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the archway and into the walled garden.
She didn’t know where he was going, but it felt good to be with him and a part of his adventure into the night, whatever it was. Despite her narrow escape on the windowsill, she was still clinging to the hope that she could figure out what had happened to Braeden since she’d been gone, how she could communicate with him, and somehow get back to him. But she felt a wrenching loneliness, too, a separation from him that tore at her gut. She couldn’t speak to him or help him. She couldn’t ask him what he was thinking. When she looked at his stark, grim face, it was filled with such desperation that it frightened her.
She followed him down the length of the central arbour and into the rose garden. He ducked into the small stone shed used by the master rosarian, Mr Fetlan. The shed was filled with rakes, hoes and other garden tools along with pots, trays and wired wooden apple crates.
Braeden grabbed a lantern and a shovel and headed back out into the rain again. The boy was soaked to the bone, and she could see him trembling, but he pressed on regardless.
Through the garden he went, then down the path that led towards the pond. After passing the boathouse, it appeared he was going to cross the large redbrick bridge that arched over the eastern spur of the pond, but at the last moment, he diverted to the left and went into the woods.
‘This is getting stranger and stranger,’ she said. ‘Where are you going now?’
He followed the edge of the pond beneath the overhang of the trees until she heard the sound of rushing water. They had come to the stream that fed into the pond. But the water didn’t go straight in. A low brick structure had been built across the stream to block and control its flow. The structure was overgrown with several seasons of bushes, moss and vines. It took her a moment to remember what it was.
Years before, when Biltmore House was built, her old friend Mr Olmsted, the estate’s landscape architect, had decided that no estate was complete without a tranquil garden pond. He had told her that he had designed a similar pond in Central Park. She’d never been to New York City or anywhere outside the mountains. She couldn’t even imagine what flat ground looked like, how strange and disorienting it must be. But she remembered enjoying Mr Olmsted’s stories of the great city’s park. There were no natural lakes on the Biltmore property, or anywhere else in these mountains, but years before, an old farmer had dammed the creek to make a mill pond, so Mr Olmsted expanded it, redesigned it, and made it part of Mr Vanderbilt’s garden.
Serafina remembered that her pa had brought her out to this very spot and showed her the inlet to the pond.
‘It’s a gentle little creek,’ her pa had explained, ‘but every time a storm comes in, it swells up bad and wants to dump muddy water, sticks and debris into the pond. A farmer and a bunch of cows don’t pay no never mind about a muck-filled pond, but it would never do for an elegant gentleman like Mr Vanderbilt, so Mr Olmsted had an idea.’
As Serafina remembered her pa’s words, she couldn’t help but think about how happy and filled with life he’d been when he told her these stories.
‘Mr Olmsted had his workers build this brickwork structure across the creek to gather in the water and control how it flowed. You see, the water slips real smooth-like right into that big hole there. If the water’s clean, then it runs on towards the pond. But look down in the hole real close, Sera. You see that metal contraption in there? Mr Olmsted asked me to rig up a steel basket and a sluice gate so that if there’s a big storm, and the creek water is all muddy and full of debris, then it won’t flow into the pond.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Serafina had asked in confusion. ‘Where’s the storm water go? It’s gotta go somewhere, doesn’t it?’
‘Ah, you see! There’s the trick of it. When we built this thing, Mr Olmsted instructed his work crews to construct a long, winding brick tunnel called a flume under the pond. The tunnel goes from the inlet here, all the way underneath the pond to the far end, nigh on a thousand feet away. So, now, when it rains hard and the creek overflows with muddy storm water, the metal basket fills with sticks and debris, the weight of it tilts the mechanism, the sluice gate opens the entrance to the tunnel, and the whole mess of it pours in. The storm water and debris flows through the tunnel underneath the pond and gushes out at the far end without ever having a chance to muck up the clean water in the pond. From there, the storm water continues on its natural course down the creek, eventually ending up in the big river the way God intended.’
As her pa finished his story, Serafina could hear the reverence in his voice. ‘You see, Sera, you can accept things the way they are. Or you can make them better.’ And Serafina knew that both her pa and Mr Olmsted were the kind of the people who made them better.
As Serafina remembered her pa’s story, Braeden leaned down into the brick structure and used his lantern to look around inside. The stream was running strong and smooth with a large volume of rainwater pouring down into the main intake hole, but the water was clear of debris, so the metal sluice gate had not yet opened, allowing the water to flow directly into the pond.
Braeden began chucking sticks and branches into the metal basket.
‘What in the world are you doing that for?’ Serafina asked.
As he filled the basket with the weight of the branches, the sluice gate scraped slowly open. Braeden grabbed his equipment and climbed into the flume tunnel.
‘Braeden!’ she said in astonishment.
Down in a tunnel that ran beneath the pond was the last place on earth she wanted to go tonight. She’d already been buried once. She definitely didn’t want to do it again – especially if it involved getting drowned at the same time.
But as Braeden disappeared, she had no choice. She had no idea where his new recklessness was coming from, but she couldn’t let her friend go into that awful place on his own.
Pulling in a frightened breath, she climbed into the tunnel behind him.
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