She followed the river northward, wary of mists and shadows and creaks in the night.
Near midnight, she went up into the low, flat ground in the bend of the great river, into Biltmore’s vast farm fields. The fields were flooded. She crossed through acre after acre of ruined corn, potatoes, spinach, and dozens of other crops. She skulked quietly through the darkness past where Biltmore’s barns should have been. The rushing water had torn the barns into twisted heaps of broken lumber and washed them away. The farmers had moved the animals to the highest reachable ground, but many were still in danger. The herds of tan Jersey milk cows that Mr. Vanderbilt had imported from England were standing in their pastures in a foot of water. The black Angus cows were huddled together in groups on the mud-wrecked hills that rose like small islands out of the lake that had once been their pasture. The chickens, sheep, and goats were stranded on small strips of rocky ground. But for all the disruption, the animals of the farm were quiet tonight, just a soft rustle of movement in the distance, as if they knew there were more dangers to come.
It made her sad to see Biltmore’s once proud and productive farms brought to these conditions. The farms had always been such an important part of life at Biltmore. Mr. Vanderbilt had told her that his vision wasn’t just to build a pretty house, but to create a self-sustaining estate that provided its own food for the family, the guests, the staff, and the workers and their families. In a time when the rest of the country was moving into cities, building great factories, and steaming quickly through their lives on black machines, Biltmore was meant to be a community all unto itself, a quiet, pastoral place where people lived close to the earth.
Mr. Vanderbilt had been so successful in his goal that he began donating hundreds of gallons of milk to the hospital, orphanage, and other establishments in Asheville. Biltmore’s milk, butter, and cream became famous for its rich taste and high quality. And a new business was born.
Soon, hundreds of horse-drawn wagons emblazoned with “Biltmore Farms” were delivering fresh milk in glass bottles to doorsteps throughout the region. Serafina had sometimes seen the milk wagons trundling down the road in the early mornings.
But now the milk wagons were toppled over and broken to pieces by the storm, and the roads flowed like rivers.
Leaving the farms behind her, she came to where the Swannanoa River met with the French Broad, but instead of one river flowing into another, there was a flooded lake for as far as she could see.
As she traveled eastward, skirting the edge of the lake, she came to Biltmore Village, where years before Mr. Vanderbilt had created a small community for Biltmore’s artisans, craftsmen, and other workers. There were many shops and cottages in the village, a school, a train depot, and a beautiful parish church, which Mr. Vanderbilt had named All Souls Church because he wanted folk of all walks of life to join him and his family in worship each Sunday. The village streets were lined with lovely trees, wrought-iron streetlamps, and fine brick sidewalks for its citizens, but tonight, she could see that the village had been ravaged by the recent storms. Most of the cottages had been flooded or outright destroyed. Many of the trees had been toppled to the ground, their great trunks and branches lying across the streets. The once smooth brick sidewalks were wrinkled and broken with strange, snakelike patterns, as if the tree roots beneath had coiled and twisted.
Still in panther form, Serafina prowled through the darkened and abandoned streets of the village. Instead of joyous neighbors out and about enjoying the summer evening, or houses lit up with family warmth, the streets were empty and the houses dark. Slips of whispery ghost fog drifted through the village. Just out of town, she came upon a massive black iron beast half-buried under the wet shifting earth. She stared at the hissing hunk of iron with her panther eyes for several seconds until she finally understood what it was: a train locomotive, knocked on its side, the coals still burning in its belly, half-buried in mud. She could not tell if the train’s engineer had managed to escape the iron wreckage or not.
Feeling far more disturbed than she expected by the sight of it all, Serafina turned and started heading southward again, back toward home. She was more sure than ever that somehow she had to stop Uriah. What had started out as a blood feud against Mr. Vanderbilt and his estate years before had become a war not just against her and her companions, but against everything. Uriah wanted to destroy it all, and if she didn’t fight him, he would soon succeed.
She dove back into the forest again and traveled over the hill and dale of the land back toward the house. Finally, she passed through the house’s main gates, coming upon the mansion much like the line of carriages had a few nights before. But tonight was a very different kind of night, still and quiet.
As she looked upon the house, it was dark—not a single lantern, Edison light, or candle was lit. For the first time in her entire life, the house actually looked abandoned.
As she walked toward the house in panther form, she marveled at how quickly its spirit could change, how it could be the brightest, most vibrant and dazzling display of grandiosity one had ever seen, then fall into a dark and moody slumber.
She and her companions had been locking all the doors of the house each night, so she slipped inside using one of her old secret ways through the air shaft in the foundation, then went upstairs.
Waysa had not yet returned. Braeden, her pa, Rowena, and the servants were all asleep. The main floor of the house was empty, dark, and quiet.
For a little while, she took the opportunity to walk the deserted halls of Biltmore in the form of a black panther, her long black body slipping through the shadows, her tail dangling behind her, her bright yellow eyes scanning the darkness. It was a delicious feeling to finally be home in the form she was always meant to be. She remembered creeping through these darkened corridors at night as an eight-year-old girl, wondering why everyone had gone to bed. Back then, her bare feet had made a soft, almost undetectable noise as she walked, but tonight her furred paws were utterly silent on the smooth, shining floors. She had prowled these halls all her life, but never quite like this. It amused her to imagine one of the servants getting up in the middle of the night to use the water closet and coming face-to-face with a black panther.
Shifting back into human form, she continued walking from room to room, watching and listening. She was a twelve-year-old girl and the Guardian of Biltmore.