“Wait!” he called as she turned to leave. “You never told me your name!”
She paused, her hand on the door. “It’s Isaveth.”
“Isaveth.” He repeated it softly, as though it were a wonder. “Well, good night, then . . . Isaveth.” He touched his cap to her and ambled off up the street.
Isaveth stood in the doorway a moment, watching him go. Then, with a rueful shake of her head, she gathered up her packages and went inside.
* * *
The last few pieces of egg-bread were sizzling on the stove top when Annagail came home from the factory. “You’ve been waiting for me?” she exclaimed. “Oh, Vettie, you shouldn’t have.”
“It’s all right,” said Isaveth. “We only got home a few minutes ago. Sit down and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
Annagail pulled out a chair, and Mimmi climbed up beside her. “Did you see Papa?”
“I went to the station,” said Anna with a sigh, “but I didn’t see him.” Then her gaze focused on Mimmi, and she managed a smile. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, though. The man at the desk said they’ve put their best officers on the case. And he promised to let us know if there’s anything we can do.”
Isaveth had hoped for better news, but then, her father had been arrested only that morning. Even Auradia Champion couldn’t have solved the murder and cleared Papa’s name so quickly.
“Do you want two pieces of egg-bread or three?” Isaveth asked. “There’s plenty.”
Annagail blinked at the mention of eggs, but then she shook her head. “Only one, please. I’m not hungry.”
Isaveth went still. For one moment her sister’s voice had been a perfect echo of their mother’s. And Mama’s illness had begun the same way: fatigue and loss of appetite. “You . . . you’re sure?”
“Vettie, don’t look like that. I’m fine. It was just so hot in the factory today, I can hardly stand to think of eating.” Annagail sighed. “I wish fairweather season were over—it’s been more like fireweather this year.”
“I don’t,” said Mimmi, kicking her feet back and forth. “Harvest means school.”
“It wouldn’t if you lived on a farm,” Lilet pointed out. “Then you wouldn’t have to go until fallowtime. And you’d have eggs to eat every day. Ones that aren’t smashed up.”
Not long ago Lilet had read a book about an orphan girl who had gone to live with farm folk, and ever since then she’d been set on moving to the country. Isaveth had tried to explain that the farms were all owned by fieldlords who took most of the produce for themselves and that farm life was even harder than life in the city, but Lilet remained stubbornly unconvinced.
“It wasn’t Vettie’s fault the eggs got smashed,” Mimmi said. “It was that Loyal Kercher.” She made a face. “He’s horrible. I hate him.”
“Loyal?” Annagail’s brow furrowed in distress. “But he used to be such a sweet boy. Don’t you remember him bringing me wildflowers after I broke my ankle?”
“He was probably trying to find out why you hadn’t left the house,” said Lilet. “The Kerchers are a lot of dirty spies.”
“Lilet!”
“Well, it’s true. And they hate us for being Moshite, even though they never go anywhere on Templeday themselves. They hate everybody who isn’t as mean and miserable as they are.”
Annagail cast an imploring look at Isaveth, who busied herself serving the egg-bread and pretended not to notice. It was her older sister’s nature to see good in everyone, but for once Isaveth agreed with Lilet. Loyal deserved every bit of the thumping Quiz had given him, and when she remembered how he’d fallen on her fire-tablet . . .
“Why are you smiling?” asked Lilet suspiciously.
“It’s nothing,” said Isaveth. “I was just thinking of something Quiz said.”
“Quiz?” asked Annagail, and then of course Isaveth had to explain. It was the first time she’d told the full story, and by the time she finished, even Lilet looked impressed.
“You never told us you’d met Eryx Lording,” she said. “It’s not fair you were out having adventures in the city while Mimmi and I were stuck with a bunch of babies at Aunt Sal’s.”
“Jory’s not a baby,” said Mimmi, indignant. “He’s seven. That’s almost as old as me.”
“He might as well be a baby, for all the use he is,” Lilet retorted. “Aunt Sal never makes him do anything.”
