Twelve-year-old Isaveth tries to take down the man who framed her father for murder in this lively follow-up to A Pocket Full of Murder , which Kirkus Reviews called “thoroughly entertaining.” The city of Tarreton is powered by magic, from simple tablets that light lamps to advanced Sagery that can murder a man from afar. Isaveth has a talent for spell-making, but as a girl from a poor neighborhood she never dreamed she could study at the most exclusive magical school in the city. So when she’s offered a chance to attend, she eagerly accepts. The school is wonderful, but old and new enemies confront Isaveth at every turn, and she begins to suspect her scholarship might be more of a trap than a gift. Even her secret meetings with Esmond, her best friend and partner in crime-solving, prove risky—especially once he hatches a plan to sneak her into the biggest society event of the season. It’s their last chance to catch the corrupt politician who once framed her father for murder. How can Isaveth refuse? “With its ornate, Regency-esque setting and intricate plot packed with mysterious twists and turns (plus a few serious themes), this sequel is part melodrama, part comedy, and all-around good fun.” ― Kirkus Reviews “An excellent series for readers who enjoy a mix of magic, murder, and social issues.” ― School Library Journal R. J. (Rebecca) Anderson is the author of several acclaimed books, including the teen thriller Ultraviolet , which was shortlisted for the Andre Norton Award, and the UK bestselling Knife series for middle grade readers. Her love for the Golden Age detective novels of Dorothy L. Sayers and Margery Allingham, along with a lifelong delight in fantasy and adventure stories, inspired her to write A Pocket Full of Murder and its companion A Little Taste of Poison . She lives with her husband and three children in Stratford, Ontario, Canada. Visit her at RJ-Anderson.com. A Little Taste of Poison Chapter One ISAVETH SAT STIFFLY in the leather chair, hands clenched on the brim of her hat and heart pounding in her throat. The reception room was hot and smelled of baccy; a clump of snow melted off her boot and plopped onto the diamond-patterned carpet. She longed to take off her coat, but the wool was too damp to lay it on her lap, and she could see nowhere else to put it. On the opposite wall, a brass plate trumpeted the name of the man Isaveth had come to see: J. J. WREGGET, PRESIDENT. Meanwhile his personal secretary, lean and elegant in a brown suit that nearly matched his skin, shuffled papers while speaking to the call box on his desk: “I’m sorry, Mister Wregget is in a meeting. . . . Pardon? . . . No, he’s booked until next Mendday.” Isaveth shifted uncomfortably. This sumptuous ultra-modern office, the inner sanctum of the Glow-Mor Light and Fire Company, was no place for a stonemason’s daughter from Cabbage Street. Especially one barely thirteen years old. What could the president of the biggest spell-factory in Tarreton want with her? True, she’d invented a magic-resistant paper that was perfect for wrapping spell-tablets, and once Mister Wregget had seen it he’d been eager to buy the recipe. But that was months ago, and Isaveth had nothing more to offer him. Even the five imperials he’d paid her—half a year’s wages for poor folk like herself—was spent now, gone to pay off old debts and buy her family warm clothes, boots without holes in them, and other long-overdue necessities. In fact, if Papa couldn’t find better work than the odd jobs he’d been doing, they’d soon have to apply for relief again. Dread clutched at Isaveth’s chest. What if the president wasn’t pleased with her invention? What if he’d called her here to demand his money back? Perhaps she’d been reckless, coming all the way to the Glow-Mor office by herself. But Papa hadn’t been home when the message boy delivered Mister Wregget’s summons, and Isaveth hadn’t felt comfortable showing it to her older sister, Annagail—let alone the younger girls, Lilet and Mimmi. After all the troubles they’d been through since their mother died, she hated to tell them anything until she was certain it was good news. Right now, though, she’d settle for it not being too crushingly bad. Sweat prickled beneath her collar and she fumbled open the top button of her coat, but it didn’t help. She felt ready to faint by the time the outer door swung open at last, and a balding, ruddy-faced man in a striped waistcoat strode in. “Miss Breck!” he enthused, engulfing her hand in his big pink one. “What a pleasure. Tambor, take the young lady’s coat.” Isaveth struggled out of her winter things and piled them on the secretary, then hurried to catch up as Mister Wregget marched into his office. He sat down, gesturing her to the chair in front of his desk. “I’m a straightforward man, Miss Breck,” he said as the privacy door swung shut, “so I won’t bore you with a lot of preamble. How would you like to go to Tarreton College?”