“I suppose it’s natural for her to want more privacy,” said Mrs. Dunwoody. “She is almost a teenager . . .”
“Yes,” sighed Mr. Dunwoody. “Only four hundred and thirty-eight days left to go.”
Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody squeezed each other’s hands, both of them silently recalling the 4,310 days that the not-quite-teenaged Olive had already been part of their lives.
Meanwhile, behind her closed bedroom door, Olive was squeezing the spellbook tight against her ribs, breathing in its leathery, dusty smell, and wondering how she had ever lived without it.
Each night, she put the book on top of her chest and knotted it in place with a scarf threaded around her body. Then she would tuck the spectacles—which she had also tied to a piece of thick ribbon—into the collar of her pajamas or T-shirt, and close her eyes, with one hand clamped over the spectacles and the other pressed tight to the cover of the book. As Olive quickly discovered, this wasn’t the most restful way to sleep. She woke up each morning feeling as though she hadn’t slept at all—or as though she had just been through an automatic car wash, but without the car.
Sometimes, while she straightened the spectacles around her neck, Olive thought about visiting Morton, but she always changed her mind before reaching the painting of Linden Street. She still had no answers for him. Mostly what she had for him was anger. Besides, she would have to bring the spellbook Elsewhere with her, to keep it safe, and this meant that Morton would see it, and then Olive would have to explain everything that had happened . . .
And she had enough to worry about as it was.
She could never let her guard down, not even for a second. Strange things were happening around the old stone house, things that made Olive certain that someone —or maybe several someones—was still trying to steal the book. Often Olive woke to find her bedroom door open, when she was almost positive that she’d gone to bed with it securely shut. Once, when she hurried downstairs to grab a bag of cookies for breakfast, she found the back door standing ajar.
Finally, when her worries for the book had become so heavy that Olive could hardly climb off of her bed, she decided to take action. There had to be a safe place to keep it—a spot where no one would find it, or even think to look for it. In fact, Olive knew there was a spot. She had stood in it, not so long ago, and thought about what an unlikely place it was to hide a secret, special book.
Late one afternoon, when her parents were busy in the library downstairs, Olive put on the backpack with the spellbook zipped securely inside and headed down the hallway to the blue bedroom. She opened the closet and pushed aside the musty wool coats. There, just where she and Morton had left it, was the painting of the crumbling castle. The memory of Morton hit her like a slap on the cheek, but Olive quickly brushed the sting away. Then, with the painting under her arm, she hurried back to her own bedroom.
She laid the painting on the bed. Hershel, her stuffed bear, tipped forward off her pillow, looking down at the canvas interestedly. Olive slid him out of the way before straightening the spectacles on her nose, patting the backpack to make sure the book was still safe inside, and then clambering up onto the mattress and diving down into the painting, as though she were diving through the bed itself.
She landed with a thump on a mossy slope beside the moat. Dark blue sky spread above her, hung with a silver sliver of moon. Its light glanced off of the castle’s damp stones and turned the water in the moat into a dim mirror. Olive got to her feet, making her way over the moss toward the drawbridge.
Inside the castle, starlight fell through the open ceiling and over the mottled flagstones of the courtyard. Olive scanned the empty space. Then she crept along the chilly wall, feeling for loose stones, tapping and pushing and prying and pulling until at last a stone rattled under her palm. At the same moment, she thought she heard something else rattle—something that sounded like a pebble clattering across a flagstone floor.
Olive halted, looking over her shoulder. The courtyard was quiet. There was no movement, no sound. What she’d heard was probably just an echo. Turning back toward the wall, Olive tugged at the stone until she felt it give. A gap opened between two slabs, just the right size for hiding the book. While Olive watched, the gap quickly pulled itself shut again. Her heart gave a little leap. This was the perfect spot. Olive was just about to open her backpack when a flicker of light reached over her shoulder.
She spun around, flattening herself against the wall.
Someone was approaching.
With the light in her eyes, she could make out nothing more than a silhouette hurrying through one of the stone archways in the walls, but even from this distance she could see that it was a person—a largish, stocky person, holding up an old-fashioned lantern. The light from the lantern made a rippling pool of pale color that glided across the stones.
“Who goes there?” shouted the silhouette, coming closer.
“Um . . . it’s . . . it’s Olive,” squeaked Olive, pressing herself against the wall like a squashed fly.
As it came nearer, the silhouette turned into a man: a shaggy, rather dirty man, bundled up in layers of gray cloaks, with a wide, friendly face. He raised the lantern and peered at Olive. “Oh,” he said in surprise. “You’re the little girl. I thought you might be the lady who came before.”
Olive bristled slightly at being called “a little girl,” but she decided that this was not the time to make an issue of it. “No,” she said, swinging the backpack over her shoulder again. “The lady who used to live here died. Now it’s just my parents and me.”
The scruffy man stared at her interestedly. Could he possibly have guessed what she was doing? Olive couldn’t be certain. But she was certain that she couldn’t hide the book here now—not with this nosy man nearby.
“I was just—looking for something,” Olive mumbled, frustrated, beginning to back away. “But I don’t think it’s here. I guess I’ll have to look someplace else.”
“Perhaps I can help you find it,” the man offered, before Olive could dodge away. “I’m the porter. It’s my job to let people in and out of the castle, answer questions, show people around and such. But, of course, there hasn’t been anyone to show around. Not for quite a while. Well . . .” He hesitated. “. . . That is, there was someone to show around. But I didn’t do it. I just kept an eye on them.”
“Them?” repeated Olive, sidling toward the doorway.
“You, that is. And the little boy in his nightclothes.”
Olive stopped sidling. She looked at the porter, waiting for him to go on.
