The Mesmerist(14)

I see their destination up ahead.

An old brick mansion, covered in vines and sitting in the shade of thick trees like a sleeping brown beast. Black smoke puffs from a chimney. A few shattered windows dot the fa?ade like a smile gone wrong.

The man kneels and pulls Emily close. For a moment, I think he is going to hug her to his chest, but instead, he fishes in his pockets and pulls out a torn piece of paper. He pins it to Emily’s ragged dress:



CANNA CARE FOR. PLEAS TAKE. GOES BY EMILY.

GOD BLES.





I open my eyes. I feel a sharp pain along my neck and shoulders, but it passes within seconds. I feel as if I have done the most dreadful thing imaginable, looking in on someone’s private world. Everyone is staring at me. “I’m sorry,” I say to Emily. “I saw what you were thinking . . . when he took you away. That man. Oliver. He was your fath—?”

“Ah, he were nothing but a big lummox,” Emily cuts me off. “It’s better now. I got a new family.” She smiles, showing small teeth. “Miss me mam, though.”

There is a moment of silence.

Balthazar and Gabriel both smile. Emily doesn’t seem bothered that I have so quickly learned of her terrible past.

Balthazar nods like a proud headmaster. “Very good, Miss Jessamine. You are learning quickly. We will need all your strength in the fight to come.”

I’m not so sure about that, I think. I just want this all to go away.

“And what about you?” I ask Emily, coming back to myself. “What is your ability?”

Emily glances at Balthazar. He shakes his head, very slightly.

“Plenty of time for that,” he says. “Come. I have much to show you.”

Mother and I follow him up the creaky steps. Gabriel and Emily remain downstairs. I am curious to know what their powers are. It dawns on me that if I continue on this path, I will learn soon enough.

Upstairs, there is a narrow hallway with doors along each side. Drab wallpaper with a pattern of roses peels from the walls. Mother takes it all in with a sour look.

“It is a safe place,” Balthazar assures us, “here in Whitechapel, away from prying eyes.”

“The children,” Mother says all of a sudden. “How did they come to be here?”

“My sources led me to an orphanage,” he replies. “Mrs. Alexandra’s Home for Foundling Boys and Girls. Both children showed signs of supernatural abilities, something the Church of England believed to be the work of the devil. It was only a matter of time before they were dropped off on the stoop of the orphanage like so much baggage.”

He pauses and shakes his head. How terrible, I think. To be abandoned by one’s own mother and father.

“The headmistress was eager to see them taken in by a gentleman with an estate,” he continues, “one who needed a scullery maid and a chimney sweep.” He flashes a grin. “That would be me.”

Mother almost rolls her eyes.

“And they look after themselves?” I ask. “Here on their own?” I find this prospect quite exciting, fending for one’s self, like in one of my old stories—?The Adventures of Jess the Pirate Girl and her Deeds of Derring-Do!—?but I am not certain I could truly be on my own without Mother’s love and support.

“Upon your imminent arrival,” Balthazar explains, “I arranged for Emily and Gabriel to stay here for a day or two, as they are usually with me at SummerHall. I wanted to hear your news alone, first.” He pauses. “But things are moving quickly. We must remain close. This will be our headquarters, so to speak.”

Headquarters? I’m getting deeper in by the minute.

Balthazar opens a door to our left and we enter. This room is also cramped with old books, just as downstairs, some of them looking as if they’d crumble into dust if handled. Mother sneezes.

“The battleground of a mesmerist takes place in the mind,” he says, “but members of our order must also be physically prepared.”

I have no idea what this means.

He reaches into his waistcoat and reveals a key, then walks a few short steps to a standing wooden cabinet. We follow him and watch as he places the key into the lock on the door. It opens with a creak, and he pulls out a battered leather satchel and places it on a table. A cloud of dust rises up. “These were your father’s weapons, Miss Jessamine.”

Mother gasps. “I thought they were lost. I should have been told.”

Balthazar nods sympathetically. “They are just here for safekeeping, Cora. I didn’t want to bring up terrible memories.”

She gives a slight nod in return, as if accepting his explanation. Still, I think, she should have known. It was Father’s, after all.

I look at the satchel. A faded image of a raven’s head is stamped into the leather. There is also a long scar, as if scored by a monstrous claw. Was that done by the creature who killed him?

Mother takes a few steps forward and, after what seems like a full minute, takes a breath and lifts the flap. Her expression is thoughtful and sad, and it is clear that she is thinking of Father. She pulls a black case from the satchel and opens it. Several instruments are cradled in a bed of red velvet. One of them is a braided whip, curled like a sleeping snake. The end is split into five tails. Mother draws it out. “This,” she says, “is your most important weapon, Jessamine. The lash. This one has seen its fair share of battle.”