The Mesmerist(26)

She is a werewolf. How is that possible?

Patches of moonlight spill through the window and onto the hardwood floor. If it were full, what would happen? Would she drop to her knees and scream? Would she howl and grimace and run rampant through the house? Would she come after me?

Not that I’m frightened of her. Balthazar seems to trust her in the presence of others. In a moment I hear the crackling of tinder, and small wisps of smoke rise from the hearth. Darby stands up and puts her irons into a bucket. I wonder how she can be near flames after what she has been through. “Will there be anything else, miss?” she asks.

“No, Darby,” I say, in as friendly a tone as I can muster. “Thank you.”

She dips her head and walks quietly to the door.

Then she stops.

For a very long moment she is still. Finally she turns around. “It were a fire,” she says.

I feel as if a cold bucket of water has been poured over my head. Did she notice my stares? I am at a loss for words, but then—?“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore, miss. It did once. Long ago.”

She raises her free hand, the bucket of tools in the other, and, as if in a trance, absently strokes the white scars on her face.

A young girl, lashed to a cross, with flames roaring around her.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say.

“It’s fine, miss.”

“Call me Jess,” I say firmly. “I insist.”

“Fine, miss,” she repeats, doing nothing of the sort, and steps out quietly, closing the door behind her.

Before I drift off to sleep, Emily creeps into my room. To my surprise, she lies down on the bed and puts her small arms around me. For a moment she says nothing, and I imagine this is what it must feel like to have a sister, sharing nightly visits and quiet secrets. “I’m sorry, Jess,” she finally says. “We’ll make them bogeys pay for what they done.”

And then the tears come again. But within seconds I feel heat spreading out from her tiny body, which warms my cold hands and my spirit as well.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN





A Light Shining Bright


My fingers hover above the spirit board.

?I have seen it before, the night Mother and I first met Balthazar, but now I look more closely. The sun and moon are placed at the top left and right, and two pyramids, each with an all-seeing eye, anchor the bottom. Most chilling of all is a golden skull in the center, flanked by wings. The alphabet is carved in lustrous gold.

We are gathered around the parlor table. A fire blazes in the hearth, for the gray afternoon is cold, and the chill seems to creep through the doors and windows. Emily and Gabriel sit to either side of me, Balthazar at the head.

“Each time you have used your gift,” Balthazar begins, “the subject has been close at hand. The first was when you and your mother came to visit.”

I absently touch the planchette while listening, my thoughts scattered.

“The second,” he continues, “if I remember correctly, was with the man on the omnibus.”

I look up from the board. “I thought—?how did you—”

“My kind is sensitive to any supernatural qualities,” Balthazar explains, “or what some would call magic. I was aware of it immediately.”

Seems right, I muse. He is a faerie, after all.

“And your third time was with Emily, when you saw her early life.”

I nod in agreement. Emily gives me a small smile.

“Your most recent, if memory serves, was when you were blindfolded. But this time is different. Our subject is not here, so you will not see the smoke—?the thought made solid, which you have seen before—?so I want you to think on the idea of your mother. Bring it to the front of your mind and try to find anything that can tell us what befell her.”

I let out a breath.

“Now,” Balthazar says, “join hands. Everyone.”

I am taken aback, as I thought I would use the planchette to find words through the spirit board.

“It will still guide us, Jessamine,” Balthazar says, as if reading my thoughts. He waves his hand over the board. The letters and symbols blur. I hear Emily’s intake of breath.

“It is not a traditional spirit board,” Balthazar explains, “but something of an entirely different sort.”

I look back to the board, which is swirling with mist that hovers above the surface. After a moment it fades, and I am staring into a watery reflection of my own face.

“It is also a scrying mirror,” Balthazar says. “A tool of divination. Look, Jessamine. Look and tell us what you see.”

We join hands. I stare into the watery surface. Light begins to peek through. The edges are vague and shadowy. Before hardly any time has passed, I see Mother sitting by the fire, writing in a small book. Her figure wavers and looks insubstantial, as if she is a ghost. Now I see her asleep, her face still and beautiful. Here she is pouring tea. All these images come and go, lasting only a second or so, like clouds passing over the moon.

And then the scent of Cameo Rose surrounds me. My heart rises. “Mother,” I whisper.

Tears are brimming in my eyes. I swallow and continue to concentrate. I see Mother before the fire again, drinking absinthe. She looks tired. For a moment I think I hear the word “Jessamine,” but it is faint, as if called from far, far away.