A Little Taste of Poison (24 page)

“I think you've been listening to too many talkie-plays, Vettie,” he said. “I can't make sense of such a tangle, and I don't know how you can either. If Lord Eryx is as wicked as you say, time and testing will prove it. But I'm not seeing any proof just now.”

The worst of it was, Papa was right. The proof was still locked up in Eryx's spell-carriage, so all she had was
suspicion and hearsay to go on. How could she expect to convince anyone, even Papa, with that?

Isaveth barely slept that night, and by morning she felt as though she hadn't gone to bed at all. Yet she dressed mechanically, ate her breakfast, and went through the motions of heading off to school. She walked to Sage Allum's Park and left a note for Esmond in their old letter drop, praying he'd look there when he couldn't find her at the college. When she felt sure the house was empty, she sneaked home by the coal lane.

She'd take a nap, she told herself as she came in the back door, just a short one, and read over the journal again. Even if all the spells she'd tried so far had failed, there had to be
something
she could do. But when she went to hang up her coat she found a note lying under the mail slot, announcing that J. J. Wregget wanted to see her.

Somehow, he must have heard about her suspension. And now she'd have to account for what had happened. Wearily Isaveth tucked the note into her pocket and went out to catch a tram to the Glow-Mor office.

The route to the industrial core of the city was less direct than the one to the college, and with all the stops, starts, and transfers it was nearly eleven bells before Isaveth arrived at her destination. She walked the slushy
pavement to the Glow-Mor factory, the sounds of machinery pounding like a nervous heartbeat in her ears.

“I'm here to see Mister Wregget,” she said to the woman at the front desk.

The receptionist's gaze narrowed, studying Isaveth. Then she tapped a button on her call box. “Good morning, Tambor, it's Vernice.
She's
here.”

The hint that everyone in the office had been expecting her made Isaveth more uneasy than ever. The last time she'd been here the receptionist had simply waved her through, but now she rose and took Isaveth by the elbow, marching her down the corridor to the president's suite.

J. J. Wregget was waiting for her, no longer the robustly cheerful figure she'd met a few weeks ago but a subdued and even shrunken man. “Thank you, Tambor,” he murmured as his private secretary took her coat. Then, with a nod to the receptionist, he ushered Isaveth into his office.

“I didn't do it, sir,” she blurted out as the heavy door swung shut. “After all you've done for me, I would never—”

Wregget waved a hand to stop her. “Of course not, my dear. I had all the details from Mistress Anandri yesterday, and she is convinced that you are as innocent as I am.” He sighed. “For all the good it does either of us.”

“Sir?”
asked Isaveth, taken aback. If he hadn't called her here to ask for an explanation, what did he want?

The president paced behind his wooden desk, picking up a paperweight and setting it down again. “We are in similar straits, Miss Breck. Last night my board of directors voted to replace me.”

Isaveth's lips parted in dismay. “Because I got suspended?”

“By no means!” exclaimed Wregget with a spark of his old spirit. “I would be a poor excuse for a businessman if I laid all my troubles on the shoulders of one young lady. No, I fear they have been growing restless for some time. I can only blame myself for not seeing it sooner.”

He motioned for Isaveth to sit, then rolled back his own chair and did likewise. “My directors claim that my poor judgment in selecting you as a candidate drove them to action. They say I've exposed the company to scandal, and that firing me is the only way to save Glow-Mor's reputation and ensure its continued success. But that's all fiddle-faddle—our sales these past weeks have been better than ever.”

He drummed his fingers against the desk. “What they really want is to sell the company to my biggest rival, who's made them such a handsome offer they can't see beyond their own pockets. But I built this company up
from nothing, and I won't let it go without a fight!”

Isaveth sat forward. “Your biggest rival? That would be Power-Up, wouldn't it?”

“That's right. Ever since we started using Resisto-Paper to wrap our spell-tablets, we've leaped ahead of them in the market. Especially when it comes to exports—and Power-Up's owners are shipping folk, so they don't like that at all.”

A suspicion was taking shape in Isaveth's mind, but it was still hazy. She needed to know more. “So how can you fight them? If your own board wants to get rid of you—”

“Ah, but I have one advantage they can't afford to lose.” He puffed up proudly. “The secret ingredient for Resisto-Paper, which only you and I know.”

Neevils. Little black bugs that infested grain and flour, neevils were usually sifted out and discarded early in the process of making spell-tablets. But since Isaveth had sold her recipe to Wregget, he'd been putting them to good use instead.

“How can that be?” Isaveth asked. “The workers who make the paper know, surely?” And though Wregget seemed to have forgotten it for the moment, Esmond and Mistress Anandri knew as well.

“They know the recipe includes a black powder which comes to them ready-ground,” said Wregget. “But I'm too
clever a hen to keep all my chicks in one coop, Miss Breck.” He waggled a finger at her. “The secret ingredient comes from an off-site supplier, through a long-time associate whose loyalty is to me and not Glow-Mor. The supplier delivers the powder to him, and he delivers it to the company that makes the wrappers, so nobody knows where it comes from. You see?”

