“Shh,” whispered Annabelle, her lips curved in a sweet little smile. “Let’s not disturb the neighbors.”
Her cold, strong hands wrapped around Olive’s and Morton’s throats. Both of them let go of the frame, trying to pry her fingers away, and immediately began to tilt backward into the dark and windy forest.
“NO!” Olive choked, thrashing and kicking in an attempt to knock the spectacles off of Annabelle’s smiling face. The muscles in her stomach and her legs were burning with effort, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. “Harvey! Rutherford! Help!” But Annabelle’s reach was long, and she kept her icy hand clamped tight around Olive’s throat, forcing her into the painting.
“Help!” Olive screamed again, just before the upper half of her body toppled backward. Annabelle gave her a powerful shove, and Olive found herself suddenly hanging upside down inside the painting, with her legs locked around the bottom of the frame as though it were a rung on the monkey bars. Cold air and darkness washed over her. The bony trees hung, upside down, in front of her, beckoning with their bare branches. Just above her, she glimpsed Morton’s terrified face and thrashing arms as Annabelle tried to push him in after her.
“No,” she heard someone say. “You can’t do this to him!”
Annabelle’s face vanished from the frame. Morton reached out, grabbing Olive’s arm, and she managed to swing herself up into sitting position. Holding on to each other, they scrambled over the edge of the frame. Olive felt the forest wind die away as the canvas turned solid behind them.
Mrs. Nivens had grasped Annabelle by the back of the blouse, yanking her toward the center of the bedroom. As Olive and Morton watched, huddling against the side of the frame, Annabelle wheeled around and slapped Mrs. Nivens, hard, on the cheek. Then, holding her by both wrists, Annabelle shoved Mrs. Nivens backward across the floor, toward the painting.
“Climb in,” Annabelle said. “You and your little brother can burn together. It will be nice and cozy.”
“Wait,” said Mrs. Nivens, her voice rising, shrill and breathy. “You said—you promised to teach me, to take me into your family. I’ve served you all this time; I brought you back—”
Annabelle laughed a light, tinkling laugh, like bits of broken crystal falling to a stone floor. “You, Lucinda?” She shook her head. “If tonight has shown us anything, it’s that you are not the sort of apprentice we need.” Annabelle flicked her wrist, mumbling a few words that Olive couldn’t catch. Floating above the tips of her fingers appeared a small, shimmering ball of fire. “Now, climb in, or I’ll burn your little brother right here.”
Morton gave a strangled yelp. A flood of furious words crashed through Olive’s brain, but she couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t just make Annabelle angrier. She wrapped her arms protectively around Morton and felt the little canvas bag tucked inside her shirt shift against her skin.
“I—p-please, Annabelle,” Mrs. Nivens stammered as Annabelle steered her toward the painting. “Don’t do this. We’ve been friends since we were children. I—”
Annabelle gave a light, irritated sigh. “That’s enough, Lucinda. Get in.”
But Mrs. Nivens didn’t—or maybe couldn’t—move.
The little shimmering ball of fire floated a few inches higher above Annabelle’s hand. “It’s your choice,” she said. Then, before Olive could move or think or even be sure what was happening, Annabelle flicked her wrist, and the ball of flames shot across the room, straight at Morton.
25
OLIVE HAD ALWAYS assumed that if Mrs. Nivens moved too quickly—that was, if she was even capable of moving quickly—she would break into pieces, like a frozen stick of butter. But as it turned out, Mrs. Nivens could move quickly. Very quickly.
Morton and Olive hadn’t even had time to duck out of the way before Mrs. Nivens had thrown herself in front of them. The ball of flames struck her in the chest, bursting like a firework into shafts of sparkling color. Flames rippled across her arms, up into her neatly combed hair, down to the tips of her high-heeled shoes. Aldous McMartin had let out a terrifying shriek when the light from Olive’s camping lantern destroyed him, but Lucinda Nivens just gave an indignant gasp, as if someone very rude had tossed a candy wrapper into her rosebushes. Then, in one sudden bluish puff, Mrs. Nivens was nothing more than a scorch mark on the otherwise spotless bedroom floor.
Morton screamed. Olive dodged in front of him, trying to keep him both from running at Annabelle and from getting a closer look at the scorch mark.
“Oil paint,” explained Annabelle with a little shrug. “It burns so quickly.” She raised her hand again, and another shimmering ball of blue and yellow flames formed above her fingertips. “Flesh doesn’t burn quite so fast.” She smiled. “But you’ll see that for yourself, Olive.”
