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Authors: Jacqueline West

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BOOK: Spellbound: The Books of Elsewhere
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At first, this made Olive smile. But then something in Horatio’s words made her feel lonely and a little bit afraid—as though she were venturing out by herself into the darkness. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to go out there alone.
Taking a deep breath, Olive turned back toward the bedroom.
Morton had uncurled from his defensive ball. He was kneeling on the polished wooden floor, next to the scorch mark. The fedora sat on the floor beside him. His face was tilted downward so that Olive couldn’t see his expression, only the top of his head with its nearly white hair. Its wispy tufts shifted in the breeze.
Following Olive, the cats dropped lightly from the windowsill, gathering around Morton and the scorched spot on the floor. Leopold gave it a salute.
“She killed her,” Morton said so softly that at first Olive wasn’t sure whether she’d heard the words or imagined them. “She’s a murderer.” He turned to look up at Olive, his eyes wide. “We have to tell the police.”
“Morton . . .” Olive began, “. . . I don’t think the police would believe us. And, besides, Annabelle didn’t really
kill
her. She was just a painting.”
“But
I’m
just a—” Morton stopped. He looked back down at the scorch mark.
“Lucinda was still helping the McMartins,” Olive rushed on, trying to argue away the strangely guilty feeling that was creeping up into her chest. “She would have let Annabelle trap us and hurt us.”
Morton’s head moved just the teeniest bit, and Olive knew that he was listening.
“And you wouldn’t want to let the McMartins hurt anybody else the way they hurt you and your parents. Right?”
Morton’s head moved in a tiny nod.
Looking down at his stooped, skinny shoulders made Olive want to throw her arms around him and hug him until they both felt better. But maybe Morton wouldn’t want her to hug him. Even if Olive sometimes felt like Morton’s big sister, she
wasn’t
. . . not really. Morton’s actual big sister was the scorch mark in front of him on the hardwood floor.
Hesitantly, Olive leaned down and placed her hand on his head. “I’m sorry, Morton.”
Morton let out a long breath. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”
Then, wobbling a little, Morton stood up. His round face glowed in the fading purplish light from the broken window. Never quite meeting Olive’s eyes, he wrapped the corduroy horse in his arms.
Olive straightened up. “Let’s go home.”
26
 
A
S OLIVE, WITH the painting under her arm, Morton, disguised in the scorched-but-extinguished coat, and the three cats tiptoed quietly through Mrs. Nivens’s back door, Rutherford popped out from behind the clump of birch trees and erupted like a volcano of words.
“She interrupted me!” he exclaimed. “I was right in the middle of explaining the possible evolutionary links of the coelacanth when she told me she had something in the oven and just closed the door in my face. I’m sorry I couldn’t detain her any longer. I’ve been trying to get insi—”
“It’s all right,” Olive interrupted. “She’s gone now. For good.” Morton shifted uncomfortably behind her.
“I see,” said Rutherford. “And Annabelle McMartin?”
“She’s gone too. But not for good.”
Rutherford nodded. “Well,” he said after a pause, “we can consider a logical plan of action later. For now, I should be getting home, or my grandmother will worry.”
“Bye,” said Olive. She touched the little canvas bag that still hung around her neck. “Thank you for this. For everything. And tell Mrs. Dewey thank you too.”
Rutherford nodded at the bag. “The charm wears off, remember. You might as well eat the macaroon before it gets stale. And you can keep the knight.”
“Okay,” said Olive slowly, wondering again how many things Rutherford might know about magic that he wasn’t telling her. “Will I—will I see you again sometime?”
“Naturally,” said Rutherford, looking surprised. “I’m just two doors away; it would be very unlikely that you
wouldn’t
see me. And you know how to summon me if you need me.” With a gallant bow, he turned away and disappeared with a twitch of the birch trees. Olive glanced around the darkening backyard. The neat rows of plants and the perfectly trimmed grass were fading into the blue-black air. With no one to neaten and trim them, it wouldn’t be long before they vanished entirely. Mrs. Nivens’s house seemed to lean toward her, ghostly and accusing, dark and empty. It would remain dark and empty now, just like its mirror version inside the painting of Linden Street.
“Carry on, miss,” said Leopold softly from somewhere near her knees.
Olive nodded and led the way back through the lilac hedge into her own backyard.
 
