The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

  “Bloody starving,” Emily finally says. “Who wants some eel pie?”

  I eat very little at dinner, only some cold ham and bread, while Gabriel and Emily share their eel pie. I have to admit, the pie did smell rather tempting as it warmed on the stove, but I could not bring myself to partake. The image of the Rosy Boy, as Emily calls him, remains in my head.

  Balthazar seems content to nibble at pomegranate seeds. What else does he eat? I remember his graceful manners at table when Mother and I first visited him in the West End, but I recall nothing on his plate. Maybe it was some kind of faerie illusion. Maybe, in fact, he doesn’t really eat at all.

  I retire to my room but cannot escape the terrible scene from only a few hours ago. When the boy sang “Ashes! Ashes!” his voice had risen to a weak shout, as if trying to retch up whatever sickness he held in his body.

  “Help,” he had whispered. “Please. Help me.”

  But we did nothing.

  What befell him? Is there someone out there now, searching the streets for any sign of him?

  Gabriel said he was surely dead. But how would he know?

  He whispered as he made the sign of the cross.

  The words were familiar, but their meaning escaped me in that dire situation. Now it has come back. It is Latin, which I have heard at church with Mother, and also from my governess. Requiem means “rest,” and Domine is “Lord.”

  Mother, I am reminded. I said I would write.

  I find a quill, ink, and parchment at the small desk and sit down. By candlelight, I begin:

  Dearest Mother,

  I hope this finds you well. I am settling in here, albeit strangely. I have become friends with Emily and Gabriel and am now initiated into the League of Ravens. Oh! How I wish you were here, but I am carrying on, doing my best, and thinking of you often.

  Today, the most curious thing happened. We saw a boy who sang the same rhyme that was on the spirit slate. He was in such a state, and I fear he may be dead. It is all connected, but as of yet we do not know how.

  I do so long to see you again when we can put this terrible situation behind us.

  Yours always,

  Jess

  For a moment I think to sign “Jessamine,” but the quill stops on the last s.

  I wait for the ink to dry before folding the parchment into thirds.

  My sleep is filled with not just one child singing the rosy rhyme, but hundreds. They stumble along the dark streets, their clothes in tatters, their eyes vacant and bloodshot. And everywhere, the marks—​livid welts that burn a feverish and angry red.

  In the morning, I sit in the parlor and take my tea. Emily and Gabriel must be asleep, I surmise. I always rose early at home with Mother, and we would sit together and share breakfast. It seems as if this will always be my fate, that of an early riser.

  The telltale click of Balthazar’s boots brings me back to the moment. I turn from my breakfast as he enters. His face is drawn. He stands before me, bearing a silver tray in his hand. A letter is upon it. My heart rises. “From Mother?” I question.

  He only smiles weakly. I take the envelope and use an ivory letter opener to break the wax seal. I stare at the words. I read them quickly, but they don’t register. I read them again.

  “It came late last night,” he says. “I am so very sorry, my child.”

  I look back to the letter.

  Deal, Kent, England

  November, 1864

  Miss Jessamine Grace,

  It is with the deepest sorrow that I must inform you of the murder of Mrs. Cora Grace, who was killed by unknown assailants in Deal two nights ago. Constables are searching for clues, which, at the moment, are few.

  We commend her soul to the Father of Mercies and the God of all consolation. Please accept my sincerest condolence under this sad bereavement.

  I remain, your loyal servant.

  Frederick Warburton, Constable

  Deal, Kent County, England

  The letter falls from my hands. “No,” I whisper.

  Balthazar lays a hand on my shoulder. “We will avenge her, Jessamine. That I promise you.”

  “No,” I say again.

  And then the tears come.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A Hall of Grief

  There is a bleakness to the landscape that seems more melancholy than ever: the bare, stunted trees; the sky so gray, one aches for the sun …

  Mother is dead.

  Dead.

  Surely killed by Mephisto.

  I make a promise to myself.

  I will destroy them, even if it kills me, too. The black mourning band I wear on my arm is a testament to her memory.

