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Authors: Jacqueline West

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BOOK: Spellbound: The Books of Elsewhere
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Olive gave a wan little smile. She sidled carefully past her father, who had gone back to sighing and beaming at the morning sun, slipped through the door, and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
The spellbook lay on her bed, its leather cover sparkling amid the rumpled blankets. Now the sparkling didn’t seem enticing to Olive. Now it seemed malicious, like the glint in someone’s eye before he pelts you with a spitball. Olive turned away.
First, she changed into a clean set of clothes, picking out her darkest pants and shirt. She tucked the little bag from Mrs. Dewey carefully down her collar, where it scratched lightly against her skin. Then she took a piece of paper and a pen out of her art supply drawer and sat down on the edge of the bed to write.
“Horatio,” she read aloud, “I don’t know if you’re nearby, or if you can hear me, or if you’re even listening to anything I say anymore. That’s why I’m writing this note too, just in case. I should have believed you about the book. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry I ever used it. I don’t want to be like
THEM,
and I know the book is theirs, not mine, and it isn’t good for me. So I want you to put it away somewhere. Hide it so no one can find it, not even me. Because I trust you. I really, really do. Love, Olive.”
Olive folded the note in half and wrote
Horatio
on the outside. She left it on top of the book’s sparkling leather cover. Then she stepped out into the hallway and closed the door firmly behind her.
 
Olive, Leopold, and Harvey (who was still covered in black paint and quite a lot of sticky leaves, because there were more important matters at hand than cat baths) stood together at the bottom of the hill inside the painting of Linden Street. Olive was dreading this next step, but she knew there was no way around it. She owed it to Morton.
One more time, she checked that the photograph of Lucinda and Annabelle was still safe in her pocket. Harvey had been more than delighted to retrieve the photo from the scrapbook between the disembodied hands in the attic, once Olive had explained that it was a top-secret, type-A, sealed file, required to bring down an internal ring of spies.
“Come on, Agent Olive!” Harvey called over his shoulder, taking off toward the street. “Time is of the essence!”
Leopold gave her a reassuring nod, and together they hurried up the misty hill toward the row of houses.
As they approached the tall gray house, a familiar voice trailed toward them across the twilit lawn. The cats crouched behind a little roll in the turf, peeping over the edge.
“Ready . . . set . . . go!” There was a muffled
thwump
. “I win again!”
Olive could hear the rustling of Morton’s big cotton nightshirt before she even caught a glimpse of him. He was racing toward his house, climbing up the steps, hopping onto the porch rail, and hoisting himself from there onto the porch’s roof.
“Ready . . .” he yelled, backing up toward the inner edge of the roof. “Set . . .”
“Morton, NO!” shouted Olive.
Morton teetered, glancing around until he caught sight of Olive staring up at him. “Why did you stop me?” He flapped his arms angrily. “That one was a draw, Elmer. It doesn’t count,” he said, turning toward another spot on the ground. “I know. She always ruins things.” He shot Olive a glare.
“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself,” said Olive, trying to hold on to her patience, which, in Morton’s presence, often behaved like a slippery fish.
“Watch me,” said Morton. Then he ran off the edge of the porch roof.
Involuntarily, Olive let out a squeak. Morton landed with a
thump
on both feet and turned to her with a smug little smile. “Told you,” he said. “I jumped from the very top before, and it didn’t even hurt. Well, it
hurt,
but then the hurt went away. See?” He pulled up the hem of his nightshirt, showing Olive his lower leg. “The bone went all funny, but then it snapped back again. I didn’t even get any bruises.”
Olive squinted through the twilight at Morton’s shin. “You mean your leg broke, and then it healed?”
“I guess so,” said Morton.
“I suppose that makes sense,” murmured Olive, kicking away an acorn that popped up again in the very same spot. “Who’re you playing with?”
“Elmer Gorley,” said Morton, flopping down onto the grass and glancing over his shoulder at the spot where Elmer supposedly stood. “We’re seeing who can jump the farthest. I always win.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun. If you know you’ll always win, I mean.”
