prepare for the evening, being careful to clear away any errant clothing, tidy the bedside cabinet, and put on the gas lamps at their lowest setting.
He filed into the theater, pushing through the throng to get as close to the front of the stalls as he could manage. The crowd was noisy and restless, and the heavy stage curtains were still drawn, with an easel in front bearing the same playbill as was displayed outside the building. Gideon intended only to get a look at Mesmer, at his methods, and then decide what course of action to take regarding Charlotte Elmwood. Her disappearance, of course, was a source of concern to her parents, but it was in her eerie likeness to Maria that the real mystery lay.
The lights dimmed as Gideon found a seat and the curtains swung back, a stagehand removing the easel. The stage was bare, and a voice boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, please allow yourselves to be amazed at the neurological gymnastics of the legendary master of mental manipulation, Markus Mesmer.…”
There were a few whistles and catcalls, and then the crowd quieted as a figure walked stiffly from the wings to the center of the stage. He was tall and thin, clothed in a gray serge suit and a waistcoat buttoned up to a silk cravat. His hair was parted down the middle and greased flat, his cheekbones sharp enough to catch the lights above as dazzlingly as his well-polished shoes, his eyes as steely and gray as his clothes. He carried a cloth bag that bulged with something the shape of a decent-sized cabbage.
At the center of the stage Mesmer stopped and turned sharply to face the audience, his heels clicking. One eyebrow raised, he surveyed them, the working classes of East London, then began to speak in clipped, modulated English.
“My great-grandfather Franz Mesmer postulated that there was an invisible yet irresistible force, an energy transference that occurred between all objects. This he termed animal magnetism. Since his theories were published there have been many who have followed in the study of hypnosis and the suggestion and control of the human mind.”
He paused, casting his arched gaze around the hushed auditorium. “But only I, Markus Mesmer, have perfected my great-grandfather’s early hypothesis and experimentation.”
Mesmer dug into the bag and emerged with what appeared to be a complicated skeletal structure with a series of lenses, magnifying glasses, and colored glass circles held tightly within moveable brass orbits arranged at one side. He held it up, casting the cloth bag away.
“Behold, the Hypno-Array! The ultimate marriage of animal magnetism and man’s technological ingenuity!”
Mesmer held the device reverently up for the audience to consider, then placed it on his head, the cage fitting snugly to his skull, the lenses arranged around his eyes. “Now,” he said. “A volunteer, if you please.”
There was a reticent murmuring at first, then a rangy youth stood up to applause and whistles. He gave a gap-toothed grin to the crowd and bowed to laughter. Gideon recognized him as the young man who had shouted at the girls outside. Fixing his derby on his head, he shuffled out of his row and sauntered down the aisle to where Mesmer’s aides, hidden in the darkness of the orchestra pit, helped him up onto the stage.
“A brave volunteer,” said Mesmer, lightly putting his hands together to encourage more applause. “What is your name, sir?”
“Walter Longridge,” he said, grinning again and waving at his mates in the crowd. “I work down at the docks.”
“At the docks,” mused Mesmer, steepling his fingers. “And you will work with fish at the docks, yes?”
“Crates of ’em!” Longridge laughed, then frowned. “’Ere, you’re not saying I stink of fish, are you?”
The crowd roared with laughter again, and Longridge smiled broadly, waving at them. Mesmer said, “How would you like to be a fish, Herr Longridge?”
The young man sniffed. “Not so much.
He filed into the theater, pushing through the throng to get as close to the front of the stalls as he could manage. The crowd was noisy and restless, and the heavy stage curtains were still drawn, with an easel in front bearing the same playbill as was displayed outside the building. Gideon intended only to get a look at Mesmer, at his methods, and then decide what course of action to take regarding Charlotte Elmwood. Her disappearance, of course, was a source of concern to her parents, but it was in her eerie likeness to Maria that the real mystery lay.
The lights dimmed as Gideon found a seat and the curtains swung back, a stagehand removing the easel. The stage was bare, and a voice boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, please allow yourselves to be amazed at the neurological gymnastics of the legendary master of mental manipulation, Markus Mesmer.…”
There were a few whistles and catcalls, and then the crowd quieted as a figure walked stiffly from the wings to the center of the stage. He was tall and thin, clothed in a gray serge suit and a waistcoat buttoned up to a silk cravat. His hair was parted down the middle and greased flat, his cheekbones sharp enough to catch the lights above as dazzlingly as his well-polished shoes, his eyes as steely and gray as his clothes. He carried a cloth bag that bulged with something the shape of a decent-sized cabbage.
At the center of the stage Mesmer stopped and turned sharply to face the audience, his heels clicking. One eyebrow raised, he surveyed them, the working classes of East London, then began to speak in clipped, modulated English.
“My great-grandfather Franz Mesmer postulated that there was an invisible yet irresistible force, an energy transference that occurred between all objects. This he termed animal magnetism. Since his theories were published there have been many who have followed in the study of hypnosis and the suggestion and control of the human mind.”
He paused, casting his arched gaze around the hushed auditorium. “But only I, Markus Mesmer, have perfected my great-grandfather’s early hypothesis and experimentation.”
Mesmer dug into the bag and emerged with what appeared to be a complicated skeletal structure with a series of lenses, magnifying glasses, and colored glass circles held tightly within moveable brass orbits arranged at one side. He held it up, casting the cloth bag away.
“Behold, the Hypno-Array! The ultimate marriage of animal magnetism and man’s technological ingenuity!”
Mesmer held the device reverently up for the audience to consider, then placed it on his head, the cage fitting snugly to his skull, the lenses arranged around his eyes. “Now,” he said. “A volunteer, if you please.”
There was a reticent murmuring at first, then a rangy youth stood up to applause and whistles. He gave a gap-toothed grin to the crowd and bowed to laughter. Gideon recognized him as the young man who had shouted at the girls outside. Fixing his derby on his head, he shuffled out of his row and sauntered down the aisle to where Mesmer’s aides, hidden in the darkness of the orchestra pit, helped him up onto the stage.
“A brave volunteer,” said Mesmer, lightly putting his hands together to encourage more applause. “What is your name, sir?”
“Walter Longridge,” he said, grinning again and waving at his mates in the crowd. “I work down at the docks.”
“At the docks,” mused Mesmer, steepling his fingers. “And you will work with fish at the docks, yes?”
“Crates of ’em!” Longridge laughed, then frowned. “’Ere, you’re not saying I stink of fish, are you?”
The crowd roared with laughter again, and Longridge smiled broadly, waving at them. Mesmer said, “How would you like to be a fish, Herr Longridge?”
The young man sniffed. “Not so much.
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