Read Online The Moonlit Mind (Novella): A Tale of Suspense by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online Page A

was nine. Almost thirteen now. Still don’t know what it means.”
    “Birthday boy,” she says. “Tomorrow, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “The big thirteen,” she says.
    “Glad to be here.”
    Under the table, Harley chuffs.
    “
Lucky
thirteen,” she says.
    Crispin nods. “It better be.”

10
     
    July 27, three years and four months earlier …
    Crispin wakes at 11:31, blinking at the digital clock, not sure if it’s nearly midnight or noon. Daylight behind the draperies solves that puzzle.
    He doesn’t remember going to bed. In fact, he doesn’t remember much of anything after the previous evening’s dinner of tortilla soup and chicken nachos.
    As he sits up against the headboard, trying to clear his mind, someone knocks on the door.
    He says, “Come in,” and the maid named Arula enters pushing a breakfast cart, as if she intuited that he would sleep later than ever before and would wake precisely at this time.
    The kitchen has sent up enough of Crispin’s favorites for three breakfasts. A silver pot of hot chocolate, from the spout of which rises a fragrant steam. A buttered English muffin. A chocolate-chip muffin and an almond croissant. A generous bowl of fresh strawberries with brown sugar and a little pitcher of cream. A fat sticky bun crusted in pecans. In the warming drawer of the cart, if he should want them, are banana pancakes with maple syrup on the side.
    In her own way, Arula is as pretty as the other housemaids—it’s amazing how pretty they all are—and always friendly. As she opens the draperies to let in the morning light, she tells him that the day is warm, the bluebirds this year are bluer than they have ever been, and Mr. Mordred will be convening class today only from one o’clock until four, in the library.
    Surveying the offerings on the breakfast cart, Crispin feels slow-witted, fuzzy-minded. Although he has never been a moody boy, he is for some reason out of sorts. He complains that he can’t eat so much. “You’ll have to give part of it to Harley or someone.”
    Returning to the bed, Arula says, “Pish-posh, dear boy. These are your favorite things, and your brother has his own. Eat what you want, and we’ll throw away the rest. You’re a good boy, you deserve to have choices.”
    “It seems such a waste.”
    “Nothing is wasted,” she assures him, “if even the sight of it gives you pleasure.”
    This is a different cart than usual. There is no bed tray. The top of the cart itself swivels over the bed, conveniently presenting all these delicious items within easy reach.
    After adjusting her uniform blouse, Arula sits on the edge of the bed, grabs one of his feet, which is under the blankets, and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “You’re a fine and thoughtful boy, worrying about wasting things.”
    Although his memories of the past evening remain shapes in a fog, Crispin remembers something from the previous afternoon. “Why did you bathe Mirabell in milk and rose petals?”
    Only after he asks the question does he remember that he knows of this event because he and Harley were eavesdropping.
    Arula neither frowns nor pauses in surprise, but answers as if no one keeps secrets in Theron Hall. “In the very, very best European families, there are traditional beauty regimens that girls as young as six are expected to follow.”
    “We’re not European,” Crispin mutters.
    “You’re Crispin Gregorio now, and you certainly are European, at least by marriage. Remember, the family lives only occasionally in Theron Hall and has houses all over the world. Your mother wants to be sure you assimilate well and know how to live in any country in which you find yourself.”
    “I don’t want to take a bath in milk and roses.”
    Arula laughs sweetly and squeezes his foot again. “And you won’t. That’s just for girls, you silly thing.”
    Nibbling grudgingly on a croissant, Crispin says, “I’ll bet girls don’t like it, either.”
    “Mirabell loved it. Girls like