Morton squinted up at her. He gave a little shrug. “It’s better to play with somebody than nobody.”
Olive couldn’t think of what to say to that. Except
I’m sorry
. So she did.
“I’m sorry, Morton,” she said softly, looking down at the dewy ground near Morton’s bare feet. Somehow even Morton’s toes looked accusing. “I wasn’t being a very good friend . . .”
“Friend?” Morton repeated. He folded his skinny arms across his chest. “I didn’t think you wanted to be my friend at all anymore.”
Morton’s words sank into Olive’s stomach like a handful of rocks. She thought about all the times she had chosen the spellbook over him, ignoring him because she had more exciting things to do. She swallowed. It was going to be very scary to say what came next. “I want to be your friend, Morton,” she whispered. “I’ll try to be a better one. I want to help you. Because I . . . I care about you. And I think I finally found out some things about your family. Important things.”
Feeling like someone about to cross a very wobbly bridge, Olive pulled the photograph out of her pocket. She held it out to Morton.
“That’s your sister, isn’t it?” she asked as Morton frowned down at the photograph. “Lucinda? Or Lucy, for short?”
Morton didn’t answer.
“And that’s Annabelle McMartin with her. The Old Man’s granddaughter.”
Morton gave a little twitch.
“The one who grew up in my house, and who got out of her portrait”—Olive coughed, deciding not to mention
how
she’d gotten out—“and who tried to trap us, inside that painting of the forest . . .”
Morton still stared silently at the photograph.
“They were friends, weren’t they? Annabelle and Lucinda?” Olive asked, her voice almost a whisper. “And Lucinda wanted to—”
Morton hopped to his feet as though he’d been pinched. “Don’t you talk about my sister like that!” he shouted.
“Like
what?
” asked Olive, stunned. “I just think I know—”
“No you don’t!” yelled Morton, clenching his fists. “Lucy wouldn’t have done it! It wasn’t her! You don’t know that! You don’t know ANYTHING!!”
“Well, I sure don’t know
what you’re TALKING ABOUT!
” Olive yelled back.
Along Linden Street, a few curious faces popped through open windows.
“She wouldn’t—” Morton shouted, choking on a sob. He whirled toward Olive. “You’re not
helping
!” he yelled. “You just come in here because you’re bored, you make me feel bad, and then you leave again, and I’m stuck here! You just make everything worse!” Morton ran toward the giant oak that towered over the lawn. “Just go away! GO AWAY!!”
“Fine!” yelled Olive. And, because there wasn’t anything else to do, she kicked a pile of acorns as hard as she could, sending them clacking and clattering into the street before they turned and rolled back into their original places. But before Olive could stalk into the street herself, the cats popped up, blocking her way.
“Don’t give up on him, miss,” said Leopold softly.
“Do you want me to climb up and wrestle him down for you?” offered Harvey, looking toward the oak tree with an eager glint in his eyes.
“No,” Olive sighed. She tugged exasperatedly at her hair for a moment, rolled her eyes at the purple sky, took a deep breath, and spun around, heading back toward the oak tree.
Morton had disappeared among the leaves. Olive moved closer to the trunk, looking up into the branches with an expression that was as sweet and patient as she could possibly make it.
“Morton?” she called.
An acorn thwapped her on the crown of her head.
“Ow!” Olive shouted, rubbing her scalp. “Morton, that really hurt!”
For a second, there was no answer. Then a voice high in the branches muttered, “Good.”
Holding her hands protectively over her head, Olive scanned the leaves again. “Look,” she began, “I’m not asking about this to upset you. I need your help, Morton. Please.”
The tree gave an angry
hmmph
sound.
“I’m sure your sister loved you, Morton,” said Olive. “In fact, I think . . . I think she
still
loves you. But the McMartins have a way of making people do things they wouldn’t normally do.” She glanced over her shoulder at the bright green eyes of Leopold and Harvey. “They can make us hurt the people we really love.”
