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

to be pampered.”
    “I’m going to ask her, and I’ll bet she didn’t like it.”
    “By all means, ask her the first time she calls from France.”
    Confused, Crispin says, “What do you mean—France?”
    “Well, if you weren’t such a terrible sleepyhead, you’d know. We’ll all be going to France in October. This morning, Minos and Mrs. Frigg flew to Paris to prepare the house there, and Mirabell went with them.”
    The filling of almond paste in the croissant, which has been sweet, suddenly seems bitter. He puts down the pastry.
    “Why would Mirabell go to France before the rest of us?”
    “There’s no bedroom in the Paris house suitable for a little girl,” Arula explains. “Mr. Gregorio wants his daughter to be as happy as possible. He’s authorized the expenditure of whatever is necessary to give her the most wonderful bedroom suite that she can imagine. She needs to be there to make choices.”
    “That doesn’t sound right,” Crispin says.
    “What doesn’t?”
    He frowns. “I don’t know.”
    Her hand moves up his leg, and she squeezes his knee through the blanket. “Oh, it’s right as rain. Mr. Gregorio is a generous man.”
    “What about me and Harley? Where are we gonna sleep when we get there?”
    “The Paris house already has bedrooms suitable for boys. You’ll be quite happy with yours.”
    He has been sitting up to the breakfast selection. He slumps back against the mound of pillows. “I don’t want to go to Paris.”
    “Nonsense. It’s one of the greatest cities in the world. You want to see the Eiffel Tower, don’t you?”
    “No.”
    “I swear,” Arula declares, letting go of his knee and rising from the bed, “you must have taken a grumpy pill this morning. Dear boy, France is going to be a grand adventure. You’ll love every minute of it.”
    “I don’t speak French.”
    “You don’t have to. All over the world, everyone who works for Mr. Gregorio speaks perfect English as well as other languages. When you leave the house in Paris, there will always be a companion with you to translate. Now eat something for breakfast, child. I’ll be back to collect everything later.”
    When he’s alone, Crispin pushes the cart aside, flings back the covers, and gets out of bed. He restlessly walks the room, stopping repeatedly at the windows to gaze out at the city.
    Having remembered spying on his mother, Mirabell, and Proserpina in the sewing room, the boy knows there is something else that he has forgotten. It eludes him.
    Finally, he recalls Nanny Sayo visiting him and his brother briefly during dinner to report that their sister had a migraine and would eat in her room after the headache passed.
    Don’t worry. Mirabell will be fine. But you must not bother her tonight
.
    He remembers going to bed before nine o’clock. He wasn’t sleepy. When Nanny checked on him, he pretended to be deep in dreams. After she left, he had watched the bedside clock count down to nine-thirty.
    He remembers nothing after that. Nothing. So he must not have been as awake as he thought. He must have gone to sleep, after all.
    In the bathroom, he turns the water in the shower as hot as he can stand it. He steps into the large cubicle, closes the door behind him, and inhales deeply of the billowing steam.
    The soap produces a rich lather. He always uses a washcloth to soap himself, but suddenly he realizes that he is using his hands instead. For reasons he can’t quite put into words, he is embarrassed to be touching himself in this fashion, and he resorts to the washcloth, as usual.
    The shampoo makes an even richer lather than does the soap, and as he washes his hair, he closes his eyes because sometimes the suds sting them. As always, the shampoo smells vaguely of carnations, but after a moment the scent changes to that of lemons.
    This fragrance is so extraordinarily intense and so unexpected that reflexively Crispin opens his eyes, and as he does he thinks he hears someone speak his