Annabelle moved closer, the ball of flames flickering, its light reflected in both lenses of the spectacles. “Let’s do this neatly, inside the painting, shall we?” she said, turning her falsely sweet smile from Olive to Morton, barricaded behind her. “It’s what Lucinda would have wanted.”
That seemed to be enough for Morton.
“You’re a BAD LADY!” he screamed, diving out from behind Olive before she could stop him. He grabbed Annabelle by the arm, shaking her furiously.
“Hang on, Morton!” Olive screamed.
One of Annabelle’s arms was still locked in Morton’s grip, and although she tried to defend herself with the other, Olive had gotten a head start. She leaped at Annabelle, arms out, clawing at Annabelle’s painted face. Olive felt the cold slipperiness of Annabelle’s skin, and then the familiar glass and metal of the spectacles was closed safely in her fist.
With a growl, Annabelle knocked both Morton and Olive backward, so that they landed in a pile, with Olive on top, holding the spectacles in both hands. The blue corduroy horse slid out of Morton’s grasp and glided away across the polished floorboards.
“The spectacles don’t matter, you stupid little girl,” Annabelle snarled. “I can get rid of you just as easily out here. Watch.” Annabelle flicked back her wrist, and the ball of flames zoomed toward Olive’s chest. Beneath her, Morton gave a scream. Olive squinched her eyes shut and braced for the fire to strike her.
It hit her like the blast of air from a hair dryer, rippling against her shirt quite pleasantly before dispersing and fading away. The little canvas bag around her neck hung, warm and safe, against her upper ribs. Olive opened her eyes. The fire was gone.
Annabelle’s eyes widened. Her smile disappeared. “What?” she whispered.
Olive clambered to her feet, pulling Morton up after her and blockading him with her body. She pushed the spectacles into his hand. “Stay right behind me,” she said over her shoulder. Morton stared back at her, his face a rumpled mixture of anger, surprise, and confusion. “I’ll protect you,” she promised.
“Olive!” shouted a voice from the doorway—a voice with a faint British accent.
Olive turned.
Standing at the room’s edge were two cats: one with splotchy fur covered by black paint and dead leaves . . . and one with a rich orange coat that glinted in a temporary shaft of light from the setting sun.
“Horatio!” she whispered. She could feel her heart swelling, lifting until she thought her whole body might rise right off of the ground.
And, in that split second while Olive’s guard was down, Annabelle hurled a flickering ball of fire at Morton.
It struck him with a soft hiss. Flames rippled up the lapels and down the sleeves of Mr. Dunwoody’s old trench coat, spreading like unraveling threads. Like his sister, Morton didn’t scream. He only let out a soft gasp, standing frozen inside a shell of flames.
Time seemed to stretch until it was barely moving forward at all. Olive watched the fire glide over the fabric of the trench coat. She watched Harvey and Horatio spring forward. She watched Horatio’s mouth move, but it wasn’t until later, when she played the moment back in her mind, that she realized it
was forming words: oil paint. She watched Morton’s wide, trusting eyes turn toward her. And she watched her own hands grasp the burning trench coat, her skin skimming fearlessly through the flames, whipping it away from Morton’s body.
Morton spun halfway around and crumpled to the floor. Harvey and Horatio sprang in front of him, hissing, baring their needle-like teeth.
Slowly, time contracted back to its normal size, but still Olive stood, holding the burning trench coat, feeling the fire coast harmlessly over her. There were no thoughts left in her mind at all—only the trusting look in Morton’s eyes as she pushed her own arms into the sleeves and pulled the burning coat tight around herself.
She turned toward Annabelle.
Annabelle began to back away toward the window. “Who do you think you are, Olive Dunwoody?” she asked, but her voice wasn’t quite as powerful as it had sounded before. “Whose tricks are you stealing now?”
Olive didn’t answer. She just stepped closer to Annabelle. Out of the corners of her eyes, she could see streaks of red and gold and blue flames spreading and thickening across her body, but all she felt was a shifting warmth, like when you sit close to a bonfire. The coat’s collar was burning near her jaw. Petals of fire licked the edges of her face and danced along her wrists. Flames coasted over the floorboards as Olive walked, dragging the hem of the long coat behind her.
Annabelle shook her head, smirking, but continuing to back away as Olive came closer. Soon Olive could see the gold flecks of paint in her eyes, the streaked tendrils that made up the waves of her smooth dark hair. The sheen of fire reflected on Annabelle’s painted skin.
There was fear in Annabelle’s eyes now. “Think carefully, Olive,” she said softly. Her back was pressed against the windowsill. “Are you sure this is the side you want to be on?”
“I’m sure,” said Olive. She could hear the flames crackling beside her ears. The little canvas bag thumped against her ribs, just above her heart.