“Is that you, Olive?” her mother called from the kitchen as Olive, Morton, and the three cats slipped through the back door.
“It’s me,” Olive called back. Morton and the cats darted silently up the stairs.
“Good. You were almost late for dinner,” said Mrs. Dunwoody, smiling at Olive from the kitchen doorway, her hands filled with a stack of plates. “You have just”—she glanced over her shoulder at the microwave clock—“one minute before everything is on the table. Go wash your hands.”
“I’ll be right down,” Olive called over her shoulder, hurrying after her friends to the second floor.
The nail where the painting of the forest had hung was still stuck firmly in its spot. Olive hoisted the heavy frame and hooked it over the edge of the nail. She stepped back, looking at the canvas. The forest lay under its unchanging moon, the white path disappeared between the trees, and the painting was back where it belonged. In spite of the bad memories the picture brought with it, Olive felt better knowing that it was safe inside the big stone house, where no one else could learn its secrets.
She reached out to give the painting a last straightening nudge. The frame didn’t move. She paused, then wrapped her fingers around its edge, pulling one way and then the other. Nothing. Heart pounding, Olive hurried to her right, toward the painting of Linden Street, and pushed and pulled on its frame as hard as she could. It didn’t move either. She had known it wouldn’t. And she knew it would be the same with every other painting in the house, just as it had been when the Dunwoodys first moved in. Olive’s hands slipped weakly off the edge of the frame. With Annabelle on the loose, Elsewhere must have regained some of its power.
Olive slumped against the wall, too exhausted to be surprised. The fury that had coursed through her body while she faced Annabelle was trickling away, and now Olive felt floppy and fuzzy and ready to just curl up in a ball someplace dark. She was tired of being afraid. She was tired of fighting. She was tired of
everything
. Raising her heavy head, she glanced back up at the painting of Linden Street.
In the distance, through a veil of mist, she thought she could see the people trapped inside. They rocked on their porches in the never-ending twilight; they gazed out of windows at a view that never changed. She could see the empty gray hulk of Morton’s house, far away—the house Morton would have to go back to, all alone.
But he
wasn’t
all alone.
The thought flared up inside of Olive like a tiny white fire. Morton still had her. And she had him. And they had the cats—even though Olive had almost lost them. And Rutherford. And Mrs. Dewey. Olive even had two parents who were waiting downstairs at that very minute to heap her plate with perfectly symmetrical portions of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. And maybe . . . somehow, somewhere . . . Morton had two parents who were waiting for him too.
Olive wrapped her fingers tight around the frame surrounding the painting of Linden Street. She made a silent promise to Morton and Horatio and Leopold and Harvey, and to all the people who were still waiting inside of Elsewhere. Then she straightened her shoulders and headed into her bedroom.
Inside, she found Morton wriggling out of the scorched remains of the trench coat. Leopold, Harvey, and Horatio sat on the pillows, watching him. Their eyes flickered to Olive as she came in.
“I think we will spend the night at Morton’s house, miss,” said Leopold. “If you have no further need of us, that is.”
“No,” said Olive. “That’s a good idea. I’m glad he’ll have company.”
Harvey stuck his paint-splotched head out into the hallway. “The corridor is unguarded,” he whispered back into the room. “We must make our move.”
Bumping each other out of the way, Harvey and Leopold stole through the bedroom door. Morton trailed after them, carrying the blue corduroy horse. He didn’t look up as he passed the spot where Olive stood, not even when she put her hand on his arm. But he did stop walking.
“Morton,” she whispered, “I’m sorry that things were how they were. I mean, I wish everything could have been different for you. I wish I could have made them different. I wish . . . I wish tonight didn’t have to happen. I wish none of it ever had to happen.”
Morton dropped his head. Olive couldn’t tell if this was meant to be a nod, or if he was only staring down at the carpet. But then he turned to look at her over his shoulder, and his eyes met hers.
“I don’t want to quit trying,” he said firmly. “I don’t want
you
to quit.” Then, without another word, he slipped out into the hallway. Horatio and Olive were left alone.
“I’m scared, Horatio,” Olive whispered, the doubts creeping back. “I don’t feel safe here anymore.”
“You’re not,” Horatio answered. He dropped gracefully to the floor, his orange bulk alighting without a sound. “But you’ve got us on your side. Remember that.”
After a cautionary glance in all directions, Horatio slipped into the hallway. By the time Olive stepped out after him, he too had disappeared into the painting of Linden Street.
Olive stood in her open bedroom door. The house creaked and shifted around her, buffeted by the evening wind. The dark hallway dwindled away in two directions. From below her came the sound of her parents’ voices and the clinking of dishes, carried on a soft wave of cooking smells. Olive walked slowly back down the staircase and into the light.
The dining room chandelier was glowing cheerily. Mrs. Dunwoody let Olive light the candles on the table, and the three Dunwoodys sat down together. The darkness outside closed over the windows like velvet curtains. Olive couldn’t see through the pane. All she could see, when she looked at the glass, was the reflection of her own little family gathered around the table, passing each other the steaming dishes, all safe and sound inside, smiling as though everything was right with the world. It would be so easy to believe that everything
was
right.
Up and down Linden Street, a few brown petals were beginning to drop from summer flowers. Leaves rustled softly in the trees. Lamps glowed cozily behind closed curtains. The first edge of autumn hung in the breeze that whispered across porches and stoops, knocking gently at closed doors. And somewhere out there, in the darkness, Annabelle McMartin was free again.
About the author
 
JACQUELINE WEST is obsessed with stories where magic intersects with everyday life—from talking cats, to enchanted eyewear, to paintings as portals to other worlds. What paintings might
she
sneak into if she got her hands on Olive’s glasses? “I would probably have to go with Salvador Dalí’s paintings,” she says, “because they would be such amazing worlds to explore. I imagine everything would feel rubbery and slick, sort of like Silly Putty or fried eggs.” Jacqueline lives with her husband in Red Wing, Minnesota, where she dreams of talking cats, Silly Putty, and many more adventures for Olive, Morton, and Rutherford.
BOOK: Spellbound: The Books of Elsewhere
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