Serafina and the Splintered Heart Page 4

  Mr. Vanderbilt ascended the steps through the Walled Garden’s arched stone entrance and up the next set of steps to the path through the shrub garden. Serafina darted through the roses and then weaved behind the fruit trees to follow him, careful to avoid the detection of the guests. She had lost her ability to shift shape, but she certainly hadn’t lost her knack for sneaking unseen or unheard. She was as fast and light on her feet as she had always been.

  She followed Mr. Vanderbilt up past the purple-leafed beech and then the elm tree with its low, splaying branches, until he went up the steps and reached the Pergola.

  “Wine, sir?” a footman said as he hurried down from the house toward the party with his tray restocked.

  “No, thank you, John,” Mr. Vanderbilt said. “Do you happen to have a sweet tea on your tray?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, I do,” the footman said in surprise, for iced tea was not his master’s normal drink. Braeden, Serafina thought.

  “Thank you very much, John,” Mr. Vanderbilt said as he took the tea and kept moving. “Take good care of everyone.”

  “I will, sir,” John said, a worried twinge in his voice as he watched his master rush up the steps toward the terrace.

  Finally the footman turned and continued on his way toward the party.

  As Serafina slipped behind a tree trunk to avoid the passing footman’s notice, she couldn’t help but wonder about how little people noticed the things around them. She knew that theoretically she could walk openly among the guests of the house, and she had felt left out about not being there, but the truth was, she still felt far more comfortable spying on a party than attending it. And the soaking wet, grave-dirtied, dress-torn, bloodstained look of her would have shocked them all. Right now, she had her eyes fixed on one person, and that was Mr. Vanderbilt.

  Serafina went right after him. She ran across the gravel path, making barely a rustling step of noise, then bounded up the stone steps at the southeast corner of the house to reach the Library Terrace. It was a flat area just outside the glass doors of the Library with a view to the forest and the Blue Ridge Mountains. The terrace was covered by an arbor heavily laden with long, hanging purple wisteria. The vines grew thick and twisty around the arbor’s stout posts and up into its latticework above. The warm amber light of the Library fell through the open doors onto the terrace.

  A boy was sitting on a bench, facing out toward the forest. When she first saw him, she didn’t recognize him. But as she crept closer and saw his face, she knew.

  It was Braeden.

  But what she saw—the way he was sitting and the look of his face—struck her such a blow that she couldn’t help but suck in a gasp of air. She was too startled to move immediately toward him like she normally would have. She watched from the shadows and tried to understand what she was seeing.

  The first thing she noticed was that Gidean, Braeden’s once-beloved black Doberman, wasn’t lying at his young master’s feet like he normally did. The poor dog was lying twenty feet away, his head down, his ears drooped, a sad, dejected expression on his face, as if Braeden had sent him away, scorned and unwanted.

  Braeden sat on the bench alone. There was a plaid blanket around his legs despite the fact that it wasn’t cold outside. He was twelve years old, but he looked smaller, frailer than she had ever seen him before. His brown hair was longer, his skin different, paler, like he hadn’t been outside as much as he usually was. But what caught her most of all was that there were long, jagged scars on the side of his face, and his right leg had been strapped into some sort of leather-and-metal brace, with hinges at the knee.

  Her heart swelled with grief. She wanted to reach out to him. What had happened to Braeden? Had the dark forces she’d seen in the forest already attacked him?

  “It’s just me,” Mr. Vanderbilt said softly as he approached his nephew. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Braeden said, his voice somber, “I’m all right,” but his words were laced with tones that tugged at her heart.

  Braeden seemed so sad. His mouth hung grim. His eyes were dull of spirit. And as she crept closer to him, an even darker, more despairing expression clouded his face, as if something was suddenly causing him even more anguish than moments before.

  But she could see him trying to steady himself the best he could, at least for his uncle’s sake. “Did you come all the way up here for me?” he asked.

