The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

  Mother gives me a look as if I am being impolite, but I return her stare. Darby’s affairs are none of my concern, but I need to know more about the cold white scars.

  “The tale of Darby is a strange one,” Balthazar begins.

  I wonder about that. Stranger than meeting a man who says he is a faerie? And that I am a mesmerist?

  Balthazar crosses his long legs. “A few years back, my travels took me to the glorious city of Rome, where, every day, I took long, leisurely walks. Upon one of these afternoons, I found myself wandering beyond the city streets to a small village in the mountains.” He pauses and sips his tea. Mother now decides to spread marmalade on her toast, and for some reason, the scrape of the knife sets my nerves on edge.

  “I heard a ruckus—​screams and cries in the air. Black clouds of smoke rose from the town square. I made my way there and found, to my horror, a ghastly scene.”

  “What was it?” I ask, almost not wanting to know. What could possibly frighten a man who has seen necromancers?

  “A young girl, lashed to a cross, with flames roaring around her. I saw the terror on her face. It was barbaric.” His brow furrows. “The priest had condemned her as a lycanthrope.”

  I give him a questioning look.

  “A werewolf,” he says calmly.

  “Werewolf,” I whisper, bringing to mind something out of a penny dreadful, one of those beastly stories told in pulpy newspapers.

  “Several children in the town had gone missing, you see, and the villagers claimed it was the work of werewolves.”

  I swallow hard.

  “I learned that the girl’s parents had suffered the same fate that was about to befall her. I had no choice but to convince the priest to let me take her into my care.”

  It can’t be, I tell myself. “Darby?”

  “Yes,” Balthazar replies.

  I gasp, and look from him to Mother—​for anything that will convince me this isn’t true, but her face is stoic. “But surely they were wrong, weren’t they? She isn’t really a …” I can’t bring myself to say the word again.

  “Werewolf?” Balthazar suggests.

  I nod meekly.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’m afraid so.”

  I close my eyes and open them again. I stare at the bright white tablecloth.

  “She is an orphan,” Balthazar explains. “And I have treated her affliction as well as I am able. The first few years were less than desirable, but now she willingly takes a potion to keep the disease at bay.”

  An image of Darby being burned alive rises in front of my vision. It is too much to bear, and I shut it out of my mind.

  Will the strangeness of this trip never end?

  Balthazar dabs his napkin at the corner of his mouth. “We must depart,” he declares. “There are people you should both meet, and time is of the essence.”

  “What?” I ask. “Where?”

  “Someplace entirely different from SummerHall,” he slyly hints.

  “But we have to return home,” I protest. “We didn’t pack for another trip.”

  “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Miss Jessamine. It is not a great distance, but it is a trip of the utmost importance. I must alert my colleagues to the news you have brought.”

  I turn to Mother. I am not sure I want to be involved in any of this. But she does not come to my aid. “Let us see this out, Jessamine,” she says, “and then you can decide upon what you wish to do.”

  I sigh.

  What I want to do, I now realize, is return home and put this awful business behind me.

  Mother comes into my guest room as we prepare to leave. “What is happening?” I round on her. “We came here for answers, and now we are being taken elsewhere. I don’t even have proper shoes!”

  She clasps my hands. I look into her eyes, which are light green and stand out against her fair skin. “There are many things in this world we cannot control, Jessamine. But we do have choices, and I will support yours, whatever they may be. I promise you.”

  And then she kisses me on the cheek. I am surprised at this, as it is something she seldom does, although we love each other dearly. The comforting scent of Cameo Rose puts me at ease. “I know it has been difficult, Jess,” she consoles me, “learning all this so quickly.”

  Jess.

  “Your father … I am sorry I was not able to tell you the truth. It was all done to protect you, my dear.”

  “How did he die?” I ask. The question comes quickly, before I even think to ask it.

  Mother blinks several times. “Perhaps we should wait on that story, Jessamine.”

  Jessamine. She’s all business again. “Mother—”

  But we are interrupted by one of Balthazar’s footmen, who arrives to tell us it is time to depart.

