Serafina and the Black Cloak - Robert Beatty Page 0,59

day. She thought back to all the books her pa had brought her, and how she would spend hours poring over the pages under his guidance, sounding out the letters until they became words and sentences and thoughts in her mind. Always wanting more, she would keep reading long after he’d gone to sleep. Over the years, she’d read hundreds of books, each one opening a whole new world to her. She marveled at how this one room contained the thoughts and voices of thousands of writers, people who had lived in different countries and different times, people who had told stories of the heart and of the mind, people who had studied ancient civilizations, the species of plants, and the flow of rivers. Her pa had told her that Mr. Vanderbilt had many keen interests and studied the books in his library; he was considered one of the most well-read men in America. As she looked around the room at all the leather-bound tomes, the intricate knickknacks on the tables, and the inviting soft furniture, it felt like she could spend hours here just exploring and reading and taking afternoon naps.

“That’s Napoleon Bonaparte’s personal chess set,” Braeden said when he noticed her looking at the ornately carved pieces arranged in perfect rows on a delicate rectangular table. She didn’t know who Napoleon Bonaparte was, but she thought it would be great fun pushing the beautiful pieces off the edge of the table and watching them fall to the floor.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a small, dark oil painting in a wooden frame sitting on one of the tables among a collection of other items. The painting was so faded and worn that it was difficult to make out, but it appeared to depict a mountain lion stalking through the undergrowth of a forest.

“I think it’s supposed to be a catamount,” Braeden said, looking over her shoulder.

“What’s that?”

“My uncle said that years ago the local people used to use the phrase cat of the mountains, but over time it was shortened to cat-a-the-mountains, and eventually it became catamount.”

As Braeden spoke, she leaned close to the painting and tried to make out the details. It was difficult to tell, but the shadow of the cat looked weird and all ajumble in the bushes behind it. It almost seemed like the lion was casting the shadow of a human being. She vaguely remembered the remnants of an old folktale that she’d heard years before.

“Are catamounts changers of some sort?” she asked.

“I don’t know. My uncle bought the painting in a local shop. My aunt thinks it’s ugly and wants to get rid of it,” Braeden said, then pulled her away. “Come on. You wanted to know the meaning of a Russian word. Let’s look it up.” He led her to the corner behind the huge brass globe. “The foreign languages are over here.” He scanned the titles of the books, saying each one as if he enjoyed the sound of the words. “Arabic, Bulgarian, Cherokee, Deutsch, Español.” It was clear that Braeden’s uncle, who was fluent in eight languages, had taught him a few things. Now that they were in the world of words and books rather than scaling the precipitous heights, Braeden was back in his element. “French, Greek, Hindi, Italiano, Japanese, Kurdish, Latin, Manx—”

“I like the sound of that one,” Serafina interjected.

“Some sort of old Celtic language, I think,” Braeden said before continuing. “Norman, Ojibwa, Polish, Quechua, Romanian. Got it. Here it is. Russian!”

“Great. Look up the word otets.”

“How do you spell it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“We’ll have to go by the sound of it…” he said as he flipped through the pages until he came to the spot he wanted. “Nope, that’s not it.” He tried another guess. “Nope, that’s not it, either. Oh, here it is. Otets.”

“That’s it!” she said, grasping his arm. “That’s what Mr. Thorne called Mr. Rostonov that upset him so badly. Is it some kind of terrible insult or accusation? Is it a sharp-fanged demon or something?”

“Umm…” Braeden said, frowning as he read the entry. “Not exactly.”

“Well, what’s it mean?”

“Father.”

“What?”

“Otets means ‘father’ in Russian,” Braeden said, shaking his head. “I don’t understand. Maybe you misunderstood what Mr. Thorne said. Why would he call Mr. Rostonov ‘Father’?”

She had no idea, but she pushed closer to get a better view of the entry in the book.

“I can’t imagine Mr. Thorne making a mistake like that,” Braeden said. “He’s very smart. You should see him play chess. He