Serafina and the Black Cloak: Chapters 13–19

Poor Mr. Rostonov was there as well, struggling to ask questions in his Russian- hindered English as he held on to his daughter’s little white dog.

The shaggy creature barked incessantly, growling at the horses as if chastising them for the failure of the search.

The house was quiet and dark. There was a palpable fear in the air.

So she devised a plan.

“Have you had a lot of friends during the course of your life?”
“No,” she said soberly, thinking that now he was being particularly cruel if this was his way of explaining just how grotesque she was.

“I know you don’t need the light, but I do. Otherwise, I’m going to stub my toe on the bed.”

It didn’t help that buying sentimental presents that weren’t useful was akin to a sin in his book.

She picked up the foul scent of the cloak as the stench wafted through the crack under the door.

“The detectives seem to think that one of the servants is taking the children, but I don’t think we should rule out that it could be anyone in the house. Even one of us.”
“Maybe it’s you, Brahms,” Mr. Bendel snarled, clearly not appreciating his implication.

Mr. Thorne blanched, as if he realized that he’d made a dreadful mistake in his Russian.

Darting quickly over to the high mantel of the massive black marble fireplace, she leapt lightly onto the soft Persian rugs on the floor and landed on her feet.

Her pa had told her that Mr. Vanderbilt had many keen interests and studied the books in his library; he was considered one of the most well-read men in America. As she looked around the room at all the leather-bound tomes, the intricate knickknacks on the tables, and the inviting soft furniture, it felt like she could spend hours here just exploring and reading and taking afternoon naps.

Now that they were in the world of words and books rather than scaling the precipitous heights, Braeden was back in his element.

It explained that otets was the formal way a child would address a parent in public. But the more intimate way, used only within the family, was the word batya, which translated roughly to “daddy” or “papa.”

“Do you know which rooms they’re staying in?” she asked as they made their way on their hands and knees along the shaft back toward his bedroom.

Serafina could tell that all the searches and the presence of the detectives weren’t bringing solace to Biltmore’s anxious inhabitants.

They were such amazing gowns, with deep frills and exotic patterns.

The electric lighting still isn’t working, so stoke up the fires and bring in as many candles and oil lamps as you can.

In addition to the selection of roast beef, brook trout, chicken à l’orange, endless trays of vegetables, and rosemary potatoes au gratin, there were all sorts of chocolate desserts and fruit tarts.

He then went over to the pastor and his wife and consoled them about their lost son. He went next to Nolan’s distraught mother and father.

There were other children there as well, looking scared and sullen.

Mr. Thorne looked haggard and tired.

He played a soft and enchanting sonata with the grace of a virtuoso.

“You play wonderfully, sir.”
“Thank you, Braeden,” Mr. Thorne said with a small smile. “I appreciate it. I know you are a young man of discerning taste.”

“Then I shall endeavor to try,” Mr. Thorne agreed, nodding.

As Mr. Vanderbilt spoke with him, Mr. Thorne had the same look on his face that a possum gets when he’s gnawing on a sweet tater he’s grubbed out of the garden.

She looked over at Braeden to see if he, too, sensed something was amiss, but he wasn’t even looking at Mr. Thorne.

“I know, I know,” Braeden said in exasperation. “That’s what I’m saying. He’s had a hard life, a bad life, but he turned himself around. He’s been nothing but kind to me. You have no cause to think ill of him.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, thinking the whole story sounded like two buckets of hogwash, and that Mr. Bendel had been pulling Braeden’s leg.

“Then why did poor old Mr. Rostonov get so upset? He was as nettled as a badger in a porcupine fight. But he wasn’t just upset. He seemed scared.”

Her thoughts were all discombobulated, but it felt like the clues to the mystery were swirling all around her.

“Lock your door!” Serafina half coughed, half whispered to Braeden, covering her mouth with her hand to garble her words.

Staying in the basement tonight was death. It was doom. It would lead to a loneliness she could not bear. Over the last few days, she had felt increasingly constrained there.

What stratagem could she devise to defeat the Man in the Black Cloak?

Her first foray into the shadows of the forest two nights before had been difficult, terrifying.

She heard tiny footsteps behind her, a small country mouse out foraging and now making his way back home to his family, warm beneath a hollowed log.

Fear rose up in her like bile from a half-digested meal.

She wondered about it again, her mind pushing through thorny brambles of conflict and confusion.

She watched children lose their souls. And yet she was still living—thriving, even—drawing energy and knowledge and awareness from each and every night that she prowled through the darkness and another child was taken.

But then she saw something lying on her makeshift bed behind the boiler.