The Mesmerist(12)

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