  “There wasn’t anything to do down there,” Mr. Vanderbilt said, smiling a little, and Braeden gave him a wan, knowing smile in return.

  Mr. Vanderbilt offered him the glass of sweet tea. It had always been Braeden’s favorite. But as he reached out with his left hand to take the glass from him, his hand was shaking so badly that it was clear that he wouldn’t be able to hold the tea without spilling it.

  “I don’t want that!” Braeden snapped at his uncle, knocking the tea away.

  Mr. Vanderbilt stepped back and took a long breath. The master of Biltmore wasn’t at all used to someone treating him like that, but after a moment, he stepped closer once more.

  “Try it again,” he said gently, handing the glass to Braeden. “Your right hand works better, I think.”

  Braeden looked at him sharply, but slowly reached over with his right hand and took the glass. His right hand was trembling, too, but not nearly as badly as the left.

  Steadying the glass of tea in two hands now, Braeden took a long drink in silence. When he was done, he nodded. It was as if he had forgotten how much he liked the drink. “Thank you,” he said to his uncle, almost sounding like his old cheerful self again for a moment, but then he pressed his lips together and shook his head, barely holding back tears.

  Mr. Vanderbilt sat on the bench beside him. “Is it bad tonight?”

  Braeden nodded. “For the last few weeks it finally felt like I was getting a little better, but all of a sudden, I feel so awful.”

  “Is it the party?” Mr. Vanderbilt asked regretfully.

  “I don’t think so,” Braeden said shaking his head, “I don’t know…maybe…maybe it’s the beautiful night, the moonlight, the stars. She loved nights like this.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  “Sometimes, I almost feel like I’m going to get back to normal again, but other times I feel a terrible aching inside, like she’s standing right beside me.”

  I am, Braeden, Serafina thought. I’m here! But she was so transfixed by what she was seeing and hearing that she couldn’t speak or move. It was like she was locked in a dream that she could only watch.

  “Sometimes,” Mr. Vanderbilt said gently, “you have to push on through your life even when you don’t feel too well. She might have left Biltmore for any number of reasons. But if the worst has happened, then we need to keep her in our hearts. She’ll live on in your memories of her. And she’ll live in my heart as well. She was a good, brave girl, and I know she was a very special friend to you.”

  Braeden nodded, agreeing with everything his uncle was saying, but Serafina noticed a peculiar expression on Braeden’s face, a hesitation in his movement. Serafina knew him well enough to know that there was something he wasn’t telling his uncle.

  Mr. Vanderbilt put his arm gently around his nephew. “No matter what’s happened, we’ll get through this.”

  It was strangely fascinating to watch and listen, to imagine a world where she had disappeared, but Serafina couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to tell them that she was alive and well, that she was finally home. And more than anything, she had to warn them. The talon-clawed creature, the black shapes, the storms, the dark river, the sorcerer…they were coming.

  Taking in a deep breath, she stepped out from behind the column and showed herself to both of them.

  “Braeden, it’s me. I’m back.”

  Braeden and Mr. Vanderbilt didn’t turn toward Serafina or react to her in any way. They seemed not to hear her or see her even though she was right in front of them.

  “Braeden, it’s me!”
Serafina said again more loudly as she stepped even closer to them. “Mr. Vanderbilt, it’s Serafina! Can you hear me?”

  But neither of them responded. She couldn’t believe it. This was impossible.

  “Braeden!” she shouted frantically. She was standing right in front of them and they couldn’t see her! What in the world was going on? Her body began to tremble with fear.

  Preparing to return to his guests, Mr. Vanderbilt patted Braeden’s shoulder. “Stay here as long as you like,” he said gently. “But when you’re feeling up to it, think about coming back down to the party.”

  “I will,” Braeden said. “It is beautiful. I can see the lights from here.”

  “I think maybe Serafina’s pa was trying to light Biltmore up so brightly that she could find her way home,” Mr. Vanderbilt said, his voice filled with a warm and gentle melancholy.

