The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) by Susannah Appelbaum

lozenge-shaped and appeared to be about the size of Ivy’s thumb, smooth and facetless. The amber fluid flickered like liquid fire.
    “It’s … it’s a wonderful specimen,” Rowan allowed. “So unusual—that flaw.” It was cracked in a way that made it look hollow, and Rowan hoped he sounded appropriately knowledgeable. He had in him ingrained from the Guild a deep respect for the jewels—as signifiers of power and prestige, as charms against poison—and although he never, in fact, had held one, he was quite certain that they weren’t supposed to break.
    “Indeed.” Axle nodded.
    “But—” It was Rowan’s intention to pursue the bettle’s strangeness further, when Ivy interrupted him.
    “This one here”—Ivy indicated the taster—“killed off all twenty of King Nightshade’s sentries!”
    “Is that so?” Axlerod, who was decidedly less of a fan of the current king than just about anyone could be, was beginning to like his newest guest.
    The trestleman looked at his friend Poison Ivy. He took a deep breath. An Outrider in his small corner of Caux could mean only one thing.

Chapter Eleven
The Cinquefoil
    o consult Axle’s
Field Guide
for clarification on the children’s current host, you would be quite stymied. Here it is maddeningly incomplete, perhaps from a sense of humility that most trestlemen share, and lists the following simple characterization:
    trestlemen (n. pl.): an ancient breed of tinkerers found beneath many of Caux’s train trestles and usually near water
    But make not the mistake of thinking all trestlemen are alike—for that would be like thinking all children to be similar simply because they are smallish, and playful, and generally smell nice.
    Indeed, Axlerod D. Roux, like all trestlemen, was undeniably small. And quite old. An older race would be hard to find within the boundaries of Caux, or elsewhere. And they are known farand wide for their profound respect for the solitary life. In almost all respects, they are a breed of clever inventors, with each trestleman’s expertise being as unpredictable as the next’s.
    But one of the most surprising things, especially in this day and age, is what simply wonderful cooks they are. If you ever find yourself at a trestleman’s table, you are a lucky soul indeed.
    So it was over a bountiful breakfast that Axle sat with his good friend Poison Ivy and the runaway taster Rowan Truax. After assuring the pair that Shoo would be tended to when all was safe, Axle refused to discuss anything further until everyone was seated in front of a generous plate—which he produced somehow in no time at all.
    There were honeyed clusters of puff pastry, oozing with fresh vanilla cream and dusted with sugar. Stacks of fruited pancakes dripping with melting butter and warm syrup. Pitchers of frothy hot chocolate and steamed cider. Buttery, flaky ham biscuits. Hot, savory corn scones filled with rich gravy. Tiny, delicate eggs, hard-boiled, in a variety of subtle shades of purple and blue—carefully piled in a simple pottery bowl, with small highly scented violets bursting out from in between. And in the middle, a single beautiful wildflower.
    They couldn’t wait to dig in, and each filled up their little plates—stacking the delicacies sky-high. But the small yellow wildflower—with its delicate scent—distracted Ivy.
    “Axle, that flower,” Ivy said suddenly, forgetting her mouthwas full. She peered in closer, squinting. “Is that what I think it is?”
    Ivy stared at Axle wide-eyed, and Axle, in turn, looked quite pleased with himself.
    “What?” Rowan asked the pair, who seemed to be wasting their time on a small yellow flower rather than savoring the delicacies before them.
    “It is indeed!” Axle cried.
    “Wow!” Ivy leaned in to smell it. “How did this happen?”
    “It bloomed just this morning.” Axle’s eyes sparkled.
    “A cinquefoil!” Ivy sighed. “But what does that mean, Axle?” she asked, suddenly quite