Serafina and the Splintered Heart: Chapters 42–58

The tight spider weave and binding spells of the cloak’s fabric had disintegrated into a hot, smoldering heap as it released the energy within it.

She felt her two feet firmly on the ground, so simple, but so profound, to have weight, to have effect, to not be floating in the air or disintegrating into vapor, but to have substance, to have presence, to truly be in a place and in command of her body.

Around her, she smelled the cotton fabric of his shirt, and the grease he’d worked with that day, and the familiar musk of his body, all mixed with the smells of the workshop, the solid oak benches and the half-burned coal in the little stove where they cooked their meals and the gritty stone of the floor and the oiled metal of the hammers, wrenches, and other tools.

She had always loved his stories in which he was the humble hero fighting against impossible odds with wrench and hammer in hand, and she had never loved the stories more than on this night.

As she continued her story, telling him what she could and leaving out what she could not, he listened intently.

“He was a gone miserable lad while you were away,” her pa said, recounting a bit of how it was from his side of it all. “The master and I, the two of us as doleful as cold poke, used to talk about it, trying to figure out what we could do for the lad, but I think our talks did more for the pair of us menfolk than they did the poor boy. But in the end, I reckon he figured a way through it all on his own.”

When the horse rose up again, Braeden was astride him, on four strong legs.

Soon, hundreds of crows were flying about the tree at the top of the hill, landing and taking off again, wheeling about the sky, croaking and cawing, as if they were engaged in some sort of raucous, noisy conclave.

Soon, hundreds of crows were flying about the tree at the top of the hill, landing and taking off again, wheeling about the sky, croaking and cawing, as if they were engaged in some sort of raucous, noisy conclave.

As Serafina moved quickly up the hill, she was worried about scaring the crows off, but the birds seemed to have no shortage of boisterous, brazen confidence in themselves, flying all around, buzzing and cawing, flapping their great black wings, as they conversed with the boy.

Braeden seemed unfamiliar with the crows’ language at first, as if he didn’t understand everything they were saying, but he seemed to become more used to the cadence of it.

Serafina had never given much thought to the cawing of crows, but as she watched them now, she began to hear just how many different kinds of sounds they made—long, castigating rattles, impatient clacks, triumphant caws, rowdy jeers and playful chortles, warnings and signals, praise and encouragement, and urgent calls to flight.

Each flock protects their own territory where they’ve learned to find food, roost at night, and stay safe. I asked all the different flocks in the area to post sentinels all around Biltmore’s grounds and keep guard, to warn us if they see anything suspicious.

“Let’s go,” he said, touching her arm, “they’re going to be looking for us,” and they started down the hill toward the pond, his newly repaired leg brace seeming to provide a new smoothness to his gait.

“It’s been raining like this almost every night,” Braeden complained, as they made their way miserably through the deluge.

“They normally take cover during a storm,” he said, gazing up at the darkened sky, “but they’re strong fliers, and they’ll jump at the chance to get into a fracas with an enemy they hate as much as Uriah.”

Many of the rocks towered over their heads, jutting up from the ground, cracked and crumbling as if they had been broken by powerful earthen forces.

Mottled gray lichen and dark greenish moss covered the rocks, and gnarled trees grew from the cracks, their roots clinging to the stone like the long black, creeping legs of giant spiders.

Serafina knew that Uriah wouldn’t be standing so fearless if he didn’t think he could sustain her attack, and it was foolish to attack him straight on.

The elk king led the herd in a slow procession across the grass toward her and Waysa.

It was like she had never seen anything like him—neither inside the hallowed walls of Biltmore or out in the wider world—and what she saw now fascinated her.

It was a dark path, fraught with dangers that could lead to the deaths of her and her friends, and ultimately the destruction of Biltmore.

“Remake what?” Braeden asked, his voice strained with apprehension.

Braeden looked around at his friends in obvious disbelief, incredulous that they would even be thinking about this dire course of action.

“If Braeden can persuade the spiders to willingly weave the warp and weft of the black fabric, then it will create a much tighter intertwinement than a coercion spell. That means the Black Cloak will be far more powerful than it was before.”

But she had learned from hunting rats that she should not follow the same pattern every night, lest her quarry learn to avoid her.

In a time when the rest of the country was moving into cities, building great factories, and steaming quickly through their lives on black machines, Biltmore was meant to be a community all unto itself, a quiet, pastoral place where people lived close to the earth.

Soon, hundreds of horse-drawn wagons emblazoned with “Biltmore Farms” were delivering fresh milk in glass bottles to doorsteps throughout the region.

Serafina had sometimes seen the milk wagons trundling down the road in the early mornings.

There were many shops and cottages in the village, a school, a train depot, and a beautiful parish church, which Mr. Vanderbilt had named All Souls Church because he wanted folk of all walks of life to join him and his family in worship each Sunday.

As she walked toward the house in panther form, she marveled at how quickly its spirit could change, how it could be the brightest, most vibrant and dazzling display of grandiosity one had ever seen, then fall into a dark and moody slumber.

Her fingers clung to the top of a settee as she peeked over its edge and watched the French doors.

The mangled, bleeding face came into the room with glowing silver eyes.

“Who’s inside the house now?” Uriah asked. “Where is the usurper and his woman?”

He looked as if he was more than pleased with his daughter’s talent for treachery, her ruthless and conniving ability to change herself into whatever he needed her to be.

Good or evil, dark-haired or fair, human or animal, she was the consummate shifter. His other demons and devices had been flawed, but his apprentice daughter! She was his most perfect creation.

When she spoke, there was no sarcasm in her tone, no aloofness or airs, no whispers or seething voice, just a flat, steady seriousness.

When they were finally done and the mortar had hardened, Serafina stared suspiciously at the brick floor, half expecting to see the insidious black fabric squeezing up through the mortared cracks like little creeping fingers, its voice hissing for her to put it on.

The sorceress was wearing the dark robes and hood of her ancient kindred, and she was carrying a long laurel staff.

Serafina remained quiet as they walked in the moonlight past the copper dome of the Grand Staircase, among the mansion’s tallest towers and slanted slate rooftops, its many reaching chimneys, and its carved stone gargoyles of mythical beasts.