  Gidean, still lying twenty feet away, watched Mr. Vanderbilt walk back down toward the party, then looked glumly back at Braeden.

  “Gidean, can you hear me, boy?” Serafina said to her old friend, but he didn’t look in her direction, and his long, pointed ears didn’t perk up. He just gazed at Braeden with sadness in his eyes.

  How was all this possible? She was right in front of them, as plain as night.

  Serafina studied Braeden, and then looked at herself. The rays of moonlight coming down through the vine-covered lattice above her shone onto her body, casting her in an eerie, dappled-white light.

  Am I truly here? she wondered.

  Or am I still buried underground in the coffin and just imagining that I crawled out?

  Have I been cursed by a spell?

  Or am I some sort of whispery ghost or haint or spirit?

  She thought about how quickly she’d been able to dart away from the talon-clawed creature in the forest, how skillfully she’d escaped the sorcerer, how quietly she had slipped past all the guests at the party.

  She brushed back tears as the emotion welled up inside her. What had happened to her?

  Determined to make it stop, she stepped closer to Braeden.

  “It’s me, Braeden. I’m back. It’s me,” she said again, her voice cracking.

  But Braeden did not respond. He looked out across the moonlit forest and fields. His heart seemed forlorn, his mood dark. There was a tension in his face that she’d never seen before.

  She lifted her hand and looked at it. She slowly turned it one way and then the other in the moonlight. It seemed normal in every way to her, and yet he could not see her. She had felt hungry earlier, but maybe it was because she had seen the food at the party. She had felt pain when she fell from the tree, but maybe that was what she thought she should be feeling. Was she just remembering how things felt?

  Braeden breathed a long, heavy sigh, then began to move. He gripped the side of the bench, and with much effort, his arms shaking, he managed to get himself up onto his crooked legs. He stood lopsided, tilted over like his body had been broken. Clearly exhausted by the exertion of getting onto his feet, he rested there, leaning his shoulder against the column for a moment.

  When he tried to take a few steps forward, it seemed at first as if he was going to be all right, but then he winced and his leg buckled beneath him. The metal brace tripped him up and he lurched off-balance. Serafina reflexively darted forward to catch him so that he didn’t fall, but he hit the ground anyway, grunting in pain as he crashed into the gravel.

  Serafina stepped back in confusion. She was certain she had reached him in time, but she hadn’t been able to hold him up.

  As Braeden struggled to get to his feet, she stepped forward again and grabbed his arm to lift him. At first she thought she was touching him. She had to be touching him, because she could see her hands were on him. But then she slowly realized that she could not actually feel him the way she should, the true warmth of his living body. She knew she should feel it. She could imagine feeling it. But this was more like a memory of feeling.

  Her spirit was remembering the physical world the way an amputee lying in a hospital bed remembers his missing leg, feels the movement of it, suffers the pain of it, even though it’s gone.

  She slowly reached out and tried to touch his shoulder, and then his bare hand. There was something there, something like a physical object, but she couldn’t feel the living warmth of it, and it was clear that he couldn’t feel her at all.

  Up to this moment, she’d been interacting with the world based on her memory of her past life. But now she was like the amputee who sees with his own eyes that his leg is actually gone. It was becoming clear to her that she could no longer affect the physical world around her. It was as if the more she realized what was happening to her, the more she faded away.

  Gritting her teeth, she tried to hold herself together, but it was no use. She pressed her hands to her face and squeezed her eyes shut, trying just to breathe. She began to cry in confusion and fear. A dizzying nausea swept through her stomach. It felt like she was going to pass out, but she had to hold on.

  Braeden slowly dragged himself and his bad leg over to the terrace’s stone railing. He clung to the top of the railing for support as he looked out into the night. He seemed lost in thought, like he was remembering something. At first she thought he was gazing out at the trees and the bank of clouds rolling in across the night sky, but then she realized that he was looking in the direction from which she had come. He was looking specifically toward the graveyard and the angel’s glade.

