The Mesmerist by Ronald L. Smith
For Margot and Fafi
CHAPTER ONE
England, 1864
A Thousand Shards of Porcelain
Being stuffed into a wardrobe with your hands tied is a dreadful way to start your day.
There’s hardly any light, but for the yellow glint of a candle flame through a small crack in the door. Dust tickles my nostrils. Spiders are in the corners too.
I hate spiders.
I breathe out through my nose and try to think of something peaceful—?something besides Dr. Barnes sitting with Mother, nervously clutching a handkerchief or glass of sherry, hoping beyond hope that somehow, a message from his dead daughter, Lydia, will be revealed.
That would be through me.
I am the vessel, you see, through which the dead loved one will speak.
Actually, it is all a sham.
This is how it works.
We knew Dr. Barnes had lost his daughter recently, and when he made the appointment, all it took was a few flowery words to begin the ruse:
Dear Papa,
Dab your eyes, dry your tears. I am in the bosom of the Lord, in Whose grace I have found everlasting peace.
Yours always,
Lydia.
What Dr. Barnes doesn’t know is that an hour before his arrival, I wrote this very message on a chalk slate and hid it in the wardrobe’s secret panel. From there, ?it became a very simple matter to step inside with a blank one and make the swap. Also—?and this is key—?Mother is very good at tying slipknots.
Soft murmurs echo beyond the door. I picture Mother with closed eyes, her thin nostrils flaring. On some days, the flames from the fireplace provide enough heat for her face to flush, which makes the act all the more authentic.
I hear the scrape of a chair and then footsteps. Finally. I sigh in relief. I want to get out of here.
I pinch my cheeks for a rosy flush and slip my hands back into the knot. The iron lock of the wardrobe clicks. The door squeaks open. I take a deep breath, force my body to go limp, and then, with an exaggerated gasp, fall face forward onto the floor.
Dr. Barnes leaps out of his chair. I hear his teacup rattle on the table and then crash, sending a thousand shards of porcelain across the brick tiles of the hearth. “Oh, my God!” he cries. “Is she . . . is she dead?”
Mother, being a true professional, plays her part with ease. “No, she is fine. She has been to the other side. Please. Give her a moment.”
She kneels and leans in close, then brushes a lock of hair from my eyes. The fresh scent of Cameo Rose surrounds me. It is a lovely fragrance, and one I always associate with Mother, which lifts my spirits whenever I am down—?something I feel at this very moment, for I can already feel the bruise swelling on my forehead. She helps me up, unties the thin rope that binds my wrists, and leads me to a long chaise covered in red and blue damask. Dr. Barnes, old chap, withdraws a silk handkerchief from his vest pocket. “There, there, dear girl,” he says, dabbing my brow. I almost feel sorry for him. I ease my head back and let out a breath.
Mother picks up the slate from the floor. She gives Dr. Barnes a sharp look. “The dead do not always speak what we would wish to hear,” she intones. “And oftentimes, their messages can be confusing . . . or even incomprehensible.”
Dr. Barnes exhales a shaky breath. Mother unclasps the two sides of the slate.
The blood drains from her face.
“What is it?” Dr. Barnes asks, drawing closer.
Mother is speechless, her mouth open in shock or confusion, I don’t know which.
Dr. Barnes wrenches the slate away and peers over the top of his spectacles. I sit up and read the words written in a crooked script.
Ring around the rosy, a pocketful of posies.
Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!
And below, written in a spidery scrawl, one single letter . . .
M
CHAPTER TWO
To London
A bead of sweat trembles on Dr. Barnes’s bulbous nose. “Dear God,” he cries. “What is this? My Lydia. Where is she? Where is my sweet child?”
I look to Mother, still standing, but she is motionless, as if struck dumb.
A sudden chill settles over me, even though the fire is blazing.
Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!
I did not write these words.
“We must investigate,” I inform Dr. Barnes, trying to keep my composure.
Truth be told, I am just as shocked as he is.
I stand up and gently nudge him out the door with quiet, consoling words, then walk back in and carefully step over the broken bits of porcelain. Mother has taken a seat on the chaise. Her face is drawn, her green eyes cold and far away.
“What happened?” I ask, standing before her. “How did that message get there?”
No answer.
“Mother, have you taken ill?”
“This is . . . I must—?I need time to think, Jessamine.”
She’s hiding something. Mother never hides anything from me.
“Who is M?” I venture. “Who . . . who wrote that on the slate?”
She stands up and smoothes her wool soutache jacket with her palms, then slowly walks to the mahogany sideboard, where alcoholic spirits are displayed in heavy crystal decanters. A glass chimes as she takes one down from the cabinet. The pungent scent of anisette and fennel fills the room. I love the smell of absinthe. It reminds me of black licorice at Christmastime with Father, but since his death, I believe Mother drinks the “Green Faerie” a little too often.