The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith Narrated by Colleen Prendergast

Overview

Thirteen-year-old Jessamine Grace and her mother make a living as sham spiritualists-until they discover that Jess is a mesmerist and that she really can talk to the dead. Soon she is plunged into the dark world of Victorian London's supernatural underbelly and learns that the city is under attack by ghouls, monsters, and spirit summoners. Can Jess fight these powerful forces? And will the group of strange children with mysterious powers she befriends be able to help? As shy, proper Jess transforms into a brave warrior, she uncovers terrifying truths about the hidden battle between good and evil, about her family, and about herself.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

01/16/2017
Smith’s second novel (after Hoodoo) opens in 1864 England, where 13-year-old Jess and her mother have been running supernatural scams ever since her father’s mysterious death some years earlier. One séance goes badly astray when Jess returns from her supposed trance with a message she hadn’t intended: “Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!” The handwritten message, signed only M, terrifies Jess’s mother, who immediately takes them to London, looking for help from the eccentric (and not entirely human) Lord Balthazar. Jess learns that he and her parents were part of a secret organization, the League of Ravens, which has fought evil for centuries. Now, that evil has returned and Jess, who unknowingly carries the enormous powers of a mesmerist, must lead the fight. The shape of the story is familiar, but Smith deftly brings Jess and her fellow Ravens to life and ramps up the violence to a fever pitch at the climax. This tale, though not for the faint at heart, is certain to please young horror fans. Ages 10–12. Agent: Adriann Ranta, Foundry Literary + Media. (Feb.)

From the Publisher

"This tale, though not for the faint at heart, is certain to please young horror fans."—Publishers Weekly "Smith continues to display a deft mastery of worldbuilding and creepy, atmospheric plotting. A gripping tale enhanced by a convincingly detailed setting and drawing on classic fantasy memes."—Kirkus "...Smith (author of Hoodoo, BCCB 10/15) has a knack for creating memorable bad guys, and the demonic necromancer and his minion ghouls may be creepy enough to spur readers forward."—Bulletin "...for kids who relish some blood and gore, this should fill the slot. "—Booklist Praise for Hoodoo “What a splendid novel. Reader, be prepared to have your foundations shaken: this is a world that is deeper, more wondrous, more spiritually charged than you may have ever imagined.” —Gary D. Schmidt, two-time Newbery Honor medalist and author of The Wednesday Wars "The authenticity of Hoodoo's voice and this distinctive mashup of genres make Smith one to watch." —Kirkus —

MAY 2017 - AudioFile

Narrator Colleen Prendergast’s steady performance allows young listeners to get caught up in the magical adventures of 13-year-old “mesmerist” Jessamine, who lives in Victorian London. Jess believes she and her mum are fake spiritualists, taking grieving people’s money and pretending to have them speak to their dead loved ones. In actuality, Jess CAN speak to the dead, and the world is full of magic and monsters. As Jess encounters faeries, werewolves, and other scary creatures, narrator Prendergast sounds astonished by it all; the wonder in her voice keeps the story from being scary. Jess battles evil with the help of some supernatural friends, and Prendergast’s reading shows how dauntless and brave she is. G.D. © AudioFile 2017, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

2016-10-18
Jess and her widowed mother eke out a genteel living in Victorian England as spiritualists, claiming to communicate with the dead; when a cryptic message replaces the fake they've prepared for a grieving client, her mother—terrified—insists they flee to London. There, sheltered by her parents' wealthy, half-faerie associate, Balthazar, Jess learns the three were members of the League of Ravens, using their genuine occult powers to defeat Mephisto, a diabolical gang reanimating the dead. Balthazar tells Jess she's a mesmerist, able to enter the minds of those around her. Joining the reconstituted league, Jess moves into a house in London's impoverished East End. Residents include Emily, who can conjure light, and Gabriel, whose gift relies on music—both plucked from a dismal orphanage to combat Mephisto. Jess is stunned, too, by the brutal poverty she sees. Her gift helps her empathize with its scarred victims, now threatened by a mysterious, deadly plague, its rapid spread blamed on communists and immigrants. Fear once prevented Jess from aiding Deepa, an Indian friend victimized by bias and hatred (Jess and the other characters appear to be white); now, she fights injustice in two worlds. Exploring fictional terrain far from the 1930s Alabama so powerfully conveyed in the award-winning Hoodoo (2015), Smith continues to display a deft mastery of worldbuilding and creepy, atmospheric plotting. A gripping tale enhanced by a convincingly detailed setting and drawing on classic fantasy memes. (Fantasy/horror. 10-12)

