Beatty - Serafina and the Black Cloak

Text copyright 2015 by Robert Beatty

Cover illustration 2015 by Alexander Jansson

Cover design by Maria Elias

Designed by Maria Elias

All rights reserved. Published by Disney Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

ISBN 978-1-4847-1511-6

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To my wife, Jennifer, who helped shape
this story from the beginning,

and to our girls
Camille, Genevieve, and Elizabeth
who will always be our first and
most important audience

Biltmore Estate

Asheville, North Carolina

1899

S erafina opened her eyes and scanned the darkened workshop, looking for any rats stupid enough to come into her territory while she slept. She knew they were out there, just beyond her nightly range, crawling in the cracks and shadows of the great houses sprawling basement, keen to steal whatever they could from the kitchens and storerooms. She had spent most of the day napping in her favorite out-of-the-way places, but it was here, curled up on the old mattress behind the rusty boiler in the protection of the workshop, that she felt most at home. Hammers, wrenches, and gears hung down from the rough-hewn beams, and the familiar smell of machinery oil filled the air. Her first thought as she looked around her and listened out into the reaching darkness was that it felt like a good night for hunting.

Her pa, who had worked on the construction of Biltmore Estate years before and had lived in the basement without permission ever since, lay sleeping on the cot hed secretly built behind the supply racks. Embers glowed in the old metal barrel over which he had cooked their dinner of chicken and grits a few hours before. They had huddled around the cook fire for warmth as they ate. As usual, she had eaten the chicken but left the grits.

Eat your supper, her pa had grumbled.

Did, she had answered, setting down her half-empty tin plate.

Your whole supper, he said, pushing the plate toward her, or youre never gonna get any bigger than a little shoat.

Her pa likened her to a skinny baby pig when he wanted to get a rise out of her, figuring shed get so furious with him that shed wolf those nasty grits down her throat despite herself.

Im not gonna eat the grits, Pa, she said, smiling a little, no matter how many times you put em in front of me.

They aint nothin but ground-up corn, girl, he said, poking at the fire with a stick to arrange the other sticks the way he wanted them. Everybody and his uncle likes corn cept you.

You know I cant stomach anything green or yellow or disgusting like that, Pa, so quit hollering at me.

If I was a-hollerin, youd know it, he said, shoving his poker stick into the fire.

By and by, they soon forgot about the grits and went on to talk about something else.

It made Serafina smile to think about her dinner with her father. She couldnt imagine much else in the worldexcept maybe sleeping in the warmth of one of the basements small sunlit windowsthat was finer than a bit of banter with her pa.

Careful not to wake him, she slinked off her mattress, padded across the workshops gritty stone floor, and snuck out into the winding passageway. While still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and stretching out her arms and legs, she couldnt help but feel a trace of excitement. The tantalizing sensation of starting a brand-new night tingled through her body. She felt her muscles and her senses coming alive, as if she were an owl stirring its wings and flexing its talons before it flies off for its ghostly hunt.

She moved quietly through the darkness, past the laundry rooms, pantries, and kitchens. The basement had been bustling with servants all day, but the rooms were empty now, and dark, just the way she liked them. She knew that the Vanderbilts and their many guests were sleeping on the second and third floors above her, but here it was quiet. She loved to prowl through the endless corridors and shadowed storage rooms. She knew the touch and feel, the glint and gloom, of every nook and cranny. This was her domain at night, and hers alone.

She heard a faint slithering just ahead. The night was beginning quickly.

She stopped. She listened.

Two doors down, the scrabbling of tiny feet on bare floor.

She crept forward along the wall.

When the sound stopped, she stopped as well. When the sound resumed, she crept forward once more. It was a technique shed taught herself by the age of seven: move when theyre moving, stay still when theyre still.

Now she could hear the creatures breathing, the scratching of their toenails on the stone, and the dragging of their tails. She felt the familiar trembling in her fingers and the tightness in her legs.

She slipped through the half-open door into the storeroom and saw them in the darkness: two huge rats covered in greasy brown fur had slithered one by one up through the drainpipe in the floor. The intruders were obviously newcomers, foolishly scrounging for cockroaches when they couldve been slurping custard off the fresh-baked pastries just down the hall.

Without making a sound or even disturbing the air, she stalked slowly toward the rats. Her eyes focused on them. Her ears picked up every sound they made. She could even smell their foul sewer stench. All the while, they went about their rotten, ratty business and had no idea she was there.

She stopped just a few feet behind them, hidden in the blackness of a shadow, poised for the leap. This was the moment she loved, the moment just before she lunged. Her body swayed slightly back and forth, tuning her angle of attack. Then she pounced. In one quick, explosive movement, she grabbed the squealing, writhing rats with her bare hands.

Gotcha, ya nasty varmints! she hissed.

The smaller rat squirmed in terror, desperate to get away, but the larger one twisted around and bit her hand.

Therell be none of that! she snarled, clamping the rats neck firmly between her finger and thumb.

The rats wriggled wildly, but she kept a good, hard hold on them and wouldnt let them go. It had taken her a while to learn that lesson when she was younger, that once you had them, you had to squeeze hard and hold on, no matter what, even if their little claws scratched you and their scaly tails curled around your hand like some sort of nasty gray snake.

Finally, after several seconds of vicious struggling, the exhausted rats realized they couldnt escape her. They went still and stared suspiciously at her with their beady black eyes. Their sniveling little noses and wickedly long whiskers vibrated with fear. The rat whod bit her slowly slithered his long, scaly tail around her wrist, wrapping it two times, searching for new advantage to pry himself free.

Dont even try it, she warned him. Still bleeding from his bite, she was in no mood for his ratty schemes. Shed been bitten before, but she never did like it much.