slammed down his wineglass, sloshing red onto the damask tablecloth. “Take this away,” he barked at the servant. “Are you trying to poison me?”

Stammering apologies, the footman rushed to obey. Esmond pitied the man; if he hadn't poured the wine, the Sagelord would have lambasted him for forgetting it. Lord Arvis's healers had warned him not to drink alcohol, but whether he chose to heed them depended on his mood,
who else was drinking, and how well he happened to be feeling that day.

The healers had also recommended a strict diet, but as Lord Arvis slathered his bread with butter and helped himself to two kinds of cheese and a pickled egg, it was plain that he had no use for their opinion. “And I don't need you fussing over me either,” he told his wife, who shrank back and said no more.

“So,” the Sagelord went on when the silence around the table had grown unbearable. “What did
you
do with yourself today? Something useful for a change, I hope.”

Esmond froze with his soup spoon halfway to his mouth, but for once his father's glare wasn't leveled at him. He was looking at Civilla, who cleared her throat and patted her lips with her napkin before answering.

“Of course, Daddy. I met some friends for tea at the Women's League this morning, and in the afternoon Mother helped me pick out the invitations for my ball. They're the prettiest shade of ice blue, and I was thinking—”

The Sagelord stopped her with an upraised hand. “None of that. I'm paying enough for this party of yours without having to listen to a lot of fluff-headed talk about decorating as well. Did you hear anything I might actually
care
about?”

Civilla's smile thinned. She was undoubtedly the
family expert on gossip these days, with plenty of social engagements and visits to the leading families of the city. But though she was usually quick to share any rumors that would interest Lord Arvis, she had her pride, and he'd ruffled it.

“Well,” she said, “I don't know. Have you heard that J. J. Wregget's finally handed out this year's Glow-Mor scholarship?”

Eryx frowned. “What, now? Harvest term's nearly over. Why would he wait so long?”

“Seems he wasn't impressed with any of the students who applied, so he went out and found his own candidate. But he won't say who she is, only that she's a ‘deserving young lady' who prefers to remain anonymous.” Civilla gave a little shrug. “No doubt her family was ashamed to admit they needed the money.”

Esmond watched Lord Arvis out of his good eye. His father's face was set and the corners of his mouth turned down, but he said nothing until Eryx asked, “Father?”

“I don't meddle in Wregget's business,” snapped the Sagelord, stabbing a forkful of pickled beetroot onto his plate. “It's bad policy.”

Which made sense, because Wregget's wife, Perline, was a close friend of Lady Nessa's, and Glow-Mor's recent “discovery” of Resisto-Paper had made it one of
the most successful spell-factories in the city. Of course Esmond's father would want to keep such a valuable acquaintance happy—with unrest still brewing among Tarreton's workers, and a string of disastrous political blunders making the merchants and even some of his own nobles restless, Lord Arvis needed all the powerful allies he could get.

“Even so, you must know who his choice was,” Eryx persisted. “As chief patron of Tarreton College, you would have received a copy of the masters' decision.” But the Sagelord only snorted and waved the topic aside.

Esmond could guess why. The notice must have arrived on one of his father's bad days, when he was too busy groaning and dosing himself with stomach powder to care about paperwork. He probably couldn't remember the name of Wregget's candidate and didn't want to admit it.

“Perline says,” Lady Nessa spoke up hesitantly, “that the girl's a commoner. It sounds like Wregget found her selling homemade spell-tablets on the street.”

Esmond's heart did a triple somersault and dropped into his belly. There couldn't be more than two or three girls in the city who fit that description, and only one that J. J. Wregget knew well enough to reward. . . .

“Agh!” Lord Arvis doubled over, and the Sagelady
leaped up in panic. She whisked off her napkin and began dabbing his sweat-beaded face.

“I'm so sorry, darling, I didn't mean to upset you. We must get you lying down at once—”

“Upset?” Even through clenched teeth, his father's voice was loud enough to echo across the room. “I'm not one of your wilting lilies! Bring me some Propo-Seltzer. I'll be fine in a few minutes.” Gripping his abdomen, he lurched upright, and the footmen helped him out of the room.

