Serafina and the Black Cloak: Chapters 1–3

She knew they were out there, just beyond her nightly range, crawling in the cracks and shadows of the great house’s sprawling basement, keen to steal whatever they could from the kitchens and storerooms.

She couldn’t imagine much else in the world—except maybe sleeping in the warmth of one of the basement’s small sunlit windows—that was finer than a bit of banter with her pa.

While still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and stretching out her arms and legs, she couldn’t help but feel a trace of excitement. The tantalizing sensation of starting a brand-new night tingled through her body.

She stopped just a few feet behind them, hidden in the blackness of a shadow, poised for the leap.

In one quick, explosive movement, she grabbed the squealing, writhing rats with her bare hands.
“Gotcha, ya nasty varmints!” she hissed.

Carrying the grisly beasts in her clenched fists, she took them down the passageway.

“You’re the Chief Rat Catcher,” he said.
However the words were intended, they emblazoned themselves in her mind.

And it was true that she had shown a natural-born talent for snatching the cunning, food-stealing, dropping-leaving, disease-infected four-legged vermin that so eluded the adult folk with their crude traps and poisons.

Mice, which were timid and prone to panic-induced mistakes at key moments, were no trouble at all for her to catch.

It was the rats that gave her the scamper each night, and it was on the rats that she had honed her skills.

She might bandy back and forth with her pa about all sorts of things just for the jump of it—like refusing her grits, sleeping all day and hunting all night, and spying on the Vanderbilts and their guests—but she never argued about this.

Over the years, her pa had taught her how to read and write pretty well, and told her plenty of stories about the world, but he was never too keen on talking about what she wanted to talk about, which was what was going on deep down in his heart, and what happened to her momma, and why she didn’t have any brothers and sisters, and why she and her pa didn’t have any friends who came ’round to call.

More and more she wondered what it would be like to have some sort of secret friend who her pa didn’t know about, someone she could talk to about things, but she didn’t tend to meet too many children her age skulking through the basement in the dead of night.

She had a skinny little body, nothing but muscle, bone, and sinew.

She didn’t own a dress, so she wore one of her pa’s old work shirts, which she cinched around her narrow waist with a length of fibrous twine she’d scavenged from the workshop.

He didn’t buy her any clothes because he didn’t want people in town to ask questions and start meddling; meddling was something he could never brook.

Here the dark, hardened mortar oozed out from between the roughly hewn stone blocks that formed the walls and ceiling, and she seldom went there because it was cold, dirty, and dank.

The piercing sound caused Serafina to jump, and she had to stifle her own scream.

Serafina’s pa had told her that’s how the red wolves chase down and kill deer in the mountains—with dogged stamina rather than bursts of speed.

When at last she reached the bottom, she followed a long, slanting corridor where the ceiling dripped with brown sludge. The whole dank, disgusting place gave her the jitters something fierce, but she kept going.

But when she glanced over her shoulder, the hooded man was flying through the air right behind her, levitated by the power of the billowing black cloak, his bloody hands reaching toward her.

All she could hear was that loathsome rattling noise as the cloak slithered and twisted its way around her body.

“I’m not going to hurt you, child…” came the hideous rasping voice again, as if the man wasn’t of his own mind but possessed by a demented, ravenous demon.

The folds of the cloak cast a wretched pall over her, drenching her in a dripping, suffocating sickness.

The Edison dynamo was an iron machine with copper coils and spinning wheels that generated a new thing called “electricity.”

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.

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.

He wore a white satin cravat around his neck, a brocade waistcoat, and pale gray gloves, all of which she thought went nicely with his silvery-black hair and perfectly trimmed sideburns.

Spellbound by the beauty of his playing, the ladies and gentlemen and even the servants stood quietly and listened with rapt attention, and they let their hearts soak in every measure of the music he made.

Serafina enjoyed the sound of his playing, but she also watched his dexterous fingers. They moved so fast over the strings that they reminded her of little running mice, and she wanted to pounce on them.

The other guests laughed at the two gentlemen as they quipped back and forth, and Serafina smiled.

She enjoyed watching the camaraderie of these people. She envied the way they spoke to one another and touched each other and shared their lives.

The boy wore a fine tweed riding jacket, a buttoned vest, woolen jodhpurs, and knee-high leather boots.

Did he think she was a vagrant who had wandered in?

Most of what she knew about him she’d overheard from the gossiping servants, and when it came to the young master, they sure did prattle on.

As the coterie of ladies and gentlemen began to flow out of the Tapestry Gallery and move toward the main doors, the handsome Mr. Thorne broke away and approached Braeden, interrupting her.

He’d always been a scowling-faced curmudgeon, and today was no exception.

Mr. Vanderbilt was a meticulous dresser, and as she admired his commanding presence, she couldn’t help but notice his clothes, too.

With a mighty twist of her body, she yanked herself out of Mr. Boseman’s grip and darted away before he could stop her. She bounded headlong down the stairs into the basement.