  The trip back to Deal for the funeral is a blur. Balthazar accompanies me and looks after all the important details—​finding the mourning house to be fitted for a dress, sending the funeral invitations, and contacting the local parish.

  I am awake but asleep, a ghost floating in a space that has no beginning or end, just an endless hall of grief.

  We devise a ruse in which Balthazar has become my uncle and I his ward back in London. “Uncle B,” I call him, although this is met by skepticism from some of our neighbors. Fortunately, Mother and I had mostly kept to ourselves, other than our appointments with those seeking to connect with their loved ones, and no one would dare ask for more information on such a solemn occasion. The English are too polite, at least on the surface.

  “Poor child,” I hear more than once.

  “She’s only a babe.”

  “First the father, now the mother.”

  “Such a shame.”

  And here in the parish amidst the mourners, I see several of our former clients, including Dr. Barnes, whose face is still as shattered as it was when the message was revealed on the spirit slate. I feel a sense of loathing. What Mother and I had been doing—​our charade of contacting the dead—​was wicked. How could we have played on people’s sorrows?

  Before the service, Balthazar and I talk to the chief inspector and the physician. “She did not suffer,” the physician tells us. “She was found by one of her clients when he rang for an appointment. All signs point to intruders, although there was no sign of theft.”

  “How did she … die?” I ask, somehow gaining the courage.

  Balthazar lays a hand on my shoulder.

  The chief inspector, who wears epaulets with three shining stars on his uniform, seems taken aback. He looks to Balthazar—​ignoring me, for I am only a child—​and my blood boils.

  “Sir,” the inspector begins, “perhaps it’s best if we speak alo—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “Tell me.”

  He shakes his head slightly when he sees no admonition from Balthazar, and then blows out a breath that smells of the gin palace. After a moment he speaks, but although he is addressing me, his eyes drift to Balthazar on every other word. “Oddest thing it were. Her body did not bear any marks of violence, but … well—”

  He fumbles again, as if searching for the right words, or ones delicate enough for a young lady’s ears. Balthazar’s calm demeanor flares. “Out with it, sir!”

  Several heads turn our way, and even I jump at his tone. The inspector rakes a hand through his thinning hair and lowers his voice. “Well, sir, there were no signs of injury to her body, but it was under mysterious circumstances.”

  “What mysterious circumstances?” I ask, although I am not sure I want the answer.

  The chief inspector looks to me and then to Balthazar, still unsure of whom to address. “Well, that’s the strange thing, isn’t it? The letter M. It were written on the floor … in blood.”

  Now there is no doubt.

  Mother was killed by Mephisto.

  I recall our first meeting with Balthazar and hear her words as if they were spoken yesterday: Your father and I were instrumental in stopping Mephisto in the past. They will surely seek retribution.

  The train from Deal to Charing Cross was late, and I am terribly exhausted.
I feel as if I may faint from fatigue and the trauma of this whole trip. Balthazar hailed a hansom cab from the station, and now we sit next to each other as it winds its way throughout the London streets. A slight rain has begun to fall. Balthazar gives me his coat, and I wrap myself in my own sadness, barely finding the strength to speak. “They will come after me next,” I tell him. “I am my father’s daughter.”

  “I will not let that happen,” he promises me. “I owe it to Alexander and your mother.” He pauses, and in the dark light of the carriage I feel tension rising from his body. “I should have taken more caution!” he says sharply. “Cora was not safe, and I sent her back without any foresight to danger. I promise you, Jess. Her death will not be in vain.”

  His words do not soothe me, and I pull the coat tighter around me, hoping somehow to suffocate the pain I feel. It does not work, and before I know it, I have fallen asleep.

  I awake a short time later, and we are still traveling. I look out into the night sky. A few stars wink in a canopy of black. Balthazar notices my gaze. “The stars tell a story tonight,” he says.

  “You read the stars?” I ask him.

  “In a way. My kind are close to nature. We can sense the earth and its moods—​starlight, the tides, the very air we breathe.”

