“Now,” Balthazar says, “join hands. Everyone.”
I am taken aback, as I thought I would use the planchette to find words through the spirit board.
“It will still guide us, Jessamine,” Balthazar says, as if reading my thoughts. He waves his hand over the board. The letters and symbols blur. I hear Emily’s intake of breath.
“It is not a traditional spirit board,” Balthazar explains, “but something of an entirely different sort.”
I look back to the board, which is swirling with mist that hovers above the surface. After a moment it fades, and I am staring into a watery reflection of my own face.
“It is also a scrying mirror,” Balthazar says. “A tool of divination. Look, Jessamine. Look and tell us what you see.”
We join hands. I stare into the watery surface. Light begins to peek through. The edges are vague and shadowy. Before hardly any time has passed, I see Mother sitting by the fire, writing in a small book. Her figure wavers and looks insubstantial, as if she is a ghost. Now I see her asleep, her face still and beautiful. Here she is pouring tea. All these images come and go, lasting only a second or so, like clouds passing over the moon.
And then the scent of Cameo Rose surrounds me. My heart rises. “Mother,” I whisper.
Tears are brimming in my eyes. I swallow and continue to concentrate. I see Mother before the fire again, drinking absinthe. She looks tired. For a moment I think I hear the word “Jessamine,” but it is faint, as if called from far, far away.
A shadow appears at the edge of the scene. Mother looks up from the fire, wary, as if she has taken note. I see something. A shadow is moving, slithering along the floor. Mother stands up. Her eyes widen. The picture is shrinking in on itself, growing smaller, a circle closing in until I can see nothing.
And then I hear a voice.
“Beyond the grave I come.”
Mother screams.
“No!” I shout, opening my eyes and breaking the circle. “Mother!”
Emily takes my hand again and squeezes it.
“I saw her,” I tell them. “Mother. At home. And I heard a voice.”
“A voice?” Balthazar asks.
I swallow, for I don’t want to repeat the words, but they come out anyway. “‘B-beyond—’?” I stutter. “‘Beyond the grave I come.’?”
The room goes still. Balthazar’s face is tense. Gabriel blanches.
“Jess,” Balthazar says, leaning in and lowering his voice. “I want you to try again. I know it is difficult, but think on the word ‘Mephisto.’ Think on this word, and tell us what you see.”
I breathe out, exhausted. I feel as if I can go no further. Beyond the grave I come. They are terrible words, and I want them out of my head, but it is too late. I have opened myself up to this. Oh, Mother!
Balthazar places his hand over mine. “We have to, Jess. We must find and stop them before they grow stronger.”
I sniffle, nod once, and look back at the board. I take another calming breath. Emily squeezes my hand tighter. “You can do it, Jess,” she says. “Your mum would want you to.”
I look at her and smile weakly. “You’re right, Em,” I say, and extend my other hand to join Gabriel’s once more. I look back to the board, now as clear and cool as a gray winter’s day. I don’t have much to go on, so I recall the words that started this journey: Ring around the rosy. I repeat this mantra inside my head for several minutes until I feel as if it will drive me mad. The curls at the back of my neck bristle. The room suddenly feels colder.
I break our circle again and reach for the planchette. “I can feel something,” I say, and it is true—?thoughts and whispering words in the back of my mind, trying to break through.
Balthazar quickly rises and returns with parchment and ink. “Go ahead, Jessamine,” he says. “Let the spirit board guide you.”
I place the planchette in the center of the board and lay my fingers upon it. For a moment nothing happens, but then the mist clears and I see letters and symbols again. It is remarkable. My hands zigzag quickly, as they did the first time, when I found the words Balthazar was thinking. A sense of dread settles over me as the planchette moves left, right, up and down. I feel a frightful rush of cold air—?the dark and dampness of something under the earth. There is a smell, too—?a sharp, putrid odor from which I want to escape.
Two pinpoints of red blaze in my mind’s eye.
I gasp, drawing my hands away from the planchette.
“What is it?” Emily asks.
“It was cold and damp,” I quietly answer. “I felt something dark. Something evil.”
Balthazar peers at the parchment in front of him. He cocks his head and then turns it around so I can see what is written. “Chislehurst . . . Caves?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he replies. “Curious. Most curious. There are caves under London, Jessamine. Chislehurst is one such place.”
“Caves?” Emily asks in astonishment. “In London? With bogeys?”
“Outside of London, Emily,” Balthazar replies. “They are old mines, now long out of use.”