Serafina and the Black Cloak - Robert Beatty Page 0,24

her ears.

“I’m telling you it’s true!” a young man whispered.

“I heard about it, too,” whispered another. “My grandmama told me that there’s an old cemetery out there with hundreds of gravestones, but the bodies are missing!”

“I heard there’s an old village,” said a third voice. “It’s all overgrown and taken back by the forest, like everyone who lived there abandoned their houses.”

Serafina had heard the tall tales passed around among the kitchen folk at night, but she’d never been too sure whether she was supposed to believe them or not.

Every place she went in the house that day, she overheard conversations—gentlemen discussing whether detectives should be called in to investigate the missing child; servants trading stories about suspicious guests; and parents arguing about the best way to protect their sons and daughters from getting lost in the giant house without being rude to the Vanderbilts. And now they were talking about the old cemetery in the woods.

She kept thinking about the Man in the Black Cloak. If he was one of these people, he could be lurking in any corridor or room. How do you tell a friend from an enemy just by looking at him?

It seemed like the farther she went, the more questions she had. The only thing certain so far was that the search continued and they still hadn’t found Clara Brahms. Either alive or dead.

Then she had an idea. If the Man in the Black Cloak was some sort of wraith that drifted out of the forest at night, or if he conjured himself out of the ether in the basement, then she probably wouldn’t find very much evidence of him in the upper floors of the house. But if the Man in the Black Cloak was at least partially mortal and resided at Biltmore, then he’d have to stash his cloak someplace when he wasn’t wearing it. If she could find the cloak, then maybe she could find the man.

The closets and storerooms throughout the house were some of her favorite hiding spots, so she knew them well. When ladies and gentlemen came to Biltmore, they usually exited from their carriages at the front door. But in bad weather, they used the covered porte cochere at the north end of the house, near the stables. Always just out of sight, darting and dodging, creeping and crawling, she made her way there.

The coatroom was dark and cramped, which suited her just fine. She loved closets. As she pushed her way through the thick forest of coats, cloaks, stoles, and capes, she searched the hangers one by one, looking for a long black satin cloak. When she reached the back wall of the coatroom without finding it, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment.

As she crept out of the coatroom, she realized that she’d have to go to Braeden without any proof, but the truth was that she hadn’t been able to find him, either.

You’ve got to think, girl, she heard her pa telling her in the tone he used when she couldn’t reckon one of her lessons. Use what you know, and think it through.

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