Isaveth did, though she wasn't sure what any of it had to do with her. “So the board can't fire you without losing the recipe, which is the reason Power-Up wants to buy your company in the first place. Do they know that?”

“They do now,” Wregget said, with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “I gave them my ultimatum this morning. They have until Trustday to decide whose side they're on . . . and then, my dear, we shall see.”

Already he seemed happier, more like his old confident self. Yet Isaveth feared his troubles were only beginning. “But sir, I'm still suspended from the college. And I don't think they'll let me come back.”

She was about to add that when Su's story broke it would hurt Glow-Mor's reputation even more than the news that their scholarship student was a Moshite, but Wregget interrupted her. “Bullying and slander won't stop me, Miss Breck, so don't let them stop you either. One way or another, we'll get you back in that school where
you belong. Even if I have to go begging to Er— excuse me, to Sagelord Eryx himself.”

A lot of good
that
would do. “Thank you, sir,” Isaveth replied, trying not to show her disappointment. “I appreciate it. Was that why you sent for me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, why you sent the note asking me to come here,” explained Isaveth, and when the president looked blank she added, “This morning.”

J. J. Wregget's brow furrowed. “I didn't send for you. I thought you'd come on your own. Do you still have the note? May I see it?”

“It's in my coat,” said Isaveth, starting to rise, but Wregget waved her down again.

“Tambor!” he bellowed, and after a brief pause the secretary opened the door. “Bring the young lady her overcoat.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man promptly, and returned a moment later to help Isaveth put it on. She reached into her pockets, but both were empty.

“I don't understand,” she murmured. “I had it when I left the house.” Could it have fallen out on her way from the tram?

“Hmm. Quite the little mystery.” Wregget heaved himself from his chair, extending one big hand in farewell. “Well,
whatever your reasons, I'm glad you came. We'll get through this, Miss Breck. Don't lose heart.”

*  *  *

Isaveth walked slowly away from the Glow-Mor factory, collar turned up and head bowed beneath the brim of her bell-shaped hat. Her head spun with all that J. J. Wregget had told her, and she kept mulling over the details, trying to make them fit.

So Wregget's board had turned greedy and wanted to sell out to Power-Up. Could that be why they hadn't tried to stop him offering Isaveth the scholarship? They'd known his decision would be controversial, so all they had to do was leak Isaveth's story to the newsrags and hope the backlash would give them the excuse they needed to get rid of him.

Except it hadn't worked. Isaveth's fellow Moshites had rallied around her and shored up Glow-Mor's sales until the kettle-storm of controversy died out. So Wregget's enemies were forced to try again. . . .

But who were those enemies, exactly? Could they include the couple she'd overheard predicting Wregget's ruin at the ball? Perhaps they were the same wolf-masked pair who'd visited Lord Arvis in the gaming room, and he'd made the fatal mistake of telling them something they didn't want to hear?

Lost in thought, Isaveth wandered straight past the tram stop and had crossed two more streets before she realized that none of the factories and warehouses about her looked familiar. By then it made no sense to turn back, so she continued on.

“Give us a smile, pretty!” crowed a voice across the street, to the tune of whistles and rough laughter. Isaveth's face flamed and she hurried to the next stop, hoping the tram would come soon.

Delivery wagons clopped in and out of the factories, and passing spell-carriages sprayed slush over Isaveth's feet. She was craning to see into the distance, wondering if the tram had met with an accident, when a taxi pulled up next to her. “Where to, miss?”

“Oh,” said Isaveth, backing away. “I'm sorry, I didn't call for you.”

“Are you Miss Breck? A Mister Wregget called, and he's paid your fare home.”

Isaveth hesitated.

“Come on then, miss, I can't sit here all day!”

Part of her felt foolish for not getting into the cab at once. Yet something didn't feel right to her, so Isaveth shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Shrugging, the man rolled up his window and drove away. Isaveth walked back to the curb, restless with
nerves and impatience. There! A tram at last. She climbed on and dropped gratefully into a seat.

As the spell-powered trolley picked up speed, Isaveth calmed herself and tried to focus. What—or who—was the connection between her troubles and J. J. Wregget's? The loss of Betinda's necklace was too cunningly timed to be coincidence, so it seemed likely that the Callenders were involved. Perhaps they worked for Glow-Mor or held some stake in the success of its rival?

The quickest way to find out would be to pay a visit to Power-Up. But Isaveth was too young to be out of school at this time of day, and any questions she asked would raise suspicion. The safer option was to look up the company in the city records office, which could give her the names of Power-Up's owners at the very least, and perhaps a listing of its directors and other employees as well.

Isaveth rode the tram to the city center, pulled the bell cord, and stepped off. The sloppy crust of snow that covered the sidewalks elsewhere was all but melted here, and grit crunched beneath her boots as she dodged past wandering shoppers, beggars, and street-boys, heading for the records office.

“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.