Serafina and the Black Cloak (9 page)

An idea came to her. Knowing what she did about Braeden Vanderbilt, he’d either be with his dog or his horse or both. He loved horses. It would be the first thing he thought of. He’d
go to the stables to help the stablemen look for Clara Brahms there. Or maybe he’d search the grounds on horseback. Either way, the stables seemed like the place to go.

The most direct path was through the porte cochere. There were quite a few people coming and going through this busy area, but she hoped that if anyone spotted her, they’d assume she was a
scullery maid or a kindling girl going about her chores.

She took a deep breath and ran down the steps toward the archway that led to the stables. She moved fast. She thought she was going to make it. But just as she looked behind her to make sure no
one was following her, she collided with a great smash into a large man in front of her. It knocked the wind out of her and nearly knocked her off her feet, but the man grabbed her by the shoulders
and held her up with a brutal grip.

Her captor wore a full-length black rain cloak even though it wasn’t raining. He had a peculiar pointed beard, crooked teeth, and an ugly, pockmarked face. She hadn’t seen the face
of the Man in the Black Cloak, but this is what she’d imagined he’d look like.

“What you lookin’ at?” he demanded. “Who is you, anyway?”

“I ain’t nobody!” she spat defiantly, trying desperately to tear herself free and run, but the man’s hands clamped her so tight that she couldn’t escape. Now it was
her turn to be the biting rat with its neck squeezed between finger and thumb. She noticed that he was standing in front of the open door of an awaiting carriage.

“You the new pig girl?” the man demanded. “What you doin’ up ’ere?” He tightened his grip so viciously on her arms that she let out a squeal of pain. “I
said, what’s your name, ya little scamp?”

“None of your business!” she said as she kicked and fought any way she could.

The man had a terrible smell, like he needed a bath really, really bad, and his breath stank with the huge wad of putrefied chewing tobacco that bulged in his cheek.

“Tell me your name, or I’m gonna shake ya,” the man said even as he shook her. He shook her so violently that she couldn’t catch her breath or get her feet on the ground.
He just kept shaking her.

“Mr. Crankshod,” a firm, authoritative voice said from behind her. It wasn’t just a name. It was a command.

Startled, the ugly man stopped shaking her. He set her on her feet and began to smooth her hair, pretending that he had actually been taking care of her all along.

Gasping for breath, she turned to look at who had spoken.

There stood Braeden Vanderbilt at the top of the steps.

S
erafina’s heart sprang. Despite the terrible situation he’d caught her in and the angry expression on his face, she was glad to see
Braeden.

The crab-crankedy Mr. Crankshod, however, was far less pleased. “Young Master Vanderbilt,” he grumbled in surprise as he bowed, wiped the tobacco spittle from his lip, and stood at
attention. “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you there. Your coach is ready, sir.”

Braeden looked at them both without speaking. Clearly, he wasn’t pleased by what he’d just seen. The boy’s Doberman appeared ready to attack whichever of them his master told
him to, and Serafina hoped that it was going to be the sputum-faced Mr. Crankshod rather than her.

Braeden stared at Mr. Crankshod, then slowly moved his eyes to her. Her mind whirled with potential cover stories. He had stopped the mountainous brute from shaking the living daylights out of
her, but what could she say to explain her presence here?

“I’m the new shoeshine girl,” she said, stepping forward. “Your aunt asked me to make sure your boots were well shined for your trip, sir, spit and polished good, sir.
That’s what she said, all right, spit and polished good.”

“No, no, no!” Mr. Crankshod shouted, knowing it was a ruse. “What’s this, now, ya little beggar? You ain’t no shoeshine girl! Who is ya? Where’d ya come
from?”

But a smile of delicious conspiracy formed at the corner of Braeden’s mouth. “Ah, yes, Aunt Edith did mention something about getting my boots shined. I had quite forgotten,”
he said, exaggerating the aristocratic air in his voice. Then he looked at her sharply and his eyebrows furrowed into a frown. “I’m on my way to the Vances’, and I’m running
late. I don’t have time to wait on you, so you’ll just have to come with me and do it in the carriage on the way.”

Serafina felt the blood rush to her face. Was he serious? She couldn’t go in a carriage with him! Her pa would kill her. And what was she gonna do all cooped up in there anyway, getting
dragged around in a box by a bunch of four-legged black hoof-stompers?

“Well, come along, let’s be quick about it,” Braeden said, his voice filled with the impatience of a lordly gentleman as he gestured toward the carriage door.

She had never been in a carriage in her life. She didn’t even know how to get in one or what to do once she did.

The ill-tempered, rat-faced Mr. Crankshod had no choice but to obey the young master’s commands. He shoved Serafina toward the door, and she suddenly found herself in the dimly lit
interior of the Vanderbilt carriage. As she crouched uncertainly on the floor, she could not help but marvel at the carriage’s luxuriously appointed finery with its hand-carved woodwork,
brass fixtures, beveled-glass windows, and plush, paisley, tufted seats.

Braeden followed her in with the grace of familiarity and took a seat. Gidean sat on the floor, eyeing her with fanged intent.

Mind your own business, dog,
she thought as she stared back at him.

Mr. Crankshod shut the carriage door and climbed up onto the driver’s bench with the other coachman.

Oh, great, rat face is driving us,
Serafina thought. She had no idea how long a trip this would be or how she could send word back to her pa. He’d ordered her to hide in the
basement, not get kidnapped by the young master and his stink-breathed henchman. But at least she’d finally be able to talk to Braeden alone about what she saw the night before.

The carriage seat looked too clean for her to sit on with her basement clothing, and she was supposed to be cleaning the young master’s boots, so she knelt on the floor of the carriage and
wondered how she was going to pretend to clean his boots when she didn’t have any brushes or polish. Spit and polish was one thing, but just spit was another.

