The Mesmerist Page 3

  And then I see it.

  Above Balthazar’s head, a thin stream of black smoke swirls in lazy circles. I gasp.

  “What is it?” Mother whispers.

  But I don’t answer. I only gaze at the wisp of smoke that is now growing longer and climbing toward the ceiling. Balthazar leans forward slightly, his face intense in the firelight. “Do you see it?” he asks. His voice is not as calm as before, but urgent, serious.

  “I do,” I say, as if in a trance. Now the smoke floats back down and slithers along the table. It is thick and dark, so much so that it looks like a black mirror, completely blotting out the spirit board. Thin tendrils break off from the larger mass like long fingers, curling and twisting, taking on some sort of shape.

  “Jessamine,” Mother says again, following my eyes, “what do you see?”

  “Letters,” I say. “I see words.”

  “Which words?” asks Balthazar.

  I stare at the smoke, which is still swirling but growing thinner, breaking apart like clouds clearing to blue skies. “Rose,” I say quickly. “Dawn. Aurora.”

  And just like that, as if it were a figment of my imagination, the smoke vanishes.

  I exhale a labored breath. My arms are sore, and white spots swim in my vision. Balthazar smiles weakly and looks to Mother, who unfolds the parchment. She is silent for a moment, and then her eyes widen. “The same words you see here,” she says. “And the ones you spelled out with the planchette.”

  I stare at the words written in Balthazar’s small, elegant script. “How?” I whisper.

  Balthazar’s eyes flash. “It can mean only one thing,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, growing impatient. “What does it mean?”

  “You, Miss Jessamine,” he says, “are a mesmerist.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Most Peculiar of Evenings

  For a moment, no one speaks. “What is a mesmerist?” I finally ask.

  “A mesmerist has prophetic dreams and can read the thoughts of others,” Balthazar replies. “They can make shadows appear where none exist, and cast illusions that break one’s spirit.”

  I look into the glowing embers of the fire.

  “With proper guidance,” he continues, “they can force others to do their bidding, putting them under their complete power.” He points this out calmly, as if offering me more tea. “Some say they can even talk to the dead.”

  I feel as if my senses have left me. Talk to the dead?

  Mother seems to have lost the power of speech again, just as she had with Dr. Barnes.

  “What is it?” I ask, trying my best to gather myself. “What is the smoke?”

  “It is thought made material,” Balthazar answers, “something that surrounds every one of us, but only a rare few can see it. Those like you, Miss Jessamine.”

  Those like me.

  “You read the words in my mind, and also made them appear,” he finishes.

  Mother’s face is ashen. “How?” she finally asks, looking at neither Balthazar nor me.

  “She is coming into her power,” Balthazar replies.

  At this point I am completely flabbergasted. “What power? Where did I get it? Mother, what is this all about?”

  Silence.

  Mother folds her hands in her lap. “Jessamine—” she begins. “There is something I must tell you. It may come as a shock, and for that, I truly ask your forgiveness.”

  I wonder what can be more shocking than learning that I have a special power.

  “Your father …” she says. “He was more than just a barrister. You see, he had an ability, if you will. The same one you now seem to possess.”

  “Alexander Grace was one of our strongest members,” Balthazar adds. “It is a great loss that we no longer have him on our side.”

  On our side?

  Mother inhales sharply, and her response is met by an inquisitive gaze from Balthazar. “Cora. You have told Jessamine nothing?”

  Mother shakes her head. “I was prepared to do so. Soon.”

  Now I am utterly confused.

  Balthazar steeples his fingers together again and nods, as if thinking.

  “What do you mean?” I demand. “Told me what?”

  “Jess,” Mother says—​she called me Jess again—​“your father, Balthazar, and I once belonged to an order.”

  I pause. “Order?”

  “We were known as the League of Ravens,” Balthazar says, his voice echoing about the room. “For it is the raven that is the protector of Britain, from days of old.”