The branches began to rustle. As Olive watched, Morton’s feet appeared, followed by the rest of his nightshirt-covered body and, finally, his distrustful face. He stopped a few feet above her head.
“Morton,” Olive began, “I didn’t mean to make you mad—”
But Morton cut her off before she could finish. “Lucinda used to be nice to me,” he said. “She made me things. Like pancakes. She fixed my socks when they got holes. But then she made friends with . . . with . . .” Morton seemed to struggle with the words. “. . . With the people next door. That girl. The mean one. And then she wasn’t nice anymore.”
Olive watched while Morton dropped from the low branches to the ground. He crouched down, picking up an acorn and throwing it with all his might down the street. “Mama and Papa said she couldn’t go over to the stone house anymore. And then Lucy got really mad. And then the bad stuff started—” Morton stopped. He picked up the same acorn again, but this time his throw was weaker. The acorn bobbled along the pavement a few yards away, then popped back up in its assigned place.
Olive held very still.
“I didn’t think she’d really hurt them . . .” whispered Morton. He was staring at the ground, so Olive couldn’t see his face.
Olive dropped to her knees in front of him. “Morton, maybe she didn’t,” she whispered back. “Maybe the McMartins put them in a painting somewhere.”
Morton’s eyes widened. His eyebrows rose until it looked like they were trying to escape into his hair. “
Where?
”
“Well, that’s the problem. We don’t know where,” said Olive, wishing with all her heart for something better to say. “But if anybody knows, it’s your sister. And she’s still alive. Sort of. She’s . . . like you.”
Morton’s eyebrows pulled together, turning his face into a crinkled moon.
“She lives next door,” Olive went on. “She’s a painting, but nobody else knows it. Just me and the cats and Rutherford.”
“Rutherford?” Morton’s frown deepened.
“A neighbor boy who’s been helping me,” Olive plowed on. “But Mrs. Nivens—I mean, Lucinda—is probably not going to tell
us
where your parents are. She’s still trying to help Annabelle McMartin.”
“It’s true, Agent M,” said Harvey, zooming across the lawn. “She’s already retrieved the evidence and is planning to bring down the government
from the inside
.”
“He means that she has the painting with Annabelle in it,” Olive translated. “And she’s going to let her out.”
“If she hasn’t done it already,” Harvey put in helpfully.
Olive glared at the cat. “Thank you, Agent 1-800.” She turned back to Morton. “That’s why we need you. You know your way around that house. You can help us sneak in. You can help us search. And maybe if Lucinda sees you . . .” Olive finished slowly, “Who knows?”
Still frowning, Morton got to his feet. He kicked at the ground and folded his scrawny arms across his chest. Then he nodded.
“I can take care of her,” he said. “She’s just my big sister.”
23
 
A
S IT TURNED out, distracting Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody while the cats smuggled Morton out of the painting was much easier than Olive had feared.
After lunch, the three Dunwoodys went out to the front porch to finish their lemonade and cookies. While her parents rocked on the porch swing, Olive stood next to the railing, tapping her foot impatiently. Near her tapping toes, a chain of ants was climbing up onto the porch, using each other’s bodies as bridges to get across the gaps in the floorboards in order to reach a cluster of cookie crumbs.
“How do ants know to do that?” she wondered aloud.
Mr. Dunwoody hopped up from the porch swing. He bent over the chain of ants. “Ah, yes,” he breathed, his eyes brightening behind his thick glasses. “Fascinating, isn’t it? Even without any central system of control, communication of the various entities enables them to reach a common goal.”
Mrs. Dunwoody got up and peered eagerly over her husband’s shoulder. “Yes,” she agreed. “It requires message passing, but in this case, each autonomous computational entity can only communicate with its nearest neighbors. It does make one wonder what sort of pattern emerges . . .”
BOOK: Spellbound: The Books of Elsewhere
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