“It’s not his fault he was born slow! He’s a good boy. You’re mean.”
“Enough, both of you. It’s time to eat.” Annagail untied her prayer scarf and draped it over her head and shoulders, then took up the flint-spark Isaveth had left on the table. “With this light we thank the All-One,” she said, lighting the first blessing candle. “Giver of life, provider of bread, hope of the world to come.”
“We are thankful,” the younger girls chorused, but Mimmi pinched Lilet as she said it, and Lilet kicked her in return. “Ow!”
“And with this,” Annagail went on loudly as she lit the second, “we remember Moshiel, our guide . . . girls, stop it.” She pulled off the scarf and dropped back into her seat. “I can’t even say a blessing in this house anymore.”
Isaveth slid a plate of egg-bread in front of her. “You should be ashamed,” she told Lilet and Mimmi. “What would Papa say if he could see you now?”
Which was cruel, and it hurt her even to say it, but it worked. Her younger sisters looked guiltily at each other, and Lilet sat down without another word.
Chapter Six
IF IT HAD BEEN WARM in the kitchen, it was even hotter in the narrow, slope-ceilinged bedroom that Isaveth shared with all three of her sisters. There was no space for a desk and chair, only the two beds and a battered trunk that held nearly everything they owned. But Isaveth had a solution to that problem. She dragged the trunk to the window, then slipped a rectangle of stiff board from under her mattress and laid it across her knees as she sat down. With the far edge braced against the window frame, it was almost a proper writing desk. Isaveth smoothed the leaflet she’d picked up on the street, turned it to the blank side, and began to write.
She’d meant to make a list of all the things she knew about Papa’s case and his relationship with the late Master Orien. Especially what he’d told her and Annagail about the governor offering him a job, and how he’d given up his old grudge against him. But she’d written only a couple of lines before she realized there was no way to prove either of those things. Unless they could find a witness to her father’s private conversation with Orien, there was no reason for the Lawkeepers to believe Papa was telling the truth.
So what did Papa have in his favor? Four daughters who loved and believed in him, and a reputation for hard work and honest dealing? Put that way, it didn’t amount to much. Especially if it came out that Papa was a member of the Workers’ Club and had taken part in protests against the government. That he really was what Loyal had called him . . . though to the Kerchers and most other people “dissenter” was just another way of saying “Moshite.”
It didn’t seem fair to Isaveth that her family should be judged for something their ancestors had done centuries ago, especially since it was no worse than what the various sects that now made up the Unifying Church had done at the same time. They’d all rebelled against the Arcan Temple, with its elaborate, lore-based rituals and charms that only the wealthy could afford, and demanded the right to practice Common Magic and worship as they saw fit. And in the end they’d got what they wanted, but only by agreeing to band together and sign a pact with the Arcans.
The Moshites, however, had refused, saying the treaty went against their beliefs . . . and they’d been feared and despised for it ever since. Even once their leaders were executed, their meeting halls burned, and their traditional day of worship struck from the calendar to enforce one Templeday for all, many still saw the followers of Moshiel as a threat.
But these days most Sagelords allowed Moshites to live and worship freely as long as they kept the peace, and th
e Lawkeepers were supposed to be above prejudice. That was one of the reforms Auradia had brought to her thirty-year term as Lady Justice, first of the city of Listerbroke and later of the whole province of Upper Colonia. Keepers were sworn to treat all citizens equally and judge them by the same standards, even Moshites.
But would they?
Isaveth stared distractedly out the window, twiddling her lead-point. Then she rubbed out her first few lines and started over.
“Help me, Lady!” pleaded a voice, and Auradia turned to see a young girl with soulful eyes and dark, bobbed hair standing behind her, hands clasped in supplication. “They’ve taken my papa to prison, but I swear to you, he’s innocent!”
Moved with compassion, Auradia took out a handkerchief and dried the girl’s tears. “Tell me your story,” she said. “If my Lawkeepers have acted unjustly, I promise to make it right.”
