The Mesmerist(19)

“Better,” he says. “That’s better, Jess. You will find that the lash has a few tricks of its own, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“When it is used in battle, it knows the touch of evil, and works to defeat it.”

Good, I think. I’ll need all the help I can get.

We work on my stance next, feet planted apart, eyes and ears alert.

And then the most curious thing happens.

Balthazar seems to be in several places at once, disappearing in an instant and then reappearing. I know he is not really disappearing, but within the blink of an eye, he is in front of me and then behind me. Now he is at my side.

“Just a touch of glamour,” he says. “It will sharpen your senses.”

“What is glamour?”

“It is the art of illusion, something all of my race are gifted with.”

He is now standing on my other side. I didn’t even see him move.

“Try to strike,” he orders me. “Anticipate my movements.”

I grip the handle of the lash as he appears several feet away. I strike out, but too late. Now he is behind me. I can sense him. I turn quickly, but my feet are swept out from under me. I’m falling, but before I hit the ground, I regain my balance, spin on my heel, and lash out with the whip, which tangles around Balthazar’s ankle.

“There’s the spirit!” he encourages me. “Well done.”

I snap the lash back and the thongs unfurl from his boot. I feel beads of sweat on my face. It is unseemly for a lady to sweat. Says who? I think, and turn quickly, lashing out at the dressmaker’s form again.



Before I retire to bed, Balthazar calls me into the sitting room. He stands up as I enter and offers his hand as an invitation to sit, which I do, directly across from him. “A mesmerist’s power can be a strong force, Jessamine,” he begins. “The mysteries of one’s mind can be laid open and observed to great detriment.”

I don’t answer, only nod. He crosses his legs at the knee. “I am curious about your gift and would like to try an experiment.”

“Certainly,” I tell him.

“You have to trust me, though,” he says slyly. “Do you trust me, Jess?”

Quite frankly, I’m still not sure how I feel about Balthazar. Didn’t faeries steal young maidens in the stories—?never to be seen or heard from again?

The thought is unsettling. But he is a friend of Mother’s and Father’s, I tell myself. He would not harm me. Except for the spear at my throat. “Yes,” I say, nonetheless. “I trust you.”

He smiles and reaches inside his jacket. I tense for a moment, but he only withdraws a length of narrow black cloth. “I will bind this around your eyes so you cannot see. I will then ask you several questions. Does that meet with your approval?”

I nod.

He stands up and walks behind me, then places the cloth over my eyes and ties it at the back. Darkness. I hear his footsteps as he walks back to his side of the table. A match is struck. The acrid scent of sulfur fills my nostrils, then the waxy smell of tallow as a candle is lit.

“Is it too tight?” he asks.

I blink underneath the cloth. “No,” I answer.

What is he up to?

I hear a drawer sliding open and the clink and clatter of objects being placed on the table. “Jessamine,” he begins, “there are three things in front of you. I’m going to touch each one, and I want you to tell me what it is.”

I nod and let out a breath. The woodsy smell that surrounds Balthazar is stronger now, as if being sightless makes my other senses more keen.

“Now,” he says. “What am I touching?”

I breathe in and sense something hard in my mind’s eye, like an impenetrable wall or an ominous standing stone.

“A rock?” I venture.

Balthazar doesn’t answer, only says, “And this?”

Something soft and delicate, like a cloud or a pillow, appears in the darkness. I can almost feel it under my fingertips. “That’s a silk cloth.”

“Does it have a color?”

“Red,” I answer immediately.

I realize I can almost sense Balthazar smiling. All I have to do is concentrate, and the pictures come to me.

“And one more,” he urges.

This one brings a strange sensation, as if I am being watched. It roams over me, and I feel exposed, as if something is looking into my very soul. “An . . . eye?” I guess, although I have no idea how that can be possible.

Balthazar’s chair scrapes the floor, and I hear his footsteps as he comes to stand behind me again. He gently unties the knot of the blindfold and returns to his seat. I blink several times at the candlelight and then look at the objects on the table. There is a black stone—?that was the first object. The second is a small square of silk cloth with a pattern of red roses stitched into the fabric. I look down the length of the table again. “Where’s the other thing?” I ask. “The last one?”

Balthazar taps a long finger at the corner of his eye. “That was my eye,” he says. “For I will always be watching.”

I don’t know whether this is a reassuring thought or not.

“Looking into another’s mind is an invasion,” he tells me, “and can be a dangerous journey. The seeker opens herself up and is vulnerable to attack. One can become lost in another’s thoughts, as if in a maze, and never find her way out again. Do you understand?”