The Mesmerist(25)

Before the service, Balthazar and I talk to the chief inspector and the physician. “She did not suffer,” the physician tells us. “She was found by one of her clients when he rang for an appointment. All signs point to intruders, although there was no sign of theft.”

“How did she . . . die?” I ask, somehow gaining the courage.

Balthazar lays a hand on my shoulder.

The chief inspector, who wears epaulets with three shining stars on his uniform, seems taken aback. He looks to Balthazar—?ignoring me, for I am only a child—?and my blood boils.

“Sir,” the inspector begins, “perhaps it’s best if we speak alo—”

“No,” I cut him off. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head slightly when he sees no admonition from Balthazar, and then blows out a breath that smells of the gin palace. After a moment he speaks, but although he is addressing me, his eyes drift to Balthazar on every other word. “Oddest thing it were. Her body did not bear any marks of violence, but . . . well—”

He fumbles again, as if searching for the right words, or ones delicate enough for a young lady’s ears. Balthazar’s calm demeanor flares. “Out with it, sir!”

Several heads turn our way, and even I jump at his tone. The inspector rakes a hand through his thinning hair and lowers his voice. “Well, sir, there were no signs of injury to her body, but it was under mysterious circumstances.”

“What mysterious circumstances?” I ask, although I am not sure I want the answer.

The chief inspector looks to me and then to Balthazar, still unsure of whom to address. “Well, that’s the strange thing, isn’t it? The letter M. It were written on the floor . . . in blood.”



Now there is no doubt.

Mother was killed by Mephisto.

I recall our first meeting with Balthazar and hear her words as if they were spoken yesterday: Your father and I were instrumental in stopping Mephisto in the past. They will surely seek retribution.

The train from Deal to Charing Cross was late, and I am terribly exhausted. I feel as if I may faint from fatigue and the trauma of this whole trip. Balthazar hailed a hansom cab from the station, and now we sit next to each other as it winds its way throughout the London streets. A slight rain has begun to fall. Balthazar gives me his coat, and I wrap myself in my own sadness, barely finding the strength to speak. “They will come after me next,” I tell him. “I am my father’s daughter.”

“I will not let that happen,” he promises me. “I owe it to Alexander and your mother.” He pauses, and in the dark light of the carriage I feel tension rising from his body. “I should have taken more caution!” he says sharply. “Cora was not safe, and I sent her back without any foresight to danger. I promise you, Jess. Her death will not be in vain.”

His words do not soothe me, and I pull the coat tighter around me, hoping somehow to suffocate the pain I feel. It does not work, and before I know it, I have fallen asleep.



I awake a short time later, and we are still traveling. I look out into the night sky. A few stars wink in a canopy of black. Balthazar notices my gaze. “The stars tell a story tonight,” he says.

“You read the stars?” I ask him.

“In a way. My kind are close to nature. We can sense the earth and its moods—?starlight, the tides, the very air we breathe.”

“Tell me,” I implore him, desiring anything that will brighten my thoughts. “Tell me of your world.”

His eyes twinkle, cool and silver. “I will, my child. But not now, for it is a long story, and perhaps best told on another night than this.”

But then he begins to sing quietly, and as the carriage rattles along, his words rise over the creaking wheels:



“Awake, dear child and gaze upon the land, from these boughs on high:

beechen white and towering ash, sycamore and dew.

Lay your gentle head upon these leaves . . .”





But that is all I hear, for my head bobs upon my chest, and within a minute I fall once more into a deep slumber.



I awake the morning after my return to 17 Wadsworth Place to find that Darby has been called here from SummerHall to “look after Master,” as she tells me. She arrives laden with two trunks. I look through them and, to my amazement, find several dresses, pairs of boots, and other assorted items. I also see the spirit board, the one I used upon first meeting Balthazar. I still remember the smoky black words hovering above his head: “rose,” “dawn,” “aurora.”

“Go on, then, miss,” Darby urges me. “They’re yours.”

“How?” I ask her. “Where did these things come from?”

“Master bade me find some clothes for the lady, miss, so I went shopping in the Mayfair High Street. Even told me to buy one for meself, he did.” She smiles, the first time I have ever seen her do so, revealing crooked teeth.

These clothes are a luxury I could never afford. I was able to pack a few small things from home when Balthazar and I were in Deal—?but perhaps he is just trying to bring a smile to my face and ease my sadness.

There is a chill I feel deep down to my bones.



Later that evening, Darby comes in to stoke the fire. She kneels before the hearth to tend the kindling, and I take the opportunity to study her.