  “No, she’s not missing,” Braeden said as if his uncle was still there. “She’s dead and buried.”

  Serafina stepped back in horror. She’s dead and buried, Braeden said.

  Was Braeden the one who buried me?

  Is it possible that I’m actually dead?

  She knew she’d been buried, there was no denying that, but dead?

  She didn’t feel dead.

  And even in Braeden’s discouraged hopelessness she sensed something else, some other uncertainty in his eyes and tone of voice. He seemed to be waiting, frustrated, biding his time. Despite everything, despite the anguish and pain, there seemed to be a faint trace of hope in him.

  After Mr. Vanderbilt went back down to the gardens to rejoin his wife and the guests at the evening party, Serafina wanted to stay with Braeden, just to keep him company if nothing else, but the longer she stayed there, the more upset he seemed to become. She could see it in the shaking restlessness of his hands and legs, in the pained expression of his face, and even the unsettled way he was breathing. The mere closeness of her presence seemed to sadden and disquiet him.

  After Braeden went to bed and the partygoers went up to their rooms in the mansion, Serafina went down into the basement to see her pa. She passed maids and manservants she knew by name. She saw footmen and assistants. But none of them saw her.

  When she finally came to the workshop, she found it empty. There was no sign of her pa. She waited a few moments, thinking he would soon return, but he did not.

  Her heart began to fill with a terrible dread. Had this, too, changed?

  She searched the basement room by room, the kitchens and pantries, the workrooms and the storerooms. Biltmore was just too large! She finally found her pa repairing the small, wheeled electric motor that powered the house’s dumbwaiter. She sighed with relief.

  Her pa was on his knees, pulling a wrench. The muscles on his bare, sweating forearm bulged. He was a large, gruff man with a barrel chest and thick limbs. He wore simple work clothes, a leather apron, and a heavy leather belt laden with tools. She had seen him working a thousand times, had handed him screwdrivers and hammers when he needed them, had run to retrieve parts and materials for him. But she’d never seen him like this. There was no joy in his work tonight, no sense of purpose. He moved slowly, doggedly, his eyes mournful. He was going through the motions of his life, but his spirit was gone.

  “Pa…” she said, standing before him. “Can you see me?”

  To her surprise, her pa stoppe
d his work. He slowly turned as if gazing at the empty air around him. It was clear that he couldn’t see her, but he stared at the emptiness for a long time as if he was sure something was there.

  After a few moments, he pulled out a rag and wiped his brow. Then he lowered his head and wiped his eyes, a wave of emotion racking through his shoulders. She could see the flicker of memories in his face, the sadness in his eyes. She didn’t know what Braeden knew of her demise, but one thing was certain: her pa thought she was dead.

  She could see it in his face and in the way he moved. His dream of having a daughter had been the joy of his life for these twelve years. But now she was gone. He was alone, true and certain.

  Seeing him there by himself, her heart broke.

  Finally, he gave up on fixing the machine and sighed as if it was all pointless anyway. She’d never seen him break from a job before the job was done. The idea of leaving a machine unmended was inconceivable.

  As he hoisted his leather tool satchel over his shoulder and trudged back toward the workshop, Serafina followed him. He walked slowly, without spirit or purpose, like a wanderer who has nothing to go home to.

  She stayed close to him as he moved back and forth in the shop, putting his tools away and preparing his late-night meal.

  As he cooked his supper of chicken and grits over his little cook stove and then ate alone, she sat across from him in her old chair. It was here that she used to listen to his stories and share her own, telling him about the rats she had caught or the falling stars she’d seen streaking through the sky. But now her plate and her spoon sat on the bench, unused for months.

  “I’ll eat my grits, Pa, I swear I will,” she said out loud as tears welled in her eyes.

  A little while later, when he lay in his bed and fell asleep, she crawled onto her own empty cot behind the boiler and lay down. She didn’t know what else to do.