“You don’t really have to clean my boots,” Braeden said softly. “I was just going along with your story.”

Just as Serafina looked up at him and their eyes were about to meet, the horses pulled and the carriage jounced forward. In a moment as unusual as it was mortifying, she actually lost her
balance. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled as she fell against Braeden’s legs and then quickly straightened herself up.

She glanced at the seat that she suspected she was supposed to be sitting on, but the dog stared at her with his steely eyes. When she moved toward the seat, the dog growled, low and menacing,
baring his teeth as if to say,
If I can’t sit on the seat, then neither can you.

“No, Gidean,” Braeden chastised him. She couldn’t decide if the young master had spoken the command because he wanted to protect her or if he just didn’t want to get the
inside of his carriage bloody. In any case, Gidean’s ears crumpled and his head lowered under the force of his master’s reprimand.

Seeing her chance, she slipped onto the seat opposite Braeden and as far away from the dog as possible.

As Gidean continued staring at her, she felt an overwhelming desire to hiss at him and make him back off, but she didn’t think that would go over too well with the young master, so she
held back the urge.

She had never liked dogs, and dogs had never liked her. Whenever they saw her, they barked. One time, she had to scurry up a tree to get away from a crazed foxhound, and her pa had to use a
ladder to retrieve her.

When the carriage rumbled into a turn, Serafina looked out the window and saw the grand facade of the house. Biltmore Estate rose four stories high with its ornately carved gray stone walls.
Gargoyles and ancient warriors adorned its dark copper edges. Chimneys, turrets, and towers formed the spires of its almost Gothic presence. Two giant statues of lions guarded the massive oak doors
at the entrance, as if warding off evil spirits. She had marveled at those statues many times on her midnight prowls. She had always loved them. She imagined that those great cats were
Biltmore’s protectors, its guardians, and she could think of no more important job.

In the golden light of the setting sun, the mansion really could be quite startlingly lovely. But as the sun withdrew its brightness behind the surrounding mountains, it cast ominous shadows
across the estate, which reminded her of griffins, chimeras, and other twisted creatures of the night that were half one thing and half another. The thought of it gave her a shudder. In one moment,
the estate was the most beautiful home you had ever seen, but in the next, it was a dark and foreboding haunted castle.

“Lie down and be good,” Braeden said.

She looked at him in surprise and then realized that he was talking to the dog, not to her.

Gidean complied with his master’s request and lay down at his feet. The dog seemed a little more relaxed now, but when he looked at Serafina, his expression seemed to say,
Just because
I’m lying down, don’t think for a second that if you do something to my master I can’t still kill you
.…

She smiled to herself. She couldn’t help it—she was beginning to like this dog. She could understand him, his fierceness and his loyalty. She admired that.

As she tried to get used to the rumbling motion of the moving carriage, she noticed that Braeden was studying her.

“I’ve been looking for you…” he said.

She stole a quick glance at him and then looked away. When she looked into his eyes, it felt like he could tell what she was thinking. It was unnerving.

She tried to say something, but when she opened her mouth, she could barely breathe. Of course, she’d snuck around enough over the years to overhear people of all walks of life speaking to
one another, so theoretically she knew how it was done. So many guests and servants had passed through Biltmore over the years that she could take on a rich lady’s air or a mountain
woman’s twang or even a New York accent, but for some reason, she struggled mightily to find the right words—any words—to say to the young master.

“I—I’m sorry about all this,” she said finally. The annoying constriction in her chest seemed to strangle her words as she spoke them. She wasn’t sure if she
sounded anything like a halfway normal person or not. “I mean, I’m sorry about being dumped into your carriage like luggage that wouldn’t fit on the roof, and I don’t know
why your dog doesn’t like me.”

Braeden looked at Gidean and then back at her. “He normally likes people, especially girls. It’s strange.”

“There are plenty of strange things happening today,” she said, her chest loosening up a bit as she began to realize that Braeden was going to actually talk to her.

“You think so, too?” he said, leaning toward her.

He wasn’t anything like what she imagined the young master of the Vanderbilt mansion would be, especially as good-looking and well educated as he was. She had expected him to be snobbish,
bossy, and aloof, but he was none of these things.

“I don’t think Clara Brahms is hiding,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “Do you?”

“No,” she said, raising her eyes and looking at him. “I definitely don’t.” She wanted to pour it all out and tell him everything she knew. That had been her plan
all along. But her pa’s words kept going through her mind:
They ain’t our kind of folk, Sera.

Whatever he was, Braeden seemed to be a good person. As he was talking to her, he didn’t judge her or discount her. If anything, he actually seemed to like her. Or maybe he was just
fascinated by her in the same way he would be by a weird species of insect he’d never seen before, but either way, he kept talking.

“She’s not the first one, you know,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?” she said, drawing closer to him.

“Two weeks ago, a fifteen-year-old girl named Anastasia Rostonova went out for a walk in the evening in the Rambles, and she didn’t come back.”

“Really?” she asked, hanging on his every word. She had thought she had something to tell him, but it turned out that he had just as much to tell her. A boy who whispered about
kidnappings and skulduggery was the kind of boy she could learn to like. She knew the Rambles well, but she also knew that the shrubbery maze of crisscrossing paths caused many people great
confusion.

“Everyone said Anastasia must have wandered into the forest and gotten lost,” he continued, “or that she ran away from home. But I know they’re wrong.”

“How do you know?” she asked, keen to hear the details.

“The next morning, I found her little white dog wandering around the paths of the Rambles. The poor dog was frantic, desperately searching for her.” Braeden looked at Gidean.
“I didn’t know Anastasia well—she’d only been visiting with her father for a couple of days when she disappeared—but I don’t think she would have run away and
left her dog behind.”