  The sky is cloudy when we leave SummerHall. The carriage is even grander than the one that arrived for us at the station. The exterior is a lustrous black, free of blemishes or dents. At the front of the coach, two gas lamps are perched on either side to provide light for night driving. The same crest is emblazoned on the doors: a white raven’s head surrounded by a golden wreath. Is this a faerie emblem? I wonder now. I am struck again by the oddness of it all.

  The driver pulls a lever, and a set of small steps extend to the ground so we do not have to exert ourselves as we enter the coach. The fabric of the seats is deep blue, bordered with paisley swirls. Fringes and little tassels hang from the doors. There are even foot warmers and pillows. For a moment, the luxury of the coach eases my frustration. I sit beside Mother, and Balthazar takes a seat opposite us.

  The ride is comfortable, for the road is laid with tracks. We pass more stately homes, and I look out the window in fascination. On the northeast corner, past Trafalgar Square, a church with a towering white steeple comes into view. Stone steps lead up to massive columns. Balthazar notices my curiosity. “St. Martin-in-the-Fields,” he points out. “Once, there were many fields around this area, hence the name.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I murmur.

  “The human need for penance is strong,” he replies wistfully. “I find it fascinating, this devotion.”

  Just as I am about to ask him to explain further, the driver slows and we come to a stop. I look around. The buildings and shops are familiar. “This is Charing Cross,” I say, perplexed.

  “Why are we stopped?” Mother asks, peering out the window.

  “I am afraid my landau would look quite out of place where we are going,” Balthazar replies. “We will have to travel by bus from here.”

  “Bus?” I question. I am ashamed to admit I am enjoying the luxury of the coach.

  No one replies, but the driver extends the steps so we can exit. Mother gives me a small smile, as if to say she is sorry for all that is being put upon me.

  I do not smile back.

  The “bus,” as Balthazar called it, is an omnibus, and looks to be a horrid means of transport. It is a large coach pulled by three draft horses. Several people are inside, sitting perilously close to one another—​some read newspapers; others seem to be asleep. There is a woman clutching her bag tightly to her chest, a man who looks as if he has a very close relationship with gin, and several others who smell as if they could use a bath.

  I am shocked to see that the floor is covered with musty straw. Balthazar shoots Mother and me a sympathetic look. A man coughs, and I hold my handkerchief demurely to my nose. I surely would have preferred Balthazar’s landau. I wonder why he cannot simply snap his fingers and have us transported there. After all, he says he is a faerie. Exactly what can a faerie do?

  Although there is a chill in the air outside, the cabin is so hot and stuffy, I feel faint. Once again, I sit beside Mother, and Balthazar sits opposite us. Hopefully, the trip will not take too long.

  There are people you should both meet.

  What people? I wonder.

  I awake, startled.

  The man across the aisle from me is snoring loudly, and his whiskered mus
tache blows out with each creaky whistle. I didn’t even realize I had dozed off. I sit up and compose myself. How horrid, I think, falling asleep in this dreadful carriage. Most unladylike.

  The man continues to snore like a bellows. He is a very large fellow, and I expect the buttons on his vest to burst at any moment and scatter in the aisle.

  I look briefly to Mother, who gazes out the window with a distant air about her. Balthazar pores over a book, his head down. I turn to the man again.

  Can I see what he is thinking?

  I block out the hot cabin, the sharp odor of someone’s greasy chips, the clatter of the horses’ hooves, and focus all my energy on a spot on the man’s cheek, a red blemish resembling a cluster of grapes. After a moment I feel a tingle in the center of my head.

  And then it happens again.

  A ribbon of rusty red smoke trails from his forehead and across the aisle. I look left, then right. No one notices. How can they not see it?

  I wave my hand in the air and feel the mist curl around my fingers, but I lower it when I see Balthazar shoot me a glance. I return my gaze to the sleeping man. The tendrils swirl around his head. There are no smoky words this time, but I feel a jolt, like pins and needles on the back of my neck. A series of images flashes before my eyes: a small room filled with rubbish, a red-faced, squalling child, and a woman, drying her tears with a frayed handkerchief.

