The Mesmerist(7)

And then I see it.

Above Balthazar’s head, a thin stream of black smoke swirls in lazy circles. I gasp.

“What is it?” Mother whispers.

But I don’t answer. I only gaze at the wisp of smoke that is now growing longer and climbing toward the ceiling. Balthazar leans forward slightly, his face intense in the firelight. “Do you see it?” he asks. His voice is not as calm as before, but urgent, serious.

“I do,” I say, as if in a trance. Now the smoke floats back down and slithers along the table. It is thick and dark, so much so that it looks like a black mirror, completely blotting out the spirit board. Thin tendrils break off from the larger mass like long fingers, curling and twisting, taking on some sort of shape.

“Jessamine,” Mother says again, following my eyes, “what do you see?”

“Letters,” I say. “I see words.”

“Which words?” asks Balthazar.

I stare at the smoke, which is still swirling but growing thinner, breaking apart like clouds clearing to blue skies. “Rose,” I say quickly. “Dawn. Aurora.”

And just like that, as if it were a figment of my imagination, the smoke vanishes.

I exhale a labored breath. My arms are sore, and white spots swim in my vision. Balthazar smiles weakly and looks to Mother, who unfolds the parchment. She is silent for a moment, and then her eyes widen. “The same words you see here,” she says. “And the ones you spelled out with the planchette.”

I stare at the words written in Balthazar’s small, elegant script. “How?” I whisper.

Balthazar’s eyes flash. “It can mean only one thing,” he says.

“What?” I ask, growing impatient. “What does it mean?”

“You, Miss Jessamine,” he says, “are a mesmerist.”





CHAPTER FOUR





The Most Peculiar of Evenings


For a moment, no one speaks. “What is a mesmerist?” I finally ask.

“A mesmerist has prophetic dreams and can read the thoughts of others,” Balthazar replies. “They can make shadows appear where none exist, and cast illusions that break one’s spirit.”

I look into the glowing embers of the fire.

“With proper guidance,” he continues, “they can force others to do their bidding, putting them under their complete power.” He points this out calmly, as if offering me more tea. “Some say they can even talk to the dead.”

I feel as if my senses have left me. Talk to the dead?

Mother seems to have lost the power of speech again, just as she had with Dr. Barnes.

“What is it?” I ask, trying my best to gather myself. “What is the smoke?”

“It is thought made material,” Balthazar answers, “something that surrounds every one of us, but only a rare few can see it. Those like you, Miss Jessamine.”

Those like me.

“You read the words in my mind, and also made them appear,” he finishes.

Mother’s face is ashen. “How?” she finally asks, looking at neither Balthazar nor me.

“She is coming into her power,” Balthazar replies.

At this point I am completely flabbergasted. “What power? Where did I get it? Mother, what is this all about?”

Silence.

Mother folds her hands in her lap. “Jessamine—” she begins. “There is something I must tell you. It may come as a shock, and for that, I truly ask your forgiveness.”

I wonder what can be more shocking than learning that I have a special power.

“Your father . . .” she says. “He was more than just a barrister. You see, he had an ability, if you will. The same one you now seem to possess.”

“Alexander Grace was one of our strongest members,” Balthazar adds. “It is a great loss that we no longer have him on our side.”

On our side?

Mother inhales sharply, and her response is met by an inquisitive gaze from Balthazar. “Cora. You have told Jessamine nothing?”

Mother shakes her head. “I was prepared to do so. Soon.”

Now I am utterly confused.

Balthazar steeples his fingers together again and nods, as if thinking.

“What do you mean?” I demand. “Told me what?”

“Jess,” Mother says—?she called me Jess again—?“your father, Balthazar, and I once belonged to an order.”

I pause. “Order?”

“We were known as the League of Ravens,” Balthazar says, his voice echoing about the room. “For it is the raven that is the protector of Britain, from days of old.”

“There are supernatural forces in the world, Jessamine,” Mother adds. “Our order kept the world—?or at least England—?safe from such threats.”

I open my mouth but words fail me. I need time to breathe and sort this all out. It seems as if an eternity passes. “What is it?” I finally ask. “The M. What does it stand for?”

“The M is the mark of Mephisto,” Balthazar says. “Once the greatest threat London had ever known. A malevolent order that lived in darkness and fed on fear. They are necromancers, Miss Jessamine.”

“Necromancers?” I question. The word is unfamiliar on my tongue.