“A commoner!” exclaimed Civilla when they were gone. The Sagelady hovered in the doorway, gazing anxiously after her husband, but Lord Arvis had been having these attacks for weeks and the rest of the family no longer worried about them. “That should please you, Eryx. You're the one always making speeches about equality and better opportunities for the poor.”

Eryx said nothing. He took a roll from the basket and began slowly tearing it to pieces, while Esmond bit the inside of his cheek and resisted the urge to whoop and dance around the table. Whether by accident or the Sagelord's grudging permission, Isaveth Breck was about to become a student at Tarreton College. Soon Esmond would be seeing her, maybe even talking to her, every day. . . .

And this time, Eryx couldn't do a thing about it.

“O
W!” ISAVETH FLINCHED
as the comb snagged in her hair. Annagail was doing her best to be gentle, but after a restless night with her head covered in pinch pins, Isaveth had ended up with a few tangles.

“Your hair's so thick, I can't help it,” said her older sister. “But I promise it'll look beautiful when I'm done. Turn around and let me do the other side.”

Isaveth had never bothered to style her cropped hair before; she'd just had Anna trim it when it got too close to her shoulders. But that wouldn't do at a place like Tarreton College, so she sat meekly and endured her sister's tugging as the two younger girls bustled around the tiny kitchen, making breakfast.

“Stop elbowing me!” complained Mimmi, giving Lilet a shove. “You're making me spill.”

“Stop standing on my feet, then!”

“Enough of that,”
Papa called as he came down the creaking staircase. “It's a bad day that starts with a quarrel. You don't want to spoil Vettie's first day at the college, do you?”

“No, Papa,” they chorused, though Lilet rolled her eyes as she said it, and Isaveth had to smile. After the shock of Mister Wregget's offer and all the challenges that came with accepting it, there was something comforting about listening to her little sisters squabble: It reminded her that no matter what else changed, the people she loved best would stay the same.

Once she'd eaten her fill of the grainy porridge Mimmi called “birdseed” and Anna had coaxed her pin curls into glossy waves, it was time for Isaveth to leave. Shivering in the chill of the front hallway, she laced up her boots, donned her red knitted hat and matching scarf—a Fallowfeast gift from Lilet and Mimmi—and turned in place while Anna inspected her coat, brushing out the salt stains and touching up a few faded patches with shoe-blacking. “There,” she said, straightening up. “I think you're ready.”

“I don't
feel
ready,” Isaveth admitted, with a glance at the freckled mirror. She'd found it lying in a rubbish heap last harvest and it had been hanging by the coat rack ever since, but now it only reminded her how poor she was
compared to everyone else at the college. “I feel sick.”

Annagail took her hand. “You can still change your mind. If you're not sure you want to go. . . .”

“I am sure. I'm just . . . a bit nervous.”

“Is it Meggery that worries you?” Anna moved closer, lowering her voice so Papa and their younger sisters wouldn't hear. “She can't hurt you, Vettie. All she can do is tell the masters you're Moshite, and they know that already.”

“She could also tell the
students
that I'm Moshite.” Not that Isaveth planned to deny it if anyone asked: She'd learned that lying about her faith could be worse than admitting the truth. But while Annagail had worn a prayer scarf about her neck ever since their mother died, Isaveth wore hers only at temple or when saying the supper blessing. That was what the scarf was for, after all, and why should she make it easy for people to despise her?

“Maybe, but a housekeeper is still a servant,” Anna told her, “and that means Meggery's expected to keep quiet and stay out of sight. She probably won't even know you're at the college, let alone make any—”

“Is that my Vettie?” Papa's broad shoulders filled the doorframe as he stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. “Look at you, all dressed up and beautiful!” He seized Isaveth by the shoulders,
beaming. “That boyfriend of yours won't know what hit him.”

Isaveth cringed. “Papa, he's not . . .”