The Mesmerist(15)

Without warning, she cracks the whip. A cloud of dust flies up, revealing a ragged gash in the hardwood floor.

I stare at her. This is not the mother I know. This woman has a fierce look in her eyes and a hard set to her jaw. Balthazar smiles. Mother seems to stand a few inches taller.

She sets the lash down and picks up another tool. “This is the compass, also very important. With it, you must bind your foe within the Circle of Confinement.”

Circle of Confinement?

The compass is silver, with two shining points, and is at least twelve inches tall, larger than any compass I have ever seen, which, admittedly, was only once, in a shop window.

“When the circle is drawn,” Mother explains, “a creature of the dark is bound. That is when you must drop holy water inside.” She holds up a glass vial that shimmers with a clear liquid.

“And last, but most important, is a sprig from the acacia tree.” She sets down the vial and lifts a small, slender branch from the case. “It has healing power, and if you ever find yourself hurt, eat one of the leaves.”

“How does it stay alive?” I ask. “It’s impossible.” As soon as I ask the question, I know it is of no consequence, considering what I have already witnessed on this strange journey.

“The League of Ravens has always been well versed in magick and spells,” Balthazar says. “The branch is enchanted with great power.”

“To most people, these are just simple objects,” Mother adds, “but to those with supernatural abilities, they are deadly weapons.”

I look at the tools spread out on the table. I’m expected to use these? To kill creatures, like a ruffian?

Mother returns the tools to the case and slides it into the satchel. She folds down the flap. I run my fingers across the worn leather. “Father’s weapons,” I whisper, as if saying it aloud will make this all seem more real.

“They are yours now, Miss Jessamine,” Balthazar says. “Use them wisely.”





CHAPTER SEVEN





Departures and Decisions


Back downstairs, Emily and Gabriel have moved into what I correctly assumed was the parlor. There is a settee covered in garish pink fabric, a fireplace, several small chairs, and a table for four at which they are now seated. A deck of cards is spread out before them. They look up curiously as we enter.

“Just showing Jessamine a bit of her history,” Balthazar tells them.

There is a moment of silence.

“Are we going back to SummerHall?” Emily asks.

Gabriel sets down his cards and strokes his chin, something that looks entirely out of place for someone so young.

“I’m afraid not,” Balthazar says. “We have work to do.”



At Balthazar’s insistence, Mother and I stay the night. My room is certainly not as comfortable as the one at SummerHall, but it does, at least, have a fireplace—?sorely blackened and in need of cleaning. There is also a small, narrow bed, a writing desk, and a table with a basin and pitcher. In the corner is a child’s chair and dresser. The window is cracked and lets in cold air that chills my neck.

Lovely, I say to myself. Just lovely.

I lie down on the bed. My thoughts are scattered, and I cannot seem to focus on one thing at a time. I quiet my mind enough to think back on Emily. What would cause a father to completely abandon his child? “I seen the fire inside her,” he had said. Can she transform into a dangerous animal, like Darby? And what of Gabriel? These questions remain in my head until finally, with the wind rattling the window, I drift off to an uneasy sleep.



Tonight, I dream of a little girl.

She comes to me in a fog of swirling gray mist. Her pinafore dress is frayed and torn. Blood runs along the hem. “Help me,” she whispers. “Please. Help me.”

She reaches out a hand. Her fingers are stiff and swollen, and when she opens her mouth again, no words come out, only a foul black liquid.



In the morning, I meet Mother in the parlor. I see no sign of breakfast and do not have an appetite anyway. She is back to her usual self, not the mysterious woman who opened Father’s case and cracked his whip. My whip. A lash, she called it.

Fresh flowers are on the table, and the sweet smell of lavender fills the room. This gives me pause, as flowers are not in season. Is this some sort of faerie magic? I wonder. We sit on the settee, and she takes my hands. “My dear child,” she says. “My sweet Jessamine.”

Just hearing these words, I feel as if my heart will fall out. We’ve been through thick and thin since Father’s death, and all we have is each other.

“I told you there are always choices,” she begins, “and now you must decide on what yours will be.”

She releases my hands. For a moment she says nothing, but looks past my head, and stares into the distance. “Your father and I were called upon to do this work too, in our younger days. We were newly married and still basking in the warm glow of first love.”

I should be embarrassed by this intimate detail, but for some reason I am not. Her eyes sparkle, and I don’t know if it is from the happy memory or an overwhelming feeling of loss.

“After our vows, we made our home in London,” she continues, “and there, your father took up his work as a barrister. Soon after, an old friend called upon him. It was Balthazar, you see. They were at university together.” She pauses and looks through a window, where the twisted branches of an elm tree cast shadows in the morning sun. She turns back to me, and her face is grave. “Balthazar told him that bodies were being found in the East End of the city. They were all missing limbs, and he needed help in discovering the cause.”