* * *
After seeing Annagail off to work and her sisters to Aunt Sal’s the next morning, Isaveth counted her remaining spell-tablets and decided she’d soon have to bake more—and find something better to wrap them in. Especially the fire-tablets, for if they broke, tissue paper could do nothing to stop them from bursting into flame. If only she could find some way to protect them that wouldn’t affect their potency, yet would be cheap and simple to make. . . .
Isaveth was still mulling over the problem as she set off for the city again, with a sturdier basket to hold her tablets and a couple of tea towels to cushion them. Yet by the time she arrived, she’d come no closer to a solution.
After the commotion she’d caused yesterday it seemed unwise to stand on the same corner, so she crossed the street and walked north to the junction of Grand and College instead. But though Isaveth did her best to catch people’s attention and show off her wares, they appeared more annoyed than interested. Some stepped off the pavement or even crossed the street to avoid her; others pushed past with a curt refusal or dismissive wave of the hand. Finally a man leaned out of a window and shouted at her to quit bleating or he’d send for the Lawkeepers.
Maybe she didn’t sound professional enough. Maybe her spell-tablets needed a name like the ones from the factories—like Glow-Mor or Fuller’s Firelights or Power-Up! Isaveth considered a few possibilities, then decided to stick with a name that was both honest and easy to remember, one that would make people think of home.
“Spell-tablets for sale!” she shouted, holding her basket high as she walked along. “Only the best from Mother Breck’s!”
That got a reaction, though not the one Isaveth had hoped for. Several people slowed to stare at her, while others frowned before hurrying on. She repeated her cry a few more times, then trailed off into frustrated silence. What was she doing wrong?
“Latest news!” A rag-boy turned the corner, holding the front page high. “Builder arrested for governor’s murder! Breck to stand trial before Lord Justice!”
The words drove like a fist into Isaveth’s stomach. How could she have forgotten that Papa’s name would be in all the papers and that by now half the city would know it? And all the while she’d been calling “Breck, Breck” like some silly chicken and wondering why people wouldn’t buy her wares!
Even worse, she now knew the Lawkeepers believed her father guilty—so much so that they’d already decided to put him on trial. How could that be? How could they even think of taking him to court, unless they’d found strong evidence against him?
Struggling against tears, Isaveth turned away from the pavement and caught sight of her reflection in a shop window: eyes like coal smudges under thick, straight brows, dark hair frizzing in the heat, her mouth bent into an unhappy shape that looked more sullen than tragic. Even her tawny-brown skin, which normally resisted the sun, was starting to redden and peel in a most unattractive way. No wonder nobody wanted to approach her, especially once they heard her shouting her father’s name. . . .
She was still staring miserably at herself when Quiz’s face popped up behind her shoulder, and she gave a little shriek.
“Did I frighten you? Sorry.” He peered through the glass, his good eye bright with curiosity. “Are garden spades really that fascinating, or was it the washtub you were looking at?”
Last night his silly chatter had made her smile, but Isaveth had no heart for it now. She shook her head and turned away.
“Oh,” said Quiz in a softer tone. “It’s bad, is it?”
His sympathy was more than Isaveth could bear. She pulled out the Lording’s handkerchief and buried her face in it.
“Er . . . well, then,” said Quiz, sounding as lost as Isaveth felt. “Maybe . . . yes, right. We should sit down.” And with that he steered her over to the steps in front of the Merchants’ Union and helped her to a seat.
“I’m sorry,” said Isaveth thickly, surfacing from the handkerchief. “It’s just been such a horrible day.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing. It’s awfully hot out here, isn’t it? Would you like a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, he leaped up, dashed into a nearby café, and returned a few minutes later with two small bottles of bubblewater.
Isaveth felt a twinge of guilt: If he’d found money, he surely couldn’t afford to spend it on her. But her thirst was too strong to ignore. She thumbed off the stopper and drank the whole bottle at a gulp.
“I run errands for the shopkeepers sometimes,” Quiz told her, leaning back on his elbows and crossing one bony ankle over the other. “So they don’t mind doing me the odd favor. You can have mine, too, if you want. Save it for later.”
