The Mesmerist(53)

He stops and grins. “The rules and formalities in Faerie make Britain seem a country backwater.”

My hand is still resting on the tree. The rough bark seems to be wriggling beneath my fingers. Me? Half fae?

“That was why I was away after Darby’s attack,” he continues, “and why I could not join you at your very hour of need. When you set out for Mephisto, the Shining Court called a conclave at the exact same time. I had no choice but to be there. And it was all about you, my child.”

I stare out into the distance, still not looking at Balthazar. A deer pauses and studies us, then leaps away silently. Finally I turn to him. “And what of it?” I ask. “This conclave.”

The light around Balthazar seems to shimmer. “There is no doubt, child. You possess the blood.”

“But how?” I ask. “Mother—”

“Cora was indeed human. But your father. . .”

My heart skips. “What?” I ask. “What of Father?”

Balthazar lets out a weary breath. “Your mother would want you to know, Jess, but she was never really sure.”

“Sure of what?” I ask, eager now. More secrets. They never end. “What would she want me to know?”

“Your father, Alexander Grace, was of the royal blood, what we call the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

The words are lyrical, and they flow from Balthazar’s lips like rippling water.

“His lineage goes back for generations, and now you, too, can claim this bloodline.”

Images of Father float in my mind—?his tall, slender build, the gray eyes so light they looked almost silver, his love of nature, and our walks in the botanical gardens.

“We were young then,” Balthazar says, and his expression softens, “your mother, father, and I. Such days. . . .”

He trails off, and there is a note of melancholy in his voice.

“They fell in love, Alexander and your mother. But my people—?your father’s people—?did not approve.”

“But wait—” I start. “The verse. It says that men and women often visited the Twilight Folk—”

Balthazar smiles ruefully. “There have been times when my kind enchanted the mortal folk, more of a foolish whim than anything else. But your parents’ love was greater than that, and it was kept secret, amidst the whispering trees at night. Your father was of the royal blood, Jess. The Shining Court would not abide for someone of his rank to wed a human.”

A bird alights on a branch above my head and chirrups loudly.

“Not every child born of fae and human blood is graced with the faerie bloodline, Jessamine. You, like me, are blessed to be of both worlds. Do you remember the painting? The one at SummerHall?”

A memory comes to me. A large painting above the hearth at Balthazar’s estate: a woman with lustrous black hair running through a forest. Her name was Lady Estella, he had said. A faerie maiden who was in love with a mortal man.

“Your . . . mother?” I ask tentatively.

“Yes,” he replies.

“So we’re alike?” I venture. “You and me?”

“We are, my child. Your mother suspected, but never really knew. Now we are certain.”

We begin to walk once more. My legs are unsteady. Balthazar offers his arm, and I loop mine through his. There is something else that comes to me, something he never explained. “The lash—” I begin. “I lost my weapons in the tunnel and at the last minute summoned a lash from my own thoughts.”

We stop, and he turns to me.

“Just one more example of who you are,” he says. “You are truly gifted with the power of my people.”

I let out a tremulous breath. This little walk of ours has revelations at every step.

We reach a small circle of trees, and Balthazar pauses. “Why are we stopping here?” I ask.

“You are standing on a faerie ring,” he says.

I look down to see a small mound of green, about a foot high, ringed by yellow wildflowers and pale, spotted mushrooms. “Oh,” I say.

“Close your eyes,” Balthazar says, stepping onto the mound with me.

“Why?” I ask him.

“I want to show you something—?something you wanted to see again.”

I know what it is, as surely as I know my own name. “The silver ship?” I ask.

But he doesn’t answer, and only closes his own eyes.

The trees seem to blur around us. I feel the earth beneath my feet moving. Far away, as if it is coming from these very woods, I hear a refrain, and it is one that I have heard before:

The smile upon her bonnie cheek was sweeter than the bee . . .

I close my eyes.

And then there is only the sound of rushing air and the peculiar sensation of falling.





Acknowledgments


I did a lot of research for this book, and various materials helped me bring Jess and her Victorian England to life. An old copy of Bradshaw’s Handbook for Tourists in Great Britain & Ireland was very helpful with train schedules and distances. Dirty Old London: The Victorian Fight Against Filth by Lee Jackson also provided much inspiration. During my research, I came across a PDF of a rare, long-out-of-print book called Street Life in London, written by Adolphe Smith and with photographs by John Thomson. The book is a delight, and the black-and-white photographs helped fire my imagination.