Serafina and the Black Cloak. Robert Beatty
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right if I didn’t listen to him.
She thought about the girl in the yellow dress. She tried to make sense of what she’d seen: the horrible black cloak and the wide-eyed fear in the girl’s face as she disappeared. Where had the girl gone? Was she dead or somehow still alive? Was there still a chance she could be saved?
Snippets of conversation drifted down the stairs. There was some sort of commotion. Had they found a body? Were they all crying in despair? Were they searching for a murderer?
She didn’t know if she was brave or stupid, but she had to tell someone what she’d seen. She had to figure out what had happened. Most of all, she had to help the girl in the yellow dress.
She began to climb the stairs.
Staying as small and quiet as she could, she crept up the steps one by one. A cacophony of sounds floated down to her: the echo of people talking, the rustling of clothing, dozens of different footsteps – it was a crowd of many people. Something was definitely happening up there. We’ve got to keep to ourselves, you and I. Her pa’s warning played in her mind as she climbed. There ain’t no sense in people seein’ you and askin’ questions.
She slunk to the top of the stairway, then ducked into an alcove on the main floor that looked onto a huge room full of fancy-dressed people who seemed to be gathering for some type of grand social event.
Massive, ornately crafted wrought-iron-and-glass doors led into the Entrance Hall, with its polished marble floor and vaulted ceiling of hand-carved oak beams. Soaring limestone arches led from this central room to the various wings of the mansion. The ceiling was so high she had the urge to climb up there and peer down. She’d been here before, but she had always loved the room and couldn’t help marvelling at it again, especially in the daylight. She’d never seen so many glistening, beautiful things, so many soft surfaces to sit on and so many interesting places to hide. Spotting an upholstered chair, she felt an overwhelming desire to run her fingernails over the plush fabric. All the room’s colours were so bright, and the surfaces were so clean and shiny. She didn’t see any mud or grease or dirt anywhere. There were brightly coloured vases filled with flowers – to think! Flowers, actually inside the house. Sunlight flooded in from the sparkling, leaded-glass windows of the spiralling, four-story-high Grand Staircase and the glass-domed Winter Garden, with its spraying fountain and tropical plants. She squinted her eyes against the brightness.
The Entrance Hall teemed with dozens of beautifully attired ladies and gentlemen along with manservants in black-and-white uniforms helping them to prepare for a morning of horseback riding. Serafina stared at a lady who wore a riding dress made of white-piped green velvet and cranberry-red damask. Another woman wore a lovely mauve habit with dark purple accents and a matching hat. There were even a few children there, clothed as finely as their parents. Her eyes darted around the room as she tried to take it all in.
Serafina looked at the face of the lady in the green dress, and then she looked at the face of the lady in the mauve hat. She knew her momma was long dead, or at the very least long gone, but all her life, whenever she saw a woman, she checked to see if the woman looked like her. She studied the faces of the children too, wondering if there was a chance that any of them could be her brothers and sisters. When she was little, she used to tell herself a story that maybe she had come home one day to the house, muddy from her hunting, and her mother had taken her downstairs and stuck her in the belt-driven washing machine, and then gone back upstairs and accidentally forgot about her, just spinning and spinning away down there. But when Serafina looked around at the women and the children in the Entrance Hall and saw their blond hair and their blue eyes, their black hair and their brown eyes, she knew that none of them were her kin. Her pa never talked about what her momma looked like, but Serafina searched for her in every face she saw.
Serafina had come upstairs with a purpose, but now that she was here, the thought of actually trying to talk to any of these fancy people put a rock in her stomach. She swallowed and inched forward a little, but the lump in her throat was so huge she wasn’t even sure she could get a word out. She wanted to tell them what she’d seen, but it suddenly seemed so foolish. They were all happy and carefree, like so many larks on a sunny day. She didn’t understand. The girl was obviously one of these people, so why weren’t they looking for her? It was like it had never happened, like she had imagined the whole thing. What was she going to say to them? Excuse me, everyone . . . I’m pretty sure I saw a horrible black-cloaked man make a little girl vanish into thin air. Has anyone seen her? They’d lock her up like a cuckoo bird.
As a tall gentleman in a black suit coat walked by, she realised that one of these men might actually be the Man in the Black Cloak. With his shadowed face and glowing eyes, there was no doubt that the attacker had been some sort of spectre, but she had sunk her teeth into him and tasted real blood, and he needed a lantern to see just like all the other people she’d followed over the years, which meant he was of this world too. She scanned the men in the crowd, keeping her breathing as steady as she could. Was it possible that he was here at this very moment?
Mrs Edith Vanderbilt, the mistress of the house, walked into the room wearing a striking velvet dress and a wide-brimmed hat. Serafina couldn’t take her eyes off the mesmerising movement of the hat’s feathers. A refined and attractive woman, Mrs Vanderbilt had a pale complexion and a full head of dark hair, and she seemed at ease in her role as hostess as she moved through the room.
‘While we wait for the servants to bring up our horses,’ she said happily to her guests, ‘I would like to invite everyone to join me in the Tapestry Gallery for a little bit of musical entertainment.’
A pleasant murmur passed through the crowd. Delighted by the idea of a diversion, the ladies and gentlemen streamed into the gallery, an elegantly decorated room with its exquisitely hand-painted ceiling, intricate musical instruments and delicate antique wall tapestries. Serafina loved to climb the tapestries at night and run her fingernails down through the soft fabric.
‘I’m sure that most of you already know Mr Montgomery Thorne,’ Mrs Vanderbilt said with a gentle sweep of her arm towards a gentleman. ‘He has graciously offered to play for us today.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Vanderbilt,’ Mr Thorne said as he stepped forward with a smile. ‘This whole outing is such a wonderful idea, and I must say you’re a most radiant hostess on this lovely morning.’
‘You’re too kind, sir,’ Mrs Vanderbilt said with a smile.
To Serafina, who’d been listening to Biltmore’s visitors her entire life, he didn’t sound like he came from the mountains of North Carolina, or from New York like the Vanderbilts. He spoke with the accent of a Southern gentleman, maybe from Georgia or South Carolina. She crept forward to get a better look at him. He wore a white satin cravat round his neck, a brocade waistcoat and pale grey gloves, all of which she thought went nicely with his silvery-black hair and perfectly trimmed sideburns.
He picked up a finely made violin and its bow from the table where it had been lying.
‘Since when do you play the violin, Thorne?’ called one of the gentlemen from New York in a friendly tone.
‘Oh, I’ve been practising here and there, Mr Bendel,’ said Mr Thorne as he lifted the instrument to his chin.
‘When? On the carriage ride here?’ Mr Bendel retorted, and everyone laughed.
Serafina almost felt sorry for Mr Thorne. It was clear from their playful banter that Mr Bendel and Mr Thorne were companions, but it was equally clear that Mr Bendel had serious doubts as to whether his friend could actually play.
Serafina watched in nervous silence as Mr Thorne prepared himself. Perhaps it was a new instrument to him and this was his first performance. She couldn’t even imagine playing such a thing herself. At long last, he set the bow gently across the strings, paused for a moment to collect himself, and then began to play.
Suddenly, the vaulted rooms of the great house filled with the loveliest music she had ever heard, elegant and flowing, like a river of sound. He was wonderful. Spellbound by the beauty of his playing, the ladies and gentlemen and even the servants