  “There are supernatural forces in the world, Jessamine,” Mother adds. “Our order kept the world—​or at least England—​safe from such threats.”

  I open my mouth but words fail me. I need time to breathe and sort this all out. It seems as if an eternity passes. “What is it?” I finally ask. “The M. What does it stand for?”

  “The M is the mark of Mephisto,” Balthazar says. “Once the greatest threat London had ever known. A malevolent order that lived in darkness and fed on fear. They are necromancers, Miss Jessamine.”

  “Necromancers?” I question. The word is unfamiliar on my tongue.

  “Those who summon the dead,” Mother says flatly.

  I swallow hard.

  “They were destroyed years ago,” Balthazar says, “but when they killed your father—”

  “What?” I cry out as a sharp pain jolts through me. “Mother. What is this? Father died of consumption.”

  “No, Jessamine. Your father killed one of these creatures, but in doing so, he suffered grievous wounds.”

  Balthazar lowers his head for a moment and then raises it. His expression is grim. “There was nothing we could do to save him. And now, as I have feared, it seems they are back.”

  I stare into the fire. My mind is blank, emotionless. I feel as if I am sinking into a black hole. The emptiness suddenly turns to anger. I realize that my right hand is tightly clenched into a fist. “Mother—” I almost hiss. “How could you? All this time? To not have told me the truth?”

  She flushes. “And what would you have me say, Jessamine? That your dear papa was killed by a monster? That his body was rip—” She closes her mouth in midsentence. Her eyes are damp. Red splotches rise up her neck.

  Balthazar tries to ease the tension that is now hanging like a shroud. “It was eight years ago, Miss Jessamine, when you were but a child of five. She did what she had to do to protect you.”

  I feel like screaming.

  Mother takes out a silk cloth and wipes her eyes. A heavy silence fills the room. And then it hits me. “Wait—” I glance at Mother. “If you and Papa were members of this order, then you must have an ability too.”

  “I once had a gift,” she says wearily. “But now, try as I might, it seems to have left me.”

  “Tell me,” I demand, not caring if I sound cross. “What was it?”

  She closes her eyes and exhales. Balthazar cocks his head, like a curious bird. I stare at Mother for what surely must be several minutes. Suddenly her face ripples. There is something else there, something under the surface, wavering back and forth. Her hair, which is dark and lustrous, is now flickering with a reddish hue. Freckles bloom on her delicate pale skin. Her nose, sharp and aquiline, has become small and upturned. Releasing a labored breath, she opens her eyes. The illusion fades in front of me, and she is back to the mother I know.

  “At one time,” she tells me, “I was an illusionist. I could change my appearance so others would see someone else.”

  “Unbelievable,” I murmur quietly, suddenly accepting the whole bizarre affair. Mother slumps in her chair a little, as if exhausted.

  Balthazar stirs in his seat. “I have discovered that those who manifest these abilities do so while young. Something about the innocence of youth heightens their powers. In time, as we grow older, they seem to fade.”

  “And what of you?” I ask, coming back to myself, fixing my gaze on him. “Do you have a special power?�
�� I’m afraid of what will be revealed next on this, the most peculiar of evenings.

  A sardonic smile forms on his face. After a breath, his voice lifts and he speaks, but as I listen, it is more like a melody, and it seems as if the instruments in the room are accompanying him.

  “Long ago, in the early days of the world,

  When man still walked among the ancient groves,

  And every doorstep led to a lush green meadow,

  Men and women often visited the Twilight Folk,

  And with leaves in their hair, danced in dizzying circles

  To the trill of the flute and the beat of the drum,

  To fall into a deep reverie under a thousand twinkling stars,

  Only to awake to find themselves entwined in an embrace,

  Fae and mortal bound together.”

  I open my eyes, which I didn’t know were closed, and shake my head, as if awakening from a dream. Embers pop and hiss in the fireplace. “And that would mean what?” I ask, a little too sharply.

