Serafina and the Black Cloak - Robert Beatty Page 0,39

master Vanderbilt,” Mr. Thorne said cheerfully, patting Braeden’s shoulder with his leather-gloved hand. “Sounds like you’ll have some big stories to tell everyone at dinner tonight about your adventure through the forest.”

“Did you see anyone else when you arrived?” Braeden asked him, still holding Gidean but looking around again for Serafina.

“Not to worry,” Mr. Thorne said. “Those yellow-bellied sorts aren’t the type of men to stick around after an attack. I’m sure they’re long gone by now.”

Despite his reassuring words, Serafina noticed that he was wearing an elegant dagger on his belt and wondered if he had half expected to encounter the bandits himself.

“I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Thorne,” Mr. Vanderbilt said, shaking his head angrily as he walked up to them. “But it’s hard to believe that bandits would venture such a brazen attack so close to Biltmore. I’m going to ask the police to increase their patrols of the road.”

Braeden didn’t seem to be listening to much of any of this. He just kept looking out into the trees. Serafina wanted to let him know she was all right, but she couldn’t let all those men see her, and she definitely didn’t want to have to explain who she was or why she had been in the carriage with Braeden, so she stayed quiet and out of sight.

Braeden squatted down and put his hands on Gidean, who was looking out into the trees in her direction. “Can you smell her, boy?” he whispered.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Vanderbilt asked gruffly.

Braeden stood, knowing that he’d been caught out.

“Who are you looking for, Braeden?” Mr. Vanderbilt asked him.

Serafina sucked in her breath. That was the question she had been dreading. Who was Braeden looking for? This is where her and her pa’s secret would come out. Braeden’s answer to his uncle’s question had the power to destroy her life.

When Braeden hesitated, Mr. Vanderbilt frowned. “What do you have to say, Braeden? Spit it out.”

Braeden didn’t want to lie to his uncle, but he shook his head and looked at the ground. “Nothing,” he said.

Serafina breathed a sigh of relief. He’d kept his promise. He wasn’t going to tell. Thank you, Braeden. Thank you, she thought, but then his uncle lit into him.

“You’ve got to buck up, son,” Mr. Vanderbilt said. “You’re twelve years old now, and that’s plenty old enough to handle yourself properly. Don’t be scared of what’s going on here. You’ve got to take charge of yourself. Be a man. We’re only dealing with bandits here, thieves.”

“I don’t think it was bandits,” Braeden said again.

“Of course it was. This is nothing a Vanderbilt can’t handle. Do you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” Braeden said glumly, looking at the ground. “Just hungry, I guess.”

Mr. Thorne stepped in to rescue him. “Well then, by all means, let’s get some food in you,” he said enthusiastically, putting his arm around Braeden. “Come on, I raided the kitchen on my way out. I brought a sack full of pulled-pork sandwiches, and if that doesn’t suit, we’ll dig right into the raspberry spoon bread.”

Braeden glanced one more time into the forest, then turned and followed Mr. Thorne.

Serafina desperately wanted to give poor Braeden some clue that she was out there and that she was safe. If she had been any other kind of girl, she would have left some sort of token for him when she left, a signal of their connection—perhaps a silver locket, a lace handkerchief, or a charm from her bracelet—but she was a wild girl and didn’t have any of those possessions to give.

As the men gathered around Braeden, happy and relieved that they’d found him, Serafina noticed Mr. Rostonov, the bearded and portly Russian ambassador, step away from the others and stand alone at the edge of the road. Braeden had told her that Mr. Rostonov didn’t know English too well. The poor man gazed tearfully into the forest, as if wondering whether his dear Anastasia had been murdered by what lurked in its shadows. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. Braeden had said that Mr. Rostonov and his daughter were only scheduled to stay at Biltmore Estate for a few days before they returned home to their family in Russia in time for Christmas. But when Anastasia disappeared, he had stayed on, continuing the search for her. Mr. Rostonov couldn’t bear the thought of returning home to his wife without his daughter. Back over by the carriages, some of the men went over to