Isaveth tucked the second bottle into her basket and folded her hands in her lap, feeling suddenly shy. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Oh, I am positively brimming with kindness,” said Quiz. “I keep the cork under my eyepatch. But you also ought to know that I’m terribly nosy. Shall we play questions until I figure out why you’re upset? Or would you rather tell me to go and boil my head for a turnip?”
Isaveth gave a faint smile. “You don’t look like a turnip.”
“Well, a parsnip, then,” said Quiz, rubbing his long nose. “Whatever you like. But if you tell me what’s wrong, I might be able to help.”
“Not this time,” said Isaveth. “Not unless you can convince the Lawkeepers that my father isn’t a . . . a murderer.”
Quiz sat up sharply, the humor vanishing from his face. “You’re not serious. That builder they arrested—Breck? He’s your father?”
So he’d heard the news too. And like all the others, he was horrified. Isaveth closed her eyes and nodded miserably.
“But . . . he can’t have done it,” said Quiz in a blank tone. “It has to be someone else.”
Her eyes popped open. “What?”
“It’s not possible, that’s all. A man with a family like yours couldn’t be a murderer.”
Was he teasing her? Surely no one could be that cruel. “Are you—do you really mean it?”
“Sure I do. Besides, you think he’s innocent, don’t you?”
“Of course!”
“Well, then,” he said, as though that settled the matter.
So he really was on her side. She wasn’t friendless after all. The ice in Isaveth’s chest thawed, and she almost hugged him for gratitude. But he had to be a year older than she was at least, and she didn’t want him to think her childish.
“Yes,” she said, “but the problem is I can’t prove it. I don’t even know why the Keepers arrested Papa in the first place. My sister went to the station yesterday, but they wouldn’t tell her anything. . . .”
A thought struck her and she stopped, staring into the traffic. Yes, Annagail had talked to the Lawkeepers—her meek, soft-spoken sister, who believed it was her Moshite duty to obey the authorities and not cause any trouble. No wonder she hadn’t been able to visit Papa, or find out anything about his case; she’d accepted the first answer the man at the desk gave her, and never dared ask for more. But Isaveth wasn’t about to give up so easily.
r /> She was on her feet in an instant, and Quiz looked up in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“To the Keeper Station,” Isaveth said. “I’m going to talk to the officers who arrested Papa and find out everything they know.”
Chapter Seven
“YOU’RE GOING TO THE LAWKEEPERS?” Quiz looked startled. “I was about to offer to do the same thing. Why don’t you let me?”
“He’s my father,” said Isaveth. A minute ago she’d been close to despair, but now she felt filled with purpose. Like Auradia Champion, setting out on a new quest for truth and justice.
“But I could help.” Quiz followed her down the steps. “I’m good at getting people to talk. I might even be able to find out who discovered the . . . body.” His voice wavered, but it took him only a second to recover. “Anyway, I want to.”
“Why?” asked Isaveth, turning back to him. “You don’t know my father—you barely even know me. And if you’re trying to make up for yesterday, you’ve already done that several times over. Don’t you have other things to do?”
Quiz reddened and tugged at his eyepatch. “Well, I did say I’m terribly nosy. And I can’t resist a mystery. You must have guessed that ‘Quiz’ is short for ‘inquisitive’?”
Isaveth shook her head.
“It’s my curse. You might call me an investigative reporter, only I’ve nobody to report to. Except you. If you’ll let me.”
He was practically pleading now. Maybe with no work, no school, and no real family, this was how he kept busy—and out of worse kinds of trouble. “But I can’t pay you anything,” said Isaveth.
“That’s all right. I don’t mind doing a favor for a friend.” He cocked a brow at her. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
After all he’d done to help her, it would be rude to deny it. But would he still want to be her friend if he knew everything? After the way Morra had abandoned her, she couldn’t bear to put her trust in someone only to be hurt again. Isaveth steeled herself, then blurted out, “I’m Moshite.”