Annabelle’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You think you’re smart enough to outdo our whole family, our centuries of power, all on your own?”
Olive could feel four other sets of eyes watching her: Leopold’s, Harvey’s, and Horatio’s bright green eyes, and Morton’s, pale and blue, following her every move. “I’m not on my own,” she said.
She raised both arms, like someone waiting for a hug. Her burning sleeves were inches away from Annabelle’s painted skin. “Tell me where Morton’s parents are,” she said.
Annabelle shook her head. A wisp of her sweet smile returned. “Olive Dunwoody,” she sighed, “you’re just not smart enough for this.”
Olive stepped closer.
There was a shattering, crashing sound as Annabelle swung her fist, smashing the window behind her. The lacy curtains flapped and wavered. The curtain rod clattered to the floor. A rush of evening air filled the room, blowing out the flames that rippled up and down the trench coat. Something strange happened in that instant, as Lucinda Nivens’s perfect bedroom filled with fresh summer air and falling curtains and bits of broken glass. It felt to Olive as though a spell had been broken, or a sheet of ice had melted, and everything was suddenly alive, awake, and changing. And then, before the first fragments of glass had hit the ground below, Annabelle leaped through the window.
Olive whirled toward Morton. Although its flames had burned out, the coat was still smoldering around her. She tiptoed as near to him as she dared. Morton had retrieved the blue corduroy horse and was curled up around it in a tight, white ball. As far as Olive could see, his nightshirt was intact, and his pale skin appeared whole and unscarred. “Morton, are you all right?” she asked softly.
Morton gave a little nod. He didn’t look up. “It hurt for a minute,” he whispered. “But then the hurt went away.”
Horatio, Harvey, and Leopold, freed from Annabelle’s magic, were leaning out through the broken pane. Olive rushed across the room to join them.
Leopold turned toward her, his eyes wide. “Miss, how did you manage—”
Olive pulled the little canvas bag out of the collar of her shirt. “Mrs. Dewey,” she whispered. A joyful ripple ran through her as she remembered Mrs. Dewey’s words: Not all magic is dark, you know. Olive hadn’t known. But now she wanted to know more. Laying the bag against her shirt, she wedged herself between the cats, looking out the window.
The lawn below was dark. Evening breezes played with the hydrangeas, making the clumps of blossoms nod like heavy heads. A last trace of sunset colored the air with purple smoke. Annabelle had vanished.
“Mission aborted,” said Harvey, speaking into an imaginary transistor-watch on his right front paw. “The target has evaded capture and elimination.”
“Is she gone?” asked Olive, craning over the shards of broken glass.
“No,” said Horatio quietly. “She’s waiting. Hiding somewhere. Not gone for good.”
“Oh,” said Olive. Through the wisps of smoke that rose from her body, she looked out over Linden Street, at the lights glowing softly from houses where people were making dinner and curling up on couches and not immolating each other. “I didn’t think so.”
“This isn’t your fault, Olive,” said Horatio. And then, before Olive could feel too comforted, he added, “That is, not all of it. We”—Horatio paused, looking extremely uncomfortable—“we distracted you by arriving at a most inconvenient moment.”
Olive looked down at Horatio. He didn’t meet her eyes, but having the three cats there, surrounding her, made everything feel okay again. Almost. “I’m glad you came,” she told him. “How did you know where to find us, anyway?”
“Harvey came to—”
“Agent 1-800,” Harvey corrected, out of the corner of his mouth.
Horatio rolled his eyes. “Yes, Agent 1-800 came to get me. Between his ravings about ‘bread in a breadbox’ and ‘wax in an ear,’ I was able to glean a few actual facts about what was going on.”
“Horatio . . .” Olive swallowed, gazing toward the comforting lights glowing in houses across the street. “I’m sorry that I let the book come between us. I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough, or smart enough . . .”
Horatio shook his head. “The house was looking for ways to manipulate you. It still is.” He glanced at Olive, his bright green eyes taking in the little canvas bag that hung against her shirt. “Whatever mistakes you’ve made, I think you’ve begun to figure out whom you can trust. It’s just taken you a bit longer than it should have.”
Olive kicked a shard of sparkling glass. “Did you know about Mrs. Nivens? About her being a painting, I mean?”
“I had my suspicions,” Horatio answered, turning to look out at the street. “But I did not know that she was still trying to serve the McMartins. I had thought that Ms. McMartin’s death—her refusal to leave any of the house’s contents to Lucinda—would have put an end to that misguided madness. For the first time, you appear to have known more than I did, Olive.”
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
AS 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—”
Spellbound: The Books of Elsewhere: Volume 2 Page 18