  “Tell me,” I implore him, desiring anything that will brighten my thoughts. “Tell me of your world.”

  His eyes twinkle, cool and silver. “I will, my child. But not now, for it is a long story, and perhaps best told on another night than this.”

  But then he begins to sing quietly, and as the carriage rattles along, his words rise over the creaking wheels:

  “Awake, dear child and gaze upon the land, from these boughs on high:

  beechen white and towering ash, sycamore and dew.

  Lay your gentle head upon these leaves …”

  But that is all I hear, for my head bobs upon my chest, and within a minute I fall once more into a deep slumber.

  I awake the morning after my return to 17 Wadsworth Place to find that Darby has been called here from SummerHall to “look after Master,” as she tells me. She arrives laden with two trunks. I look through them and, to my amazement, find several dresses, pairs of boots, and other assorted items. I also see the spirit board, the one I used upon first meeting Balthazar. I still remember the smoky black words hovering above his head: “rose,” “dawn,” “aurora.”

  “Go on, then, miss,” Darby urges me. “They’re yours.”

  “How?” I ask her. “Where did these things come from?”

  “Master bade me find some clothes for the lady, miss, so I went shopping in the Mayfair High Street. Even told me to buy one for meself, he did.” She smiles, the first time I have ever seen her do so, revealing crooked teeth.

  These clothes are a luxury I could never afford. I was able to pack a few small things from home when Balthazar and I were in Deal—​but perhaps he is just trying to bring a smile to my face and ease my sadness.

  There is a chill I feel deep down to my bones.

  Later that evening, Darby comes in to stoke the fire. She kneels before the hearth to tend the kindling, and I take the opportunity to study her.

  She is a werewolf. How is that possible?

  Patches of moonlight spill through the window and onto the hardwood floor. If it were full, what would happen? Would she drop to her knees and scream? Would she howl and grimace and run rampant through the house? Would she come after me?

  Not that I’m frightened of her. Balthazar seems to trust her in the presence of others. In a moment I hear the crackling of tinder, and small wisps of smoke rise from the hearth. Darby stands up and puts her irons into a bucket. I wonder how she can be near flames after what she has been through. “Will there be anything else, miss?” she asks.

  “No, Darby,” I say, in as friendly a tone as I can muster. “Thank you.”

  She dips her head and walks quietly to the door.

  Then she stops.

  For a very long moment she is still. Finally she turns around. “It were a fire,” she says.

  I feel as if a cold bucket of water has been poured over my head. Did she notice my stares? I am at a loss for words, but then—​“Does it hurt?”

  “Not anymore, miss. It did once. Long ago.”

  She raises her free hand, the bucket of tools in the other, and, as if in a trance, absently strokes the white scars on her face.

  A young girl, lashed to a cross, with flames roaring around her.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I say.

  “It’s fine, miss.”

  “Call me Jess,” I say firmly. “I insist.”

  “Fine, miss,” she repeats, doing nothing of the sort, and steps out quietly, closing the door behind her.

  Before I drift off to sleep, Emily creeps into my room. To my surprise, she lies down on the bed and puts her small arms around me. For a moment she says nothing, and I imagine this is what it must feel like to have a sister, sharing nightly visits and quiet secrets. “I’m sorry, Jess,” she finally says. “We’ll make them bogeys pay for what they done.”

  And then the tears come again. But within seconds I feel heat spreading out from her tiny body, which warms my cold hands and my spirit as well.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Light Shining Bright

  My fingers hover above the spirit board.

   I have seen it before, the night Mother and I first met Balthazar, but now I look more closely. The sun and moon are placed at the top left and right, and two pyramids, each with an all-seeing eye, anchor the bottom. Most chilling of all is a golden skull in the center, flanked by wings. The alphabet is carved in lustrous gold.

  We are gathered around the parlor table. A fire blazes in the hearth, for the gray afternoon is cold, and the chill seems to creep through the doors and windows. Emily and Gabriel sit to either side of me, Balthazar at the head.

  “Each time you have used your gift,” Balthazar begins, “the subject has been close at hand. The first was when you and your mother came to visit.”

