The Moonlit Mind by Dean Koontz Ch 6-1
6 July 26, three years and three months earlier … Having been healed by the power of his nanny's kiss or having been healed in spite of it, nine-year-old Crispin falls again into the cozy rhythms of Theron Hall. The world outside seems less real than the kingdom within these walls.
For some reason, Mirabell is excused from the day's lessons. The three-year age difference between Crispin and his sister ensures that he is less interested in what she's engaged upon than he would be if she were only a year younger or were his twin. Besides, girls are girls, and boys are most like boys when girls aren't around. Therefore, Mr. Mordred is even more interesting and entertaining when he is able to focus his attention on Crispin and Harley, with no need to tailor part of his lesson to a girl so small that her brothers sometimes call her Pip, short for pipsqueak.
Lessons begin at nine and are finished by noon. After lunch, Crispin and Harley intend to play together, but somehow they go their separate ways.
Most likely, Brother Harley is on a cat hunt. Recently, he has claimed to have seen three white cats slinking along hallways, across rooms, ascending or descending one staircase or another.
Nanny Sayo says there are no cats. Both the chief butler, Minos, and the head housekeeper, the formidable Mrs. Frigg, agree that no felines live in Theron Hall.
No cats are fed here and in this immaculate residence, no mice exist on which the cats might feed themselves. No disagreeable evidence of toileting cats has been found.
The more the staff dismisses the very idea of cats, the more that Harley is determined to prove they exist. He has become quite like a cat, creeping stealthily through the immense mansion, trying to sniff them out.
He claims to have nearly captured one on a couple of occasions. These elusive specimens are even faster than the average cat.
He says their coats are as pure-white as snow. Their eyes are purple but glow silver in the shadows.
Considering that Theron Hall offers over forty-four thousand square feet in its three floors and basement, Crispin figures that his brother might be engaged in a search for the phantom cats that will last weeks if not months before he tires of his fantasy.
At four o'clock on the afternoon of July 26, Crispin is in the miniature room. This magical chamber is on the third floor, across the main hallway from the suite in which the matriarch, Jardena, withers in reclusion.
The space measures fifty feet in length, thirty-five feet in width. Clearance from floor to ceiling is twenty-six feet.
In the center of this room stands a one-quarter scale model of Theron Hall. The word miniature seems inadequately descriptive, because each linear foot of the great house is reduced only to three inches in this representation. Whereas Theron Hall is 140 feet from end to end, the miniature is thirty-five feet. The real house is eighty feet wide, and the reduced version is twenty. The fifteen-foot-high likeness stands on a four-foot-high presentation table with solid sides rather than legs.
The model is such a painstakingly accurate rendering of the mansion that it's endlessly fascinating to Crispin. The walls are made of small blocks of limestone, cut thin to minimize the weight, but seemingly thick. The carved ornamentation in the window pediments and in the door surrounds match perfectly to the real thing. The balconies, the richly designed cornice, the balustrade that serves as a parapet, the nearly flat ceramic-tile roof, the chimney stacks with bronze caps have all been re-created with obsessive attention to detail. The window frames are bronze, with genuine glass for the panes.
Through the windows, he can study rooms precisely as they are in the true house. The miniaturized library features shelves and paneling of select walnut, exactly as does the life-size inspiration. Even the furnishings and the artwork have been reproduced by a team of modelers who must have worked thousands upon thousands of hours to complete this magnificent reproduction.
A wheeled and motorized mahogany ladder with handrails and a safety tether rises to an oval stainless-steel track on the ceiling, allowing an observer to circle the model, peering in the windows at any level. At various points on the ladder are controls with which he can power it left or right, or stop it at any desired vantage point.
Of Clarette's three children, only Crispin is permitted to climb the ladder and operate it. Other nine-year-old boys might be judged too young to deserve this permission, but Crispin is responsible for his age, and prudent. He always holds fast to the handrails and snaps the tether to his belt.
Now, as he motors the ladder to the west facade, to peer in at the ornately furnished rooms occupied by Jardena, he wonders—not for the first time—why the old woman lavished so much money on this miniature when she has the real house to enjoy.