Product Details

BN ID:	2940175456944
Publisher:	Dreamscape Media
Publication date:	02/21/2017
Edition description:	Unabridged
Age Range:	Up to 4 Years

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

England, 1864
A Thousand Shards of Porcelain

Being stuffed into a wardrobe with your hands tied is a dreadful way to start your day.
     There’s hardly any light, but for the yellow glint of a candle flame through a small crack in the door. Dust tickles my nostrils. Spiders are in the corners too.
     I hate spiders.
     I breathe out through my nose and try to think of something peaceful—​something besides Dr. Barnes sitting with Mother, nervously clutching a handkerchief or glass of sherry, hoping beyond hope that somehow, a message from his dead daughter, Lydia, will be revealed.
     That would be through me.
     I am the vessel, you see, through which the dead loved one will speak.
     Actually, it is all a sham.
     This is how it works.
     We knew Dr. Barnes had lost his daughter recently, and when he made the appointment, all it took was a few flowery words to begin the ruse:

Dear Papa,
     Dab your eyes, dry your tears. I am in the bosom of the Lord, in Whose grace I have found everlasting peace.
     Yours always,
     Lydia.

What Dr. Barnes doesn’t know is that an hour before his arrival, I wrote this very message on a chalk slate and hid it in the wardrobe’s secret panel. From there, ​it became a very simple matter to step inside with a blank one and make the swap. Also—​and this is key—​Mother is very good at tying slipknots.
     Soft murmurs echo beyond the door. I picture Mother with closed eyes, her thin nostrils flaring. On some days, the flames from the fireplace provide enough heat for her face to flush, which makes the act all the more authentic.
     I hear the scrape of a chair and then footsteps. Finally. I sigh in relief. I want to get out of here.
     I pinch my cheeks for a rosy flush and slip my hands back into the knot. The iron lock of the wardrobe clicks. The door squeaks open. I take a deep breath, force my body to go limp, and then, with an exaggerated gasp, fall face forward onto the floor.
     Dr. Barnes leaps out of his chair. I hear his teacup rattle on the table and then crash, sending a thousand shards of porcelain across the brick tiles of the hearth. “Oh, my God!” he cries. “Is she . . . is she dead?”
     Mother, being a true professional, plays her part with ease. “No, she is fine. She has been to the other side. Please. Give her a moment.”
     She kneels and leans in close, then brushes a lock of hair from my eyes. The fresh scent of Cameo Rose surrounds me. It is a lovely fragrance, and one I always associate with Mother, which lifts my spirits whenever I am down—​something I feel at this very moment, for I can already feel the bruise swelling on my forehead. She helps me up, unties the thin rope that binds my wrists, and leads me to a long chaise covered in red and blue damask. Dr. Barnes, old chap, withdraws a silk handkerchief from his vest pocket. “There, there, dear girl,” he says, dabbing my brow. I almost feel sorry for him. I ease my head back and let out a breath.
     Mother picks up the slate from the floor. She gives Dr. Barnes a sharp look. “The dead do not always speak what we would wish to hear,” she intones. “And oftentimes, their messages can be confusing . . . or even incomprehensible.”
     Dr. Barnes exhales a shaky breath. Mother unclasps the two sides of the slate.
     The blood drains from her face.
     “What is it?” Dr. Barnes asks, drawing closer.
     Mother is speechless, her mouth open in shock or confusion, I don’t know which.
     Dr. Barnes wrenches the slate away and peers over the top of his spectacles. I sit up and read the words written in a crooked script.

Ring around the rosy, a pocketful of posies.
Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!

And below, written in a spidery scrawl, one single letter . . .

M

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