  I absently touch the planchette while listening, my thoughts scattered.

  “The second,” he continues, “if I remember correctly, was with the man on the omnibus.”

  I look up from the board. “I thought—​how did you—”

  “My kind is sensitive to any supernatural qualities,” Balthazar explains, “or what some would call magic. I was aware of it immediately.”

  Seems right, I muse. He is a faerie, after all.

  “And your third time was with Emily, when you saw her early life.”

  I nod in agreement. Emily gives me a small smile.

  “Your most recent, if memory serves, was when you were blindfolded. But this time is different. Our subject is not here, so you will not see the smoke—​the thought made solid, which you have seen before—​so I want you to think on the idea of your mother. Bring it to the front of your mind and try to find anything that can tell us what befell her.”

  I let out a breath.

  “Now,” Balthazar says, “join hands. Everyone.”

  I am taken aback, as I thought I would use the planchette to find words through the spirit board.

  “It will still guide us, Jessamine,” Balthazar says, as if reading my thoughts. He waves his hand over the board. The letters and symbols blur. I hear Emily’s intake of breath.

  “It is not a traditional spirit board,” Balthazar explains, “but something of an entirely different sort.”

  I look back to the board, which is swirling with mist that hovers above the surface. After a moment it fades, and I am staring into a watery reflection of my own face.

  “It is also a scrying mirror,” Balthazar says. “A tool of divination. Look, Jessamine. Look and tell us what you see.”

  We join hands. I stare into the watery surface. Light begins to peek through. The edges are vague and shadowy. Before hardly any time has passed, I see Mother sitting by the fire, writing in a small
book. Her figure wavers and looks insubstantial, as if she is a ghost. Now I see her asleep, her face still and beautiful. Here she is pouring tea. All these images come and go, lasting only a second or so, like clouds passing over the moon.

  And then the scent of Cameo Rose surrounds me. My heart rises. “Mother,” I whisper.

  Tears are brimming in my eyes. I swallow and continue to concentrate. I see Mother before the fire again, drinking absinthe. She looks tired. For a moment I think I hear the word “Jessamine,” but it is faint, as if called from far, far away.

  A shadow appears at the edge of the scene. Mother looks up from the fire, wary, as if she has taken note. I see something. A shadow is moving, slithering along the floor. Mother stands up. Her eyes widen. The picture is shrinking in on itself, growing smaller, a circle closing in until I can see nothing.

  And then I hear a voice.

  “Beyond the grave I come.”

  Mother screams.

  “No!” I shout, opening my eyes and breaking the circle. “Mother!”

  Emily takes my hand again and squeezes it.

  “I saw her,” I tell them. “Mother. At home. And I heard a voice.”

  “A voice?” Balthazar asks.

  I swallow, for I don’t want to repeat the words, but they come out anyway. “‘B-beyond—’ ” I stutter. “‘Beyond the grave I come.’ ”

  The room goes still. Balthazar’s face is tense. Gabriel blanches.

  “Jess,” Balthazar says, leaning in and lowering his voice. “I want you to try again. I know it is difficult, but think on the word ‘Mephisto.’ Think on this word, and tell us what you see.”

  I breathe out, exhausted. I feel as if I can go no further. Beyond the grave I come. They are terrible words, and I want them out of my head, but it is too late. I have opened myself up to this. Oh, Mother!

  Balthazar places his hand over mine. “We have to, Jess. We must find and stop them before they grow stronger.”

  I sniffle, nod once, and look back at the board. I take another calming breath. Emily squeezes my hand tighter. “You can do it, Jess,” she says. “Your mum would want you to.”

  I look at her and smile weakly. “You’re right, Em,” I say, and extend my other hand to join Gabriel’s once more. I look back to the board, now as clear and cool as a gray winter’s day. I don’t have much to go on, so I recall the words that started this journey: Ring around the rosy. I repeat this mantra inside my head for several minutes until I feel as if it will drive me mad. The curls at the back of my neck bristle. The room suddenly feels colder.