According to Giles, his mother has always been as eccentric as his late father was industrious. The patriarch, Ehlis Gregorio, was obsessed with amassing enormous wealth, and his wife was driven to find imaginative ways to spend it. Seeking to understand the reasons for Jardena's extravagant whims is a waste of time, because she does not understand why she undertakes such things as the model of Theron Hall. She commits to such projects, Giles says, simply because she can afford to do them, and that is all the reason she needs.
As Crispin rides the ladder, the door opens below, and his brother, Harley, rushes in from the third-floor hallway. “Crispin, come quick! You've got to see this.” “There are no cats,” Crispin says. “Except the ones in that drawing-room painting, and they're not white.” “Not cats. Mirabell. You've got to see how she's dressed.” “She can dress any way she likes. Why would I care?” “But this is weird.” “She's always playing dress-up.” “Not like this,” Harley insisted. “Mom's dressing her, and it's just weird.” Before her marriage to Giles Gregorio, Clarette never had much time for her children. She says that she prefers to play with grown men. Children are her business, she explains, not a leisure-time activity. She sports or games, or cuddles, with them only on those rare occasions when vodka and more powerful substances put her in a foolish or sentimental mood.
Since the wedding, she has become even more remote from them. If anyone is raising Crispin, Harley, and Mirabell, it is the staff of Theron Hall.
“I heard Mom say, when they finish fitting Mirabell's new dress, they're going to give her a bath in warm milk and rinse her with aqua pura, whatever that is.” From high on the ladder, Crispin at last looks down at his brother. “That is weird.” “And there's other weird stuff like the hat they've made for her. You've got to come see.” The model of the mansion will be here for further exploration whenever Crispin wishes to return to it. He climbs down to a safe height before unhooking the tether and then descending the final ten rungs.
As Crispin follows his brother into the third-floor hallway, Harley whispers, “They don't know I saw. I think Pip's new dress is for some surprise party or something, and probably we aren't supposed to see it until then.” Hurrying down the back stairs, Harley explains that he was on the prowl for the mysterious white cats, alert and stealthy, when he came across the scene with their mother, Mirabell, and a housemaid named Proserpina. Among the many chambers on the second floor are a sewing room and a gift-wrapping room. They are side by side.
Harley quietly leads Crispin into the gift-wrapping room. The single curtained window provides little light.
An interior door connects this space with the place where Proserpina, not only a housemaid but also a seamstress, repairs and alters clothes for the family and staff. The door stands about three inches ajar.
Harley crouches low, and Crispin leans over him, so they can both spy upon the activities in the sewing room.
Mirabell stands on a yard-square platform about a foot high. Their mother kneels before her, fussing with the fancy collar of the girl's white dress. Proserpina kneels behind Mirabell, pinning the waistline of the frock for some adjustment that she apparently will make.
This is no ordinary dress. The fabric is shiny but less clingy than silk, less stiff than satin, so soft-looking. It almost seems to glow a little, as though the dress produces its own light. The cuffs and collar are made of lace, more intricate than any Crispin has previously seen.
Mirabell wears white slippers with white bows. Attached to each bow is what appears to be a cluster of red berries.
“I feel very pretty,” Mirabell says.
“You are very pretty,” their mother replies.
“These are like ballerina slippers.” “They are a little,” Clarette agrees. “Will we dance tonight?” “Some of us will dance,” Clarette says. “I know how to pirouette.” “Yes, I've seen you do it.” “This dress will really swoosh when I pirouette.” Mirabell's blond hair, usually straight, is curly now. Her dress glows, and her hair glimmers.
Perched on her head is not a hat, which is what Harley called it, but instead a wreath. The wreath appears to have been woven of real leaves of some kind, and with white ribbon. There seem to be acorns attached to it, as well as clusters of bright red teardrop berries like those on her slippers, three fruits in each cluster.
“If I take a bath in milk, won't I stink?” Mirabell asks. “No, sweetie. There are rose petals and essence of roses in the milk. Anyway, we'll rinse you afterward with nice warm water.” “Aqua pura.” “That's right.” “What's aqua pura?” “The cleanest water in the world.” “Why don't we rinse with it every day?” “It's only for special occasions.” “Does it come in a bottle?” “Sometimes. But we'll pour it from silver bowls. Wait till you see them, they're very pretty bowls.” “Cool,” Mirabell says. “Mommy, on special occasions, do you rinse in aqua pura?” For some reason, this question so amuses Proserpina that she can't contain a little laugh. Clarette says, “Aqua pura is only for little girls and boys.”
