uncreated.
His fear for Mirabell erupts into terror, and the fear that he previously did not feel for himself at last squeezes his heart.
He flees from his parents’ bedroom suite with no sense of how he might find and help his sister. He sprints along the hallway to the north stairs and spirals down.
By the time he reaches the ground floor, the thought driving him is that someone in the house will want to help him, that they are not all in league against him and his siblings. If not the chief butler, Minos, perhaps the junior butler, Ned. If neither of them, then maybe one of the housekeepers. Not Proserpina! Perhaps the head housekeeper, Mrs. Frigg. Someone will want to help him, one of those who always has a smile for him, who treats him with respect.
Not until weeks later does it occur to Crispin that in his mad search for a confidant and defender, he never thinks to leave the house and seek help from someone in the street, perhaps even from a policeman. He seems almost to be under a spell that prevents him from considering the world beyond Theron Hall.
Gasping for breath, frantic, he can find no one on the ground floor, not in any of the public rooms, not in the kitchen. No oneseems to be at work, yet the rooms in the servants’ wing are all deserted, the doors standing open as if everyone on the staff left together in response to some urgent call or alarm.
Intuition pulls him to the south stairs and down the winding treads to the basement, clutching at the decorative bronze railing for support. The door at the bottom of the stairs won’t open.
In the vast basement is a room with a steel door that’s always locked. He has previously been told that it is a fireproof vault in which are stored irreplaceable heirlooms of great value.
But never before has the main door to the rest of the basement been locked. He tries the lever handle again, with no success.
Beyond the door, from a distance, muffled voices rise and fall in time with one another. Chanting. Crispin isn’t able to make out the words, but the rhythm is ominous.
Although the voices are those of adults, as he presses his body against the door in an attempt to force it open, Crispin whispers,
“Mirabell?”
Another door lies at the bottom of the
north
stairs, a second entrance to the basement. Perhaps that will not be locked. And the elevator serves all floors.
When Crispin turns to climb the stairs, the cook, Merripen, is immediately behind him. Merripen wears a long black silk bathrobe and holds a stainless-steel thermos bottle, the top of which he has unscrewed.
9
The third of December, three years and four months later …
In the largely dark fourth-floor restaurant at the top of the department store, Crispin and the girl sit in a booth, facing each other by candlelight.
Before his arrival, she made chicken-breast sandwiches with provolone cheese, aioli, and watercress. With the sandwiches, she serves potato chips and little pickles that she calls cornichons.
She is sixteen but appears to be at least eighteen. She works at looking older.
During the past few years, Crispin has spoken to so few people that he wouldn’t be surprised if he lost the will or even the ability to speak to anyone. But he is comfortable with this girl.
“Hey, boy,” she says.
“Hey.”
“You been okay?”
“I get along.”
“They looking for you?”
“Always will be.”
“Your dog’s still sweet.”
Harley was lying under the table, on her feet.
“He smells good, too,” she says.
“We get pretty regular baths, one way or another.”
“He find you any money lately?”
“He led me to this parking garage one night.”
“Old Harley looking for some wheels?”
“He wanted to bed down there. I found out why.”
“Is there usually money in parking garages?”
“There was this time. Three in the morning, some guys meet to trade something.”
“We can figure out what.”
“They don’t know me and Harley are there.”
“Which is
His fear for Mirabell erupts into terror, and the fear that he previously did not feel for himself at last squeezes his heart.
He flees from his parents’ bedroom suite with no sense of how he might find and help his sister. He sprints along the hallway to the north stairs and spirals down.
By the time he reaches the ground floor, the thought driving him is that someone in the house will want to help him, that they are not all in league against him and his siblings. If not the chief butler, Minos, perhaps the junior butler, Ned. If neither of them, then maybe one of the housekeepers. Not Proserpina! Perhaps the head housekeeper, Mrs. Frigg. Someone will want to help him, one of those who always has a smile for him, who treats him with respect.
Not until weeks later does it occur to Crispin that in his mad search for a confidant and defender, he never thinks to leave the house and seek help from someone in the street, perhaps even from a policeman. He seems almost to be under a spell that prevents him from considering the world beyond Theron Hall.
Gasping for breath, frantic, he can find no one on the ground floor, not in any of the public rooms, not in the kitchen. No oneseems to be at work, yet the rooms in the servants’ wing are all deserted, the doors standing open as if everyone on the staff left together in response to some urgent call or alarm.
Intuition pulls him to the south stairs and down the winding treads to the basement, clutching at the decorative bronze railing for support. The door at the bottom of the stairs won’t open.
In the vast basement is a room with a steel door that’s always locked. He has previously been told that it is a fireproof vault in which are stored irreplaceable heirlooms of great value.
But never before has the main door to the rest of the basement been locked. He tries the lever handle again, with no success.
Beyond the door, from a distance, muffled voices rise and fall in time with one another. Chanting. Crispin isn’t able to make out the words, but the rhythm is ominous.
Although the voices are those of adults, as he presses his body against the door in an attempt to force it open, Crispin whispers,
“Mirabell?”
Another door lies at the bottom of the
north
stairs, a second entrance to the basement. Perhaps that will not be locked. And the elevator serves all floors.
When Crispin turns to climb the stairs, the cook, Merripen, is immediately behind him. Merripen wears a long black silk bathrobe and holds a stainless-steel thermos bottle, the top of which he has unscrewed.
9
The third of December, three years and four months later …
In the largely dark fourth-floor restaurant at the top of the department store, Crispin and the girl sit in a booth, facing each other by candlelight.
Before his arrival, she made chicken-breast sandwiches with provolone cheese, aioli, and watercress. With the sandwiches, she serves potato chips and little pickles that she calls cornichons.
She is sixteen but appears to be at least eighteen. She works at looking older.
During the past few years, Crispin has spoken to so few people that he wouldn’t be surprised if he lost the will or even the ability to speak to anyone. But he is comfortable with this girl.
“Hey, boy,” she says.
“Hey.”
“You been okay?”
“I get along.”
“They looking for you?”
“Always will be.”
“Your dog’s still sweet.”
Harley was lying under the table, on her feet.
“He smells good, too,” she says.
“We get pretty regular baths, one way or another.”
“He find you any money lately?”
“He led me to this parking garage one night.”
“Old Harley looking for some wheels?”
“He wanted to bed down there. I found out why.”
“Is there usually money in parking garages?”
“There was this time. Three in the morning, some guys meet to trade something.”
“We can figure out what.”
“They don’t know me and Harley are there.”
“Which is
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