The Mesmerist(24)

Balthazar seems content to nibble at pomegranate seeds. What else does he eat? I remember his graceful manners at table when Mother and I first visited him in the West End, but I recall nothing on his plate. Maybe it was some kind of faerie illusion. Maybe, in fact, he doesn’t really eat at all.



I retire to my room but cannot escape the terrible scene from only a few hours ago. When the boy sang “Ashes! Ashes!” his voice had risen to a weak shout, as if trying to retch up whatever sickness he held in his body.

“Help,” he had whispered. “Please. Help me.”

But we did nothing.

What befell him? Is there someone out there now, searching the streets for any sign of him?

Gabriel said he was surely dead. But how would he know?

He whispered as he made the sign of the cross.

The words were familiar, but their meaning escaped me in that dire situation. Now it has come back. It is Latin, which I have heard at church with Mother, and also from my governess. Requiem means “rest,” and Domine is “Lord.”

Mother, I am reminded. I said I would write.

I find a quill, ink, and parchment at the small desk and sit down. By candlelight, I begin:

Dearest Mother,

I hope this finds you well. I am settling in here, albeit strangely. I have become friends with Emily and Gabriel and am now initiated into the League of Ravens. Oh! How I wish you were here, but I am carrying on, doing my best, and thinking of you often.

Today, the most curious thing happened. We saw a boy who sang the same rhyme that was on the spirit slate. He was in such a state, and I fear he may be dead. It is all connected, but as of yet we do not know how.

I do so long to see you again when we can put this terrible situation behind us.

Yours always,

Jess





For a moment I think to sign “Jessamine,” but the quill stops on the last s.

I wait for the ink to dry before folding the parchment into thirds.



My sleep is filled with not just one child singing the rosy rhyme, but hundreds. They stumble along the dark streets, their clothes in tatters, their eyes vacant and bloodshot. And everywhere, the marks—?livid welts that burn a feverish and angry red.

In the morning, I sit in the parlor and take my tea. Emily and Gabriel must be asleep, I surmise. I always rose early at home with Mother, and we would sit together and share breakfast. It seems as if this will always be my fate, that of an early riser.

The telltale click of Balthazar’s boots brings me back to the moment. I turn from my breakfast as he enters. His face is drawn. He stands before me, bearing a silver tray in his hand. A letter is upon it. My heart rises. “From Mother?” I question.

He only smiles weakly. I take the envelope and use an ivory letter opener to break the wax seal. I stare at the words. I read them quickly, but they don’t register. I read them again.

“It came late last night,” he says. “I am so very sorry, my child.”

I look back to the letter.



Deal, Kent, England

November, 1864



Miss Jessamine Grace,



It is with the deepest sorrow that I must inform you of the murder of Mrs. Cora Grace, who was killed by unknown assailants in Deal two nights ago. Constables are searching for clues, which, at the moment, are few.

We commend her soul to the Father of Mercies and the God of all consolation. Please accept my sincerest condolence under this sad bereavement.



I remain, your loyal servant.



Frederick Warburton, Constable

Deal, Kent County, England





The letter falls from my hands. “No,” I whisper.

Balthazar lays a hand on my shoulder. “We will avenge her, Jessamine. That I promise you.”

“No,” I say again.

And then the tears come.





CHAPTER TWELVE





A Hall of Grief


There is a bleakness to the landscape that seems more melancholy than ever: the bare, stunted trees; the sky so gray, one aches for the sun . . .

Mother is dead.

Dead.

Surely killed by Mephisto.

I make a promise to myself.

I will destroy them, even if it kills me, too. The black mourning band I wear on my arm is a testament to her memory.

The trip back to Deal for the funeral is a blur. Balthazar accompanies me and looks after all the important details—?finding the mourning house to be fitted for a dress, sending the funeral invitations, and contacting the local parish.

I am awake but asleep, a ghost floating in a space that has no beginning or end, just an endless hall of grief.

We devise a ruse in which Balthazar has become my uncle and I his ward back in London. “Uncle B,” I call him, although this is met by skepticism from some of our neighbors. Fortunately, Mother and I had mostly kept to ourselves, other than our appointments with those seeking to connect with their loved ones, and no one would dare ask for more information on such a solemn occasion. The English are too polite, at least on the surface.

“Poor child,” I hear more than once.

“She’s only a babe.”

“First the father, now the mother.”

“Such a shame.”

And here in the parish amidst the mourners, I see several of our former clients, including Dr. Barnes, whose face is still as shattered as it was when the message was revealed on the spirit slate. I feel a sense of loathing. What Mother and I had been doing—?our charade of contacting the dead—?was wicked. How could we have played on people’s sorrows?