  “I am of the gentry,” he says.

  “I took you for the sort,” I say. This feels a little petty, but all attempts at propriety have escaped me.

  “We are also called the Traveling Folk.”

  I stare, dumbfounded.

  “Most commonly,” he continues, “we are called faeries.”

  “Faeries,” I say. It is not a question. I glance at Mother. Surely this man is mad, but she gives no sign that is the case.

  “Truth be told,” Balthazar explains, “in my case, I am only half fae. The blood of the folk runs through my veins, as does that of the mortal race.”

  It is then that I wish I were old enough for a drink.

  “Jessamine,” Mother says, “I know this must seem unbelievable, to say the least.”

  I stare at Balthazar.

  Faeries. He said he was a faerie.

  A servant comes in and quietly stokes the fire. I am beyond weary, yet my thoughts are racing—​the trip, this fantastical story, Papa—​I don’t even know where to begin. I turn to Mother. I can’t let it go. A lump grows in my throat. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I ask. “About yourself, and Papa?”

  “I thought the work of the order was behind us,” she replies. “I thought we could go on to live our lives without the horror of the past. I wanted to protect you, Jessamine.”

  I can see the grief on her face, etched in small lines around her mouth and eyes.

  Balthazar glances at the spirit board. “But now we receive this message from Mephisto at the same time you are revealed to be a mesmerist. Coincidence? I think not.”

  “They have come out of the darkness.” Mother says. “But who is leading them, and why?”

  Balthazar’s long face is troubled. For the first time, I see tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “As of late, throughout the East End, there have been reports of graveyards being desecrated, and of a creeping shadow at night, one that leaves only a trail of crimson blood.”

  My stomach turns.

  “Whatever they seek,” he continues, and his eyes sweep over mine to land on Mother, “I believe they will surely come after those closest to Alexander.”

  Fear grips my heart. “What do you mean?” I demand, looking at him and then at her. “Us? Me?”

  “Your father and I were instrumental in stopping Mephisto in the past,” Mother says. “They will surely seek retribution.”

  The word “retribution” hangs in the air like a thunder-cloud. This is all too terrible to bear. I feel as if I will faint. My head spins. It’s all a dream, I suddenly realize. Any moment now I’ll wake up and find myself on the floor in our parlor. It was the fall I took from the cabinet. I’m unconscious; that’s it. All of this—​the trip to London, Balthazar, talk of faeries and a secret order—​it’s all in my head.

  “And that is why we need you, Miss Jessamine,” Balthazar finishes, bringing me back to the room. “To stay strong and fight this threat.”

  I stare at my boots.

  “But not tonight,” Mother objects, coming to my aid. “We are tired, and Jessamine has just received news that would unsettle the hardiest of souls.”

  Balthazar rises from his chair. “Please forgive me. I sometimes forget the human need for sleep, something my kind does not require.”

  Unbelievable.

  “The hour is late,” he adds. “I should have realized. Get some rest. Both of you. Tomorrow will be brighter.”

  I look to Mother, then to Balthazar.

  After this evening’s news, I am not so certain of that.

  I am too flummoxed to try to sleep. A secret order? Talk of evil men and summoners of the dead? And me? A mesmerist? How can this be?

  Under any other circumstances I would be impressed by the guest room, but my mind is muddled from the day’s events. There is a beautiful hand-painted silk screen to dress behind, an armoire carved from burnished wood, finely wrought tables and chairs, and on the vanity, a lovely music box encrusted with jewels. The four-poster bed is draped with a flowing white fabric. Mother is in the room next to mine. I almost feel like knocking on her door and asking more questions, but I do not.

  I sit down on the bed.

  A light knock startles me. “Come in,” I call, and stand up.

  The door creaks open, and a young servant enters. She seems to be of an age with me, perhaps a year younger. She is rather plain looking, I must admit, with drab brown hair that falls to her shoulders. She has the look of a country girl about her. I can picture her milking a cow. I scold myself for my assumptions.