  “Morris,” the woman pleads. “She is your child. Your daughter!”

  “The child is not mine!” a man’s voice cries out. “Put the bastard in an orphanage!”

  The man snorts and opens his eyes.

  He is staring right at me.

  I squeeze the armrest of my seat. I’m done for. He knows. But much to my relief, he snuffles once, closes his eyes, and immediately begins snoring again.

  A sharp pain stabs my temples. For a moment I am dizzy and feel quite tired. I close my eyes. When I open them again, Balthazar is staring at me.

  I saw the man’s memories in my mind’s eye. How is that possible?

  It is an invasion of sorts, I realize, this gift of mine—​eavesdropping to the highest degree. Father had this ability. How did he use it? How did he die? The questions seem to never end.

  The wealth and luxury of the West End is a thing of the past now as the bus pulls into a warren of crooked streets. It’s darker here, although the sun is peeking through scattered gray clouds. A yellow fog hangs over everything. “Welcome to the East End,” Balthazar says glumly.

  This neighborhood is cramped with small houses crowded together. People are everywhere: standing in front of their doors, sitting on buckets, sweeping up dusty steps. A foul odor rises on the air. I wrinkle my nose.

  “The Thames,” Mother says. I look to the window. Several men and boys are gathered at the banks of the river. They look a sorry lot, with trouser legs rolled up to reveal knobby knees as pale as fish bellies. “This is the same river we saw from the West End,” I observe. “But it smells worse here.”

  “I am fortunate enough to reside upwind of the river,” Balthazar says.

  “Who are they?” I ask. “The men down there.”

  “Mudlarks,” he replies. “They scavenge the murky depths for things they can sell: scraps of metal, bits of iron, broken pieces of wood and coal.”

  How awful, I think, to have to resort to such unseemly work.

  The omnibus comes to a stop, and Balthazar helps us both out. “Follow me, if you will. It’s not too far now.”

  I wonder what “it” is.

  I share a glance with Mother. “Exactly where are you taking us?” she demands.

  Balthazar pauses. “I would not lead you astray, Cora. Please, we are expected.”

  And then he’s off again. Mother and I have no choice but to follow.

  Balthazar takes long strides, which reminds me of Father, and I walk quickly to keep pace with him. I thought a gentleman should walk in unison with a lady, offering his arm if need be. So much for my fanciful thoughts.

  We pass a street doctor selling vials and potions from an open leather case perched on a high table. “Sassafras,” he calls in a singsong voice, “a cure-all for what ails you.” Farther down the road, a man in a top hat sits on a stool, mending the seat of a cane chair. Shoeblacks shine gentlemen’s shoes, and cries of “Chestnuts! Hot chestnuts!” ring in the air.

  I am certainly no longer in Deal.

  Up ahead, our way is blocked by some sort of disturbance. Several men are digging up the earth, as if trying to reach Hell itself. Mounds of dirt are everywhere. Steel beams are stacked like firewood. Several homes have been demolished, and the remains are roped off from passersby. Horse-drawn wagons rattle along, their beds heaped with refuse.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “They are building a new way of transport,” Balthazar explains. “They call it the Underground. Steam-powered locomotives that will ferry passengers all about London.”

  I look at the massive holes again. Large, towering cranes creak and groan. It’s impossible, I tell myself. Under the earth? “I don’t imagine that will ever happen,” I say.

  Mother gathers her skirts and steps out of the way of a barefoot boy running amidst the wreckage. “Pies!” he calls out. “Hot pies!”

  “Balthazar,” she implores, annoyed. “How much farther?”

  “Not too long,” he promises, and we make our way around the work site. Mother brushes an errant lock of hair from her face. Her forehead is damp, and I want to tell her.

