The Mesmerist(9)

Balthazar glances at the spirit board. “But now we receive this message from Mephisto at the same time you are revealed to be a mesmerist. Coincidence? I think not.”

“They have come out of the darkness.” Mother says. “But who is leading them, and why?”

Balthazar’s long face is troubled. For the first time, I see tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “As of late, throughout the East End, there have been reports of graveyards being desecrated, and of a creeping shadow at night, one that leaves only a trail of crimson blood.”

My stomach turns.

“Whatever they seek,” he continues, and his eyes sweep over mine to land on Mother, “I believe they will surely come after those closest to Alexander.”

Fear grips my heart. “What do you mean?” I demand, looking at him and then at her. “Us? Me?”

“Your father and I were instrumental in stopping Mephisto in the past,” Mother says. “They will surely seek retribution.”

The word “retribution” hangs in the air like a thunder-cloud. This is all too terrible to bear. I feel as if I will faint. My head spins. It’s all a dream, I suddenly realize. Any moment now I’ll wake up and find myself on the floor in our parlor. It was the fall I took from the cabinet. I’m unconscious; that’s it. All of this—?the trip to London, Balthazar, talk of faeries and a secret order—?it’s all in my head.

“And that is why we need you, Miss Jessamine,” Balthazar finishes, bringing me back to the room. “To stay strong and fight this threat.”

I stare at my boots.

“But not tonight,” Mother objects, coming to my aid. “We are tired, and Jessamine has just received news that would unsettle the hardiest of souls.”

Balthazar rises from his chair. “Please forgive me. I sometimes forget the human need for sleep, something my kind does not require.”

Unbelievable.

“The hour is late,” he adds. “I should have realized. Get some rest. Both of you. Tomorrow will be brighter.”

I look to Mother, then to Balthazar.

After this evening’s news, I am not so certain of that.



I am too flummoxed to try to sleep. A secret order? Talk of evil men and summoners of the dead? And me? A mesmerist? How can this be?

Under any other circumstances I would be impressed by the guest room, but my mind is muddled from the day’s events. There is a beautiful hand-painted silk screen to dress behind, an armoire carved from burnished wood, finely wrought tables and chairs, and on the vanity, a lovely music box encrusted with jewels. The four-poster bed is draped with a flowing white fabric. Mother is in the room next to mine. I almost feel like knocking on her door and asking more questions, but I do not.

I sit down on the bed.

A light knock startles me. “Come in,” I call, and stand up.

The door creaks open, and a young servant enters. She seems to be of an age with me, perhaps a year younger. She is rather plain looking, I must admit, with drab brown hair that falls to her shoulders. She has the look of a country girl about her. I can picture her milking a cow. I scold myself for my assumptions.

She sets down a tray of hot milk and biscuits, keeping her head lowered the whole time. I have forgotten how docile servants can be, ?now that we no longer have any.

“Thank you,” I say, and try to catch her eye, but her gaze remains downcast. Like most servants, I would assume, she daren’t speak to her master’s guests. “What is your name?” I ask, although I don’t know why. Perhaps for a bit of normalcy on this unbelievable evening.

The girl gives an awkward curtsy. “Darby, miss.”

“I’m Jess,” I offer.

She curtsies again, her eyes to the floor.

“Darby is a lovely name,” I tell her. “And how long have you been in service?”

She slowly raises her head.

I almost gasp.

One side of her face is horribly burned. Cold white scars run down her cheek and onto her neck. My first instinct is to recoil, but I catch myself before that happens.

“I have worked for m’lord going on five years now, miss.”

“And is he a kind master?” I ask. I wonder how much she knows about this League of Ravens business.

“Yes, miss. Very kind indeed. If it weren’t for him, I’d be . . .” She trails off, a look of alarm on her face.

I have tormented her enough, I realize. Whatever her story is, it must be painful.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Darby,” I say cheerily, although it belies the tension that hangs silently in the room.

But Darby doesn’t answer, only dips her head and scurries out.



When sleep finally comes, I sink into a murky world of shadows. There is a tunnel before me, with bright light in the distance. The ground rumbles. White fog surrounds me. My heart is pounding. Something is coming, but I do not know what, and only feel its presence, a terrible shadow that slithers along the ground, leaving a trail of crimson blood in its wake.





CHAPTER FIVE





The Sleeping Man


I awake to servants chattering in the hall.

The strangeness of last evening comes back to me. It wasn’t a dream after all: talk of faeries and a secret order, Mother’s face rippling in the firelight, Father killed by a creature of the dark, his body rip—?