  She sets down a tray of hot milk and biscuits, keeping her head lowered the whole time. I have forgotten how docile servants can be, ​now that we no longer have any.

  “Thank you,” I say, and try to catch her eye, but her gaze remains downcast. Like most servants, I would assume, she daren’t speak to her master’s guests. “What is your name?” I ask, although I don’t know why. Perhaps for a bit of normalcy on this unbelievable evening.

  The girl gives an awkward curtsy. “Darby, miss.”

  “I’m Jess,” I offer.

  She curtsies again, her eyes to the floor.

  “Darby is a lovely name,” I tell her. “And how long have you been in service?”

  She slowly raises her head.

  I almost gasp.

  One side of her face is horribly burned. Cold white scars run down her cheek and onto her neck. My first instinct is to recoil, but I catch myself before that happens.

  “I have worked for m’lord going on five years now, miss.”

  “And is he a kind master?” I ask. I wonder how much she knows about this League of Ravens business.

  “Yes, miss. Very kind indeed. If it weren’t for him, I’d be …” She trails off, a look of alarm on her face.

  I have tormented her enough, I realize. Whatever her story is, it must be painful.

  “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Darby,” I say cheerily, although it belies the tension that hangs silently in the room.

  But Darby doesn’t answer, only dips her head and scurries out.

  When sleep finally comes, I sink into a murky world of shadows. There is a tunnel before me, with bright light in the distance. The ground rumbles. White fog surrounds me. My heart is pounding. Something is coming, but I do not know what, and only feel its presence, a terrible shadow that slithers along the ground, leaving a trail of crimson blood in its wake.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Sleeping Man

  I awake to servants chattering in the hall.

  The strangeness of last evening comes back to me. It wasn’t a dream after all: talk of faeries and a secret order, Mother’s face rippling in the firelight, Father killed by a creature of the dark, his body rip—​

  I close my eyes. “Dear Papa,” I whisper.

  Of all the unbelievable revelations, this disturbs me most. Father was a gentle soul, and even though I was only five when he died, I do remember him fondly: his long, somber
face, his eyes, so gray they looked almost silver. One memory remains vivid, in contrast to the little I recall from my early years here in London. It is of Father and I walking in the botanical gardens, his hands clasped behind his back, his strides so long I had to gather my skirts to keep up. Just thinking of it now makes me sniffle. As we walked, he would point out flowering shrubs and plants with a nod of his head. “There lies Aspidistra,” he’d say. Or “Behold, the lovely summer snowflake, almost as beautiful as you, my dear child.”

  And then he would lift his voice and sing:

  “The smile upon her bonnie cheek

  Was sweeter than the bee;

  Her voice excelled the birdie’s song

  Upon the birchen tree.”

  The memory brings a feeling of melancholia that cuts deep. I feel a tingle behind my eyes, and before I can stop myself, tears are on my cheeks.

  Breakfast is served in the same dining hall as dinner the night before. The day is pleasant, with sunlight streaming through the windows and birds chirping outside. Mother’s eyes are red, as if she didn’t sleep at all.

  The table holds a bounty of foods, certainly more than enough for the three of us: black pudding, baked breads, mushrooms, beans, back bacon, scones, omelets, and several jars of jam and marmalade. Balthazar picks at a melon of some sort with ruby-red skin. Small seeds are revealed in the pulpy white membrane. “A pomegranate,” he offers as he catches my stare. “A very ancient food. Would you care to partake?”

  I politely decline, although I am curious, as I have never seen such an odd fruit before.

  Mother sips her tea. All she has on her plate is buttered toast, so I follow her lead, although I add marmalade to mine.

  There is something I want to ask, and after yesterday, I feel that nothing is out of bounds. “The servant—” I start. “Darby. What happened to her?”