“But wait—” I start. “The verse. It says that men and women often visited the Twilight Folk—”
Balthazar smiles ruefully. “There have been times when my kind enchanted the mortal folk, more of a foolish whim than anything else. But your parents’ love was greater than that, and it was kept secret, amidst the whispering trees at night. Your father was of the royal blood, Jess. The Shining Court would not abide for someone of his rank to wed a human.”
A bird alights on a branch above my head and chirrups loudly.
“Not every child born of fae and human blood is graced with the faerie bloodline, Jessamine. You, like me, are blessed to be of both worlds. Do you remember the painting? The one at SummerHall?”
A memory comes to me. A large painting above the hearth at Balthazar’s estate: a woman with lustrous black hair running through a forest. Her name was Lady Estella, he had said. A faerie maiden who was in love with a mortal man.
“Your . . . mother?” I ask tentatively.
“Yes,” he replies.
“So we’re alike?” I venture. “You and me?”
“We are, my child. Your mother suspected, but never really knew. Now we are certain.”
We begin to walk once more. My legs are unsteady. Balthazar offers his arm, and I loop mine through his. There is something else that comes to me, something he never explained. “The lash—” I begin. “I lost my weapons in the tunnel and at the last minute summoned a lash from my own thoughts.”
We stop, and he turns to me.
“Just one more example of who you are,” he says. “You are truly gifted with the power of my people.”
I let out a tremulous breath. This little walk of ours has revelations at every step.
We reach a small circle of trees, and Balthazar pauses. “Why are we stopping here?” I ask.
“You are standing on a faerie ring,” he says.
I look down to see a small mound of green, about a foot high, ringed by yellow wildflowers and pale, spotted mushrooms. “Oh,” I say.
“Close your eyes,” Balthazar says, stepping onto the mound with me.
“Why?” I ask him.
“I want to show you something—?something you wanted to see again.”
I know what it is, as surely as I know my own name. “The silver ship?” I ask.
But he doesn’t answer, and only closes his own eyes.
The trees seem to blur around us. I feel the earth beneath my feet moving. Far away, as if it is coming from these very woods, I hear a refrain, and it is one that I have heard before:
The smile upon her bonnie cheek was sweeter than the bee . . .
I close my eyes.
And then there is only the sound of rushing air and the peculiar sensation of falling.
Acknowledgments
I did a lot of research for this book, and various materials helped me bring Jess and her Victorian England to life. An old copy of Bradshaw’s Handbook for Tourists in Great Britain & Ireland was very helpful with train schedules and distances. Dirty Old London: The Victorian Fight Against Filth by Lee Jackson also provided much inspiration. During my research, I came across a PDF of a rare, long-out-of-print book called Street Life in London, written by Adolphe Smith and with photographs by John Thomson. The book is a delight, and the black-and-white photographs helped fire my imagination.
Thanks to everyone at Clarion Books/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for their enthusiasm and support of this book. My editor, Lynne Polvino, who asked all the right questions, along with Lisa Vega, Dinah Stevenson, Karen Walsh, Lisa DiSarro, Tara Shanahan, Amanda Acevedo, and everyone behind the scenes who had a hand in getting The Mesmerist out into the world.
Of course, I wouldn’t be here without the support of my Super Agent, Adriann Ranta. Thanks for your patience and guidance.
I’d also like to thank Lisa K. Weber for the great cover.
The Children’s Bookstore in Baltimore, Maryland, has been a great supporter. Thank you, JoAnn Fruchtman, Rachel Machesky, and the entire staff.
All writers need cheerleaders, and the folks at Politics and Prose Bookstore have been incredible. Thank you.
Michele Thornton, for your feedback, your support, and being a good friend.
Thanks to the Smith and Sofio clans as well as the Robinson women for their endless championing of my work.
Julia, you’re last, but always first. You deserve endless chocolate. And a buttery croissant.
The Stranger
When I got born, Mama Frances took one look at me and said, “That child is marked. He got hoodoo in him.”
And that’s how I got my name.
Hoodoo.
Hoodoo Hatcher.
She was talking about the red smudge under my left eye, shaped just like a heart. Not like a real heart I saw in a book one time, with blood pumping through it and all kinds of other stuff, but a heart somebody would carve in a tree with two names inside it.