Serafina and the Black Cloak Read Online Free PDF Page A

Now look at ya. You’re
all scruffed up like a cornered possum.”
    Her heart sank. She was telling him the God’s honest truth, and he didn’t believe a word of it. She tried to keep from crying, but it was hard. She was going on thirteen and he was
still treating her like a child.
    “I wasn’t dreamin’, Pa,” she said, wiping a sniffle from her nose.
    “Just calm yourself down,” he grumbled. He hated it when she cried. She’d known since she was little that he’d rather wrangle with a good piece of sheet metal than deal
with a weepy girl.
    “I’ve gotta go to work,” he said gruffly as he separated from her. “The dynamo busted somethin’ bad last night. Now get on back to the workshop, and get some proper
sleep in ya.”
    Hot frustration flashed through her and she clenched her fists in anger, but she could hear the seriousness in his voice and knew there was no point in arguing with him. The Edison dynamo was an
iron machine with copper coils and spinning wheels that generated a new thing called “electricity.” She knew from the books she’d read that most homes in America didn’t have
running water, indoor toilets, refrigeration, or even heating. But Biltmore had all of these things. It was one of the few homes in America that had electric lighting in some of the rooms. But if
her pa couldn’t get the dynamo working by nightfall, the Vanderbilts and their guests would be plunged into darkness. She knew he had a lot of things on his mind, and she wasn’t one of
them.
    A wave of resentment swept through her. She’d tried to save a girl from an evil black-cloaked demon-thing and almost got herself killed in the process, but her pa didn’t care. All he
cared about was his stupid machines. He never believed her about anything. To him, she was just a little girl, nothing important, nothing worth listening to, nothing anyone could count on for
anything.
    As she walked glumly back to the workshop, she fully intended to follow her pa’s instructions, but when she passed the stairway that led up to Biltmore Estate’s main floor, she
stopped and looked up the stairs.
    She knew she shouldn’t do it.
    She shouldn’t even think about doing it.
    But she couldn’t help it.
    Her pa had been telling her for years that she shouldn’t go upstairs, and lately she’d been trying to follow his rules at least some of the time, but today she was furious that he
hadn’t believed her.
It’d serve him right if I didn’t listen to him.
    She thought about the girl in the yellow dress. She tried to make sense of what she’d seen: the horrible black cloak and the wide-eyed fear in the girl’s face as she disappeared.
Where had the girl gone? Was she dead or somehow still alive? Was there still a chance she could be saved?
    Snippets of conversation drifted down the stairs. There was some sort of commotion. Had they found a body? Were they all crying in despair? Were they searching for a murderer?
    She didn’t know if she was brave or stupid, but she had to tell someone what she’d seen. She had to figure out what happened. Most of all, she had to help the girl in the yellow
dress.
    She began to climb the stairs.
    Staying as small and quiet as she could, she crept up the steps one by one. 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. Something was definitely happening up there.
We’ve got to keep to ourselves, you and I.
Her pa’s warning played
in her mind as she climbed.
There ain’t no sense in people seein’ you and askin’ questions.
    She slinked to the top of the stairway, then ducked into an alcove on the main floor that looked onto a huge room full of fancy-dressed people who seemed to be gathering for some type of grand
social event.
    Massive, ornately crafted wrought-iron-and-glass doors led into the Entrance Hall, with its polished marble floor and vaulted ceiling of