Balthazar opens a door to our left and we enter. This room is also cramped with old books, just as downstairs, some of them looking as if they’d crumble into dust if handled. Mother sneezes.
“The battleground of a mesmerist takes place in the mind,” he says, “but members of our order must also be physically prepared.”
I have no idea what this means.
He reaches into his waistcoat and reveals a key, then walks a few short steps to a standing wooden cabinet. We follow him and watch as he places the key into the lock on the door. It opens with a creak, and he pulls out a battered leather satchel and places it on a table. A cloud of dust rises up. “These were your father’s weapons, Miss Jessamine.”
Mother gasps. “I thought they were lost. I should have been told.”
Balthazar nods sympathetically. “They are just here for safekeeping, Cora. I didn’t want to bring up terrible memories.”
She gives a slight nod in return, as if accepting his explanation. Still, I think, she should have known. It was Father’s, after all.
I look at the satchel. A faded image of a raven’s head is stamped into the leather. There is also a long scar, as if scored by a monstrous claw. Was that done by the creature who killed him?
Mother takes a few steps forward and, after what seems like a full minute, takes a breath and lifts the flap. Her expression is thoughtful and sad, and it is clear that she is thinking of Father. She pulls a black case from the satchel and opens it. Several instruments are cradled in a bed of red velvet. One of them is a braided whip, curled like a sleeping snake. The end is split into five tails. Mother draws it out. “This,” she says, “is your most important weapon, Jessamine. The lash. This one has seen its fair share of battle.”
Without warning, she cracks the whip. A cloud of dust flies up, revealing a ragged gash in the hardwood floor.
I stare at her. This is not the mother I know. This woman has a fierce look in her eyes and a hard set to her jaw. Balthazar smiles. Mother seems to stand a few inches taller.
She sets the lash down and picks up another tool. “This is the compass, also very important. With it, you must bind your foe within the Circle of Confinement.”
Circle of Confinement?
The compass is silver, with two shining points, and is at least twelve inches tall, larger than any compass I have ever seen, which, admittedly, was only once, in a shop window.
“When the circle is drawn,” Mother explains, “a creature of the dark is bound. That is when you must drop holy water inside.” She holds up a glass vial that shimmers with a clear liquid.
“And last, but most important, is a sprig from the acacia tree.” She sets down the vial and lifts a small, slender branch from the case. “It has healing power, and if you ever find yourself hurt, eat one of the leaves.”
“How does it stay alive?” I ask. “It’s impossible.” As soon as I ask the question, I know it is of no consequence, considering what I have already witnessed on this strange journey.
“The League of Ravens has always been well versed in magick and spells,” Balthazar says. “The branch is enchanted with great power.”
“To most people, these are just simple objects,” Mother adds, “but to those with supernatural abilities, they are deadly weapons.”
I look at the tools spread out on the table. I’m expected to use these? To kill creatures, like a ruffian?
Mother returns the tools to the case and slides it into the satchel. She folds down the flap. I run my fingers across the worn leather. “Father’s weapons,” I whisper, as if saying it aloud will make this all seem more real.
“They are yours now, Miss Jessamine,” Balthazar says. “Use them wisely.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Departures and Decisions
Back downstairs, Emily and Gabriel have moved into what I correctly assumed was the parlor. There is a settee covered in garish pink fabric, a fireplace, several small chairs, and a table for four at which they are now seated. A deck of cards is spread out before them. They look up curiously as we enter.
“Just showing Jessamine a bit of her history,” Balthazar tells them.
There is a moment of silence.
“Are we going back to SummerHall?” Emily asks.
Gabriel sets down his cards and strokes his chin, something that looks entirely out of place for someone so young.
“I’m afraid not,” Balthazar says. “We have work to do.”
At Balthazar’s insistence, Mother and I stay the night. My room is certainly not as comfortable as the one at SummerHall, but it does, at least, have a fireplace—?sorely blackened and in need of cleaning. There is also a small, narrow bed, a writing desk, and a table with a basin and pitcher. In the corner is a child’s chair and dresser. The window is cracked and lets in cold air that chills my neck.