The Mesmerist(8)

“Those who summon the dead,” Mother says flatly.

I swallow hard.

“They were destroyed years ago,” Balthazar says, “but when they killed your father—”

“What?” I cry out as a sharp pain jolts through me. “Mother. What is this? Father died of consumption.”

“No, Jessamine. Your father killed one of these creatures, but in doing so, he suffered grievous wounds.”

Balthazar lowers his head for a moment and then raises it. His expression is grim. “There was nothing we could do to save him. And now, as I have feared, it seems they are back.”

I stare into the fire. My mind is blank, emotionless. I feel as if I am sinking into a black hole. The emptiness suddenly turns to anger. I realize that my right hand is tightly clenched into a fist. “Mother—” I almost hiss. “How could you? All this time? To not have told me the truth?”

She flushes. “And what would you have me say, Jessamine? That your dear papa was killed by a monster? That his body was rip—” She closes her mouth in midsentence. Her eyes are damp. Red splotches rise up her neck.

Balthazar tries to ease the tension that is now hanging like a shroud. “It was eight years ago, Miss Jessamine, when you were but a child of five. She did what she had to do to protect you.”

I feel like screaming.

Mother takes out a silk cloth and wipes her eyes. A heavy silence fills the room. And then it hits me. “Wait—” I glance at Mother. “If you and Papa were members of this order, then you must have an ability too.”

“I once had a gift,” she says wearily. “But now, try as I might, it seems to have left me.”

“Tell me,” I demand, not caring if I sound cross. “What was it?”

She closes her eyes and exhales. Balthazar cocks his head, like a curious bird. I stare at Mother for what surely must be several minutes. Suddenly her face ripples. There is something else there, something under the surface, wavering back and forth. Her hair, which is dark and lustrous, is now flickering with a reddish hue. Freckles bloom on her delicate pale skin. Her nose, sharp and aquiline, has become small and upturned. Releasing a labored breath, she opens her eyes. The illusion fades in front of me, and she is back to the mother I know.

“At one time,” she tells me, “I was an illusionist. I could change my appearance so others would see someone else.”

“Unbelievable,” I murmur quietly, suddenly accepting the whole bizarre affair. Mother slumps in her chair a little, as if exhausted.

Balthazar stirs in his seat. “I have discovered that those who manifest these abilities do so while young. Something about the innocence of youth heightens their powers. In time, as we grow older, they seem to fade.”

“And what of you?” I ask, coming back to myself, fixing my gaze on him. “Do you have a special power?” I’m afraid of what will be revealed next on this, the most peculiar of evenings.

A sardonic smile forms on his face. After a breath, his voice lifts and he speaks, but as I listen, it is more like a melody, and it seems as if the instruments in the room are accompanying him.



“Long ago, in the early days of the world,

When man still walked among the ancient groves,

And every doorstep led to a lush green meadow,

Men and women often visited the Twilight Folk,

And with leaves in their hair, danced in dizzying circles

To the trill of the flute and the beat of the drum,

To fall into a deep reverie under a thousand twinkling stars,

Only to awake to find themselves entwined in an embrace,

Fae and mortal bound together.”





I open my eyes, which I didn’t know were closed, and shake my head, as if awakening from a dream. Embers pop and hiss in the fireplace. “And that would mean what?” I ask, a little too sharply.

“I am of the gentry,” he says.

“I took you for the sort,” I say. This feels a little petty, but all attempts at propriety have escaped me.

“We are also called the Traveling Folk.”

I stare, dumbfounded.

“Most commonly,” he continues, “we are called faeries.”

“Faeries,” I say. It is not a question. I glance at Mother. Surely this man is mad, but she gives no sign that is the case.

“Truth be told,” Balthazar explains, “in my case, I am only half fae. The blood of the folk runs through my veins, as does that of the mortal race.”

It is then that I wish I were old enough for a drink.

“Jessamine,” Mother says, “I know this must seem unbelievable, to say the least.”

I stare at Balthazar.

Faeries. He said he was a faerie.

A servant comes in and quietly stokes the fire. I am beyond weary, yet my thoughts are racing—?the trip, this fantastical story, Papa—?I don’t even know where to begin. I turn to Mother. I can’t let it go. A lump grows in my throat. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I ask. “About yourself, and Papa?”

“I thought the work of the order was behind us,” she replies. “I thought we could go on to live our lives without the horror of the past. I wanted to protect you, Jessamine.”

I can see the grief on her face, etched in small lines around her mouth and eyes.