The Mesmerist(17)

“I did,” I say, although I did not. The bed has left a creak in my back. “Thank you.”

He gestures toward the table laden with food: toast and jam, bowls of porridge, a rasher of ham, a few withered-looking apples—?and tea, of course. We are in England, after all. There does not seem to be a proper dining room—?just the sitting room and the parlor—?so this area must suffice as one. My former governess would be horrified.

I take a seat between Emily and Gabriel and reach for a slice of toast. Gabriel sits quietly and drinks his tea with careful sips, his little black book next to him. He does give me a slight smile, however, more so than upon our first meeting. Progress, I think. Emily says nothing but attacks the food as if she is famished.

After breakfast, Balthazar calls us into the parlor, where a fire is burning in the grate. He eyes each of us in turn. What is he doing? I wonder. It seems like forever before he finally speaks. “Now that the three of you are here,” he begins, “I want you to hear a tale.”

Emily and Gabriel sit cross-legged by the fire, as if it is story time. I take a seat, and with the sound of a crackling fire as accompaniment, Balthazar begins his story.

“Many years ago, here in London lived a man named Malachai Grimstead. He had a brilliant and clever mind and was known in the scientific and medical communities of the day as a keen scholar. Indeed, he was a friend, and we often spent hours discussing the merits of science and philosophy.”

“Did he know you was a faerie?” Emily asks. The heat from the fire on her face has turned her cheeks as red as apples.

“He did not, Emily. He was a man of science and intellect. It would have been too fantastical a story for him, and I did not want to explain or prove the existence of my kind to anyone.”

He says this rather fiercely, and his eyes take on a sudden gleam.

“As the years passed, our friendship waned, for Malachai began to delve into subjects I found . . . revolting.”

He pauses, as if waiting.

“What subjects?” I finally ask.

Balthazar leans forward in his chair and lowers his voice, as if relishing the horror of his tale. “The dead.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Malachai believed that mankind did not live up to its fullest potential. He wanted to conquer death, to travel planes of existence that no man or woman had imagined. So from that day on, he began to take an obscene interest in the dead. He even hired resurrection men to do his dirty work.”

“Resurrection men?” I ask.

Balthazar frowns with disapproval. “Grave robbers.”

I feel as if I may faint.

“Soon, word spread of his nefarious activities. He was dismissed by the many societies that once looked to him for his curious mind and medical knowledge, and he retreated into the shadows.”

Another pause. Balthazar sighs. “Malachai became . . . obsessed with the idea of bringing the dead back to life. He found others who shared his views, and together they traveled a path that led to death and despair. They called themselves Mephisto, a variation of the word ‘Mephistopheles.’”

“The devil,” Gabriel hisses.

“Yes, Gabriel. A demon from an old German legend called Faust, about a man who makes a pact with the devil.”

“Did these people succeed?” Gabriel asks. His voice is deep and sounds strange coming from such a slight child. “In bringing back the dead?”

“They did. But what they brought back contained only a glimmer of human life. They were ghouls, undead creatures who exist only to do the bidding of their masters.”

My stomach turns. This is ghastly, and I wonder once more if I should have returned home with Mother, but Balthazar continues, and I am swept back into the tale.

“The deeper Malachai delved, the more insane he became. He used these ghouls to capture human hosts for his experiments, and woe to the poor souls who fell into his trap.

“When bodies started showing up in the Thames—?the discarded refuse of his vile work—?the League of Ravens had no choice but to act. Malachai was killed, along with several of his followers.” Balthazar looks at me. “It was Jessamine’s father, Alexander Grace, who delivered the fatal blow.”

Emily looks at me and smiles. I am taken aback, for this deed of Father’s, albeit necessary, does not seem to be something to revel in.

Balthazar leans back in his chair and blows out a breath. “That was several years ago. But now, out of the shadows they have come again. They have made themselves known to Miss Jessamine and her mother.”

“How?” Emily asks.

“They sent a message on a spirit slate, a tool to contact the dead.”

“What was it?” Gabriel asks.

Balthazar looks to me. I swallow and, not for the last time, I am sure, repeat the strange words. “‘Ring around the rosy, a pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!’”

Emily screws up her face.

“Signed with the letter M,” Balthazar adds, “as a dire warning.”

He rises from his chair. “You were each chosen because you possess a special gift. One that can help destroy this menace. Beginning today, we must prepare. But first, Miss Jessamine, if you will stand, please.”

I do as he bids. Gabriel and Emily stand also, and Gabriel draws the curtains shut.

Odd, that.