Stories held power and everyone told one, whether the characters within the story knew it or not. It was a fascinating study-a beloved pastime-and welcome entertainment for a servant who loved books and lived to be invisible. Sometimes, I felt like them, wondering how the stories on the shelves might match or impact the stories of the lives stepping into the room. The host of characters from Pellegrini’s enormous painting stared down from their clouded perch on the ceiling as if watching the movements of the room from heaven itself. My gaze immediately moved to a shelf to my left that held some Brothers Grimm, Andersen, and even MacDonald, though most of the fairy-tale stories were scattered throughout the rest of the house. I emerged from the shadowed staircase into the massive room that woke with morning light like something from a fairy story. Few people appreciated such an appointment as I did. How could I? I was entrusted with a page-ridden wonderland. Vanderbilt had been kind enough to allow me to assume her position when she grew too ill to manage it, and I would not take the opportunity for granted. It was due to Mother that I obtained such a coveted position as the book maid. Mine to dust and organize and present with as much pride as each of the ten thousand book spines commanded from the two-story shelves surrounding the room. Every morning I would find my way to the secret staircase behind the massive marble fireplace and begin taking care of the library. I could have used myriad other entrances to the library, of course, but this one was my favorite. Gripping my skirt, I dashed down the hallway and around the corner, finally disappearing into the darkness of the secret staircase. Early morning stillness blanketed the room like the sunlight through the tall easternfacing windows of the grand stairwell, giving the dim passageway a sleepy golden hue. The main second-floor sitting room stood vacant as I peered around the doorway from the servants’ corridor. There were many pleasures in working in the illustrious estate house, but none rivaled seeing the expressions of guests as they stepped over the threshold into Biltmore’s library for the first time. My mother’s quote ushered my feet into a faster pace.

I smiled as I weaved my way down the narrow corridors of Biltmore’s servants’ halls, careful to keep myself hidden from the newly arrived guests. 5 Chapter 1 August, 1915 Biltmore Estate, Asheville, North CarolinaĪ ny story that begins with a library is bound to be an excellent tale.

The Thorn Bearer by Pepper D. Basham