The Mesmerist(13)

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.”

He is talking to a woman with red-knuckled hands and a thin, drawn face. Tears glisten on her cheeks. “But she’s only four, Oliver,” she says. “A child.”

“All the easier for the devil to do his mischief,” the man answers. “I seen the fire inside her.”

“I’ll see to her,” the woman pleads. “She won’t be a bother. Promise.”

The scene breaks, and for a moment, with eyes still closed, I think that is all, but . . .

“No!” the woman cries. “Oliver, please!”

The man called Oliver grabs Emily’s small wrist with thick, callused fingers. “Come along, girl,” he snarls, tugging her away. “I won’t have evil in me own house!”

“No!” Emily cries. “Mam!”

But it is too late.

He pushes her through the door and leads her screaming up the street.

Outside, the sky is iron gray. Rain begins to fall. Emily struggles against the man’s fierce grip. “I want me mam!” she cries.

The man is a lumbering giant, pulling her along like a rag doll, stopping every now and then to take a swig from the brown bottle.