  Finally Balthazar stops before a row of gloomy brick houses, all connected, each with its own little white steps. A brass plate nailed into the brick reads 17 WADSWORTH PLACE. The door we stand in front of is covered in ivy and feels ominous to me, as if my life will be changed forever if I step through.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, looking to Mother and then me, a gleam in his eyes.

  “Ready for what?” we both ask.

  “To meet the League of Ravens,” he says.

  CHAPTER SIX

  17 Wadsworth Place

  The house smells damp. Balthazar leads us through the foyer and into a sitting room, at the center of which is a large circular table surrounded by chairs. Off to the right I see another door, which must lead to a parlor. Fringed yellow curtains cover the windows, and oil lamps provide a weak light. Books are everywhere: teetering on end tables, stacked in corners, and jumbled under a small flight of stairs. Curious objects are placed on shelves. Little ornaments and paintings adorn the walls. But what truly gives me pause is a stuffed bird in a cage, a large white raven whose dead eyes seem to follow me as I study the room.

  And then I see the children.

  A girl, who looks a year or two younger than I am, leans lazily against the mantel of a fireplace. White-blond hair frames an angelic face. She is so pale her skin is almost translucent, and the red dress she wears gleams in bold contrast. She looks up and smiles shyly.

  Opposite her, a boy with a mop of black curls sits cross-legged on the floor, scribbling in a small book, completely oblivious to our presence. He is dressed in a suit, with brown knickers and white stockings.

  “Jessamine—” Balthazar begins. “Cora—​it is my pleasure to introduce you to the League of Ravens.”

  The boy looks up, smiles, and then returns to his book.

  Mother eyes both children warily.

  “The disturbing reports I spoke of have prompted me to find new recruits,” Balthazar tells us. “Ones with supernatural abilities, to take up our cause.”

  He turns to me. “Just like you, Miss Jessamine.”

  I recall his words from the night before:

  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.

  His face suddenly takes on a grave expression. “The dark is rising. It is time for a new generation to stop the evil that is stirring in the shadows.”

  Before I have
a chance to fully comprehend his dire warning, the girl drifts away from the window, like a ghost. Her steps are quiet. “I’m Emily,” she says brightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She recites this carefully, as if it has been rehearsed. Her eyes are a startling blue, so large they look almost like a doll’s.

  “I’m Jess,” I say.

  Balthazar waves a hand at the boy on the floor. “And over here is Master Gabriel.”

  I take a few steps closer to the boy. “Well,” I say. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Gabe.”

  “Gabriel,” he says without looking up.

  I wilt, taken aback by his brusqueness.

  “C’mon,” Emily says. “So what are you about, then?”

  “I’m sorry?” I question. Her speech has the cadence of working-class London, a dialect I’d heard from some of the men down at the docks.

  “What can you do?” she clarifies.

  Balthazar smiles and, in a low voice, says, “Miss Jessamine has just discovered her power, Emily. She will need a little time to—”

  “No.” I cut him off.  ​“I can show her.”

  Balthazar smiles. Mother watches me cautiously.

  Just as I did with the man on the bus, I focus on Emily’s thoughts. I exhale and match my breathing with hers. In … and out. In … and out. Emily’s eyes seem to change color—​icy blue one moment and emerald green the next. She stares at me as I concentrate, but I do not look away.

  And then I see the smoke again.

  It trails from Emily’s head to mine and reminds me of glittering moss after a spring rain. I feel Mother’s gaze on me.

  I close my eyes, and a scene comes up behind them: A lace curtain billows lazily from an open window, letting in the sour smell of refuse and garbage from outside. I can smell it, as if I am right there. A younger Emily is sleeping on the floor of a shabby room, wrapped in a ratty blanket. She hugs a dolly to her chest. Across from her, a man slumps in a chair, a bottle gripped in his hand. His face is worn and anxious.

  I feel myself wanting to break away—​this is too private, I realize—​but my eyes remain closed, as if I have no power to resist the memory that has unfolded before me.

  “I’ll not have it in my house,” the man says. “The girl’s touched.”