The Mesmerist(20)

“Yes,” I say, although I am thinking of something else. “My father. Tell me of him. You were . . . close?”

Balthazar seems taken aback, but then a sad smile forms on his face. This is not a question he expected, I would assume. “Alexander was a dear friend and colleague,” he says. “Brave, generous, and always the first to rush into battle.” His smile broadens a little, perhaps at the memory of better times.

“How did he die?”

He exhales a weary breath. “Mephisto laid a trap, with your mother as the quarry. I told Alexander to wait—?that we needed to think it through. But his love for her could not be swayed by logic. He rushed in too quickly, and there, he met his end.”

Anger wells up inside of me. “But he did not die in vain,” I insist, looking for solace. “He killed one of them. Malachai Grimstead. You said that he delivered the killing blow.”

“That is true, Jessamine. And soon after, Mephisto fled into the shadows.”

“Until now,” I say.

“Yes, my child. Until now.”

My left hand tightens into a fist. I think of the gentle father I knew, and see another side of him, that of a fierce warrior. Always the first to rush into battle.

“Already I can see his bravery in you, Jessamine,” Balthazar says. “And your mother’s.”

I unclench my fist. Yes, I think. I see it too.

Silence fills the room.

“Is there anything else?” he asks, and his eyebrows rise, as if he has a secret waiting to be revealed.

I search my thoughts. He seems to be referring to something specific, but what? “No,” I say, although it is more of a question.

Balthazar leans forward in his chair a little and sweeps his hair away from his face. “There is always a consequence when using an ability. One that varies from person to person, but still, there is always a cost.”

Now I realize. I think back on the few times I have used the gift of mesmerism: the man on the bus or reading Emily’s mind. Each time ended with a feeling of fatigue.

“I didn’t know you noticed,” I say.

Balthazar only points to his eye again.

“I feel tired after I do it. It’s a sharp pain along my neck and shoulders, sometimes even a stab in my temple. What is it?”

“The power of mesmerism uses energies that can exhaust one’s spirit. Use it carefully, Jess. One would not want to be drained of power when it is needed most.”

I find this thought disturbing and rub my temple with two fingers, as I feel a headache coming on.



I am exhausted, and my hand throbs from gripping the lash. After leaving Balthazar, I pass Emily’s room on the way to my own. A faint glow pulses along the bottom of her door. Strange, that. It’s evening now, but I don’t smell wood smoke or the oil from a lamp. I knock and then enter.

My mouth opens in shock.

Emily is sitting on her bed, tossing a ball of light from hand to hand.

“Emily!” I shout.

She looks up, and there is not the slightest hint of fear on her face.

“It’s only light,” she says. “That’s my power. I’m a lightbringer.”

I close the door and take a step closer. White and yellow trails swirl about in the ball.

“A what? What is—?Can you feel it? Is it hot?”

“Not now,” she says, “but if I get angry . . .”

She closes her eyes. A vein begins to throb at her temple. The ball of light is turning, changing to a fiery red. A bead of sweat appears on her forehead.

“Emily,” I say, “are you all right?”

She opens her eyes. The orb returns to a cool yellow and then vanishes right before my eyes. She releases a tremulous breath, and we are in the dark. I hear her fumbling at the table by her bed and then the strike of a match. Candlelight brightens the room, but it is faint. She stands and lights a wall sconce so we have more to see by, and then sits back down on the bed.

“How?” I ask her. “Could you always do this?”

“When I was a wee child, I remember me mum blowing out the candle at my bedside. When she left the room, I lit my own light. I thought everybody could do it.”

I feel sad at hearing these words.

“One day I got mad ’cause me old da’ beat me for stealing food. I got so angry, the house almost burned down. After that, he took me away.”

A vision of Emily being dragged up the street flashes through my mind. My heart breaks. She was misunderstood and given away out of fear.

“For a long time after that, I couldn’t make my light anymore, but old Balthy taught me how to control it, see?”

“Old Balthy?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Old Balthy. What kind of name is Balthazar, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” I answer vaguely. There is silence for a moment. “How do you feel about all this?” I ask her, peering about the room.

“All what?”

“Being here in London. Living in this house. This League of Ravens business.”

“Oh,” she says casually. “Well, the way I see it, there’s good blokes and bad ones, right? I seen lots of ’em at the orphanage. And this Mephisto is bad. They killed your da’, didn’t they?”

Emily’s cavalier mention of Father’s passing takes me by surprise. Balthazar must have told her. “Yes,” I say. “They did.”