He brushed a smudge of soot across his nose. “I hid, and I watched you,” he said a bit bashfully as the soot rearranged itself into its original shape. “At first, I thought you might have been the lady, or maybe you were her spies. She told me if I ever spoke to anyone again, she would come back and”—the porter swallowed hard—“get rid of me for good.”
“Yeah, that sounds like the lady who used to live here,” said Olive, backing toward the doorway again. Inside her backpack, the spellbook was growing heavier.
“But that’s a porter’s job,” the man insisted, as though Olive had said it wasn’t. “Would you like me to show you around?” he asked eagerly. “You could go back out and cross the drawbridge again, and this time, I could stand at the other end and hold up the lantern, so you could see your way in.”
“Thanks, but I really have to be going.” Olive turned and lunged through the arch.
“I’m sorry that I thought you were the lady,” the porter went on, trailing after Olive like a large, dirty puppy. “You don’t actually look like her at all.”
“Oh,” said Olive, wincing. The spellbook had grown so heavy that the straps of her backpack dug into her shoulders. She had to get out of here so she could set the book down someplace safe.
“First of all, she was a good bit older than you are. Thirty, forty years, I’d say. And she was wearing a dress. And she was real neat; not a hair out of place. And she wasn�
��t in such a hurry to leave again,” he added in a put-off tone, breaking into a trot to keep up with Olive. “She sat right down and stayed. She said she’d found this castle waiting to be hung up, and she’d hidden it someplace where it wouldn’t be disturbed. She had a pair of spectacles on her—gold ones, on a chain, sort of like those ones you’ve got. She said she’d stolen them from her friend, but she was going to give them back, so it was really no more than borrowing. And she said she would stay here as long as it took for her to change, because her friend certainly wasn’t going to do it for her.”
Olive, who had been teetering carefully across the drawbridge, whirled around and nearly lost her balance. The porter stood on the other end of the drawbridge, holding up the lantern. She stared at his bristly face in the dim light. He couldn’t be talking about Annabelle McMartin; she wouldn’t have stolen the spectacles . . .
“What did the lady say?” Olive breathed.
“She said she’d stay as long as it took for her to change,” the porter repeated. “That her friend wasn’t going to do it for her, even though she had promised that they would be together forever, part of the same family.”
“Until she changed . . . into paint?”
The porter shrugged. The lantern swung in his hand, sending its dim beams across the moat. Then his eyebrows went up and his face took on a look of surprise, as though a long-lost memory had just popped up in his brain. “She said . . .” He paused, thinking. “She said her friend had changed her mind about making her the heir, whatever that means. But now, she said, one day her friend would die, and she wouldn’t.” The porter shrugged again. “She stayed a long time. Had a nice visit. Until she threatened me, that is.” He glanced down at the silvery water. “It was good to have someone to talk to. It’s dull work being a porter when there’s never anyone at your door.”
Olive wavered at the end of the drawbridge. The weight of the spellbook pulled against her shoulders, gouging into her skin. She could feel the house tugging at her too, guiding her back toward the painting’s edge, where the glinting frame hung in the cool blue air.
“This lady—did she say what her name was?” she asked, backing slowly toward the frame.
The porter pursed his lips and tilted his head, “It was Mrs. . . . something-or-other. Think it started with an M or an N. But I remember that Mrs. bit, because I said, ‘Oh, so you’re married?’ trying to be polite, and she said, ‘No,’ sort of sour-like. ‘I never was, and now I never will be. But people stopped calling me miss a long time ago.’ ”
Inside the backpack, the book seemed to be growing even heavier. Dazed, feeling as though she was being dragged backward, Olive stumbled toward the edge of the painting.
“Well, good-bye, then,” called the porter, sounding a bit miffed.
“Bye,” answered Olive. She arranged the spectacles on her nose.
“You can come back and visit anytime, you know—”
But Olive was already halfway out of the painting, crawling onto her springy mattress. Once she was all the way out, she kicked the castle painting to the floor, so that she could sprawl full length over the blankets and try to think. But every time she tried to put the pieces together, the spellbook popped up instead, scattering all her other thoughts as lightly as particles of dust.
With an aggravated sigh, Olive unzipped the backpack and took out the book. It weighed just as much as it always had—it was thick and solid, but not difficult to lift. And it was very easy to hold it up and squeeze it against her ribs with both arms. Obviously, the spellbook didn’t want to be away from her. It didn’t want to be left alone in a painting. And who could blame it? Morton certainly complained enough about it . . .
Morton. Olive wriggled out of a loop of guilty thoughts. Why should she worry so much about helping Morton, anyway? He was just a painting. He was where he belonged. And she had much better things to think about—things like this book, which wasn’t a painting, which belonged out here in the real world, with her.
Olive rolled onto her back, wrapping the spellbook tightly in her arms. She imagined that it was holding her, as well—that delicate silver threads or roots were branching off of its leather cover, wrapping around her ribs, around her heart, until she and the book were one.
19
THAT NIGHT, OLIVE dreamt of the tree again. Somehow it seemed even bigger than before, its blue branches sparkling with silver starlight, its leaves whispering like a chorus of a thousand voices. Olive, they whispered. Olive . . . Olive . . .
Standing on the dewy grass, Olive leaned back, looking up and up and up. The tree seemed to reach for her, beckoning to her. It blocked out the sky. It held out its open arms.
Olive had never been much of a tree-climber. Anyone who frequently falls over her own toes isn’t likely to risk falling from anything higher than a bed (and Olive had fallen out of bed enough times to be a bit wary of that), but climbing this tree hardly felt like climbing at all. As soon as she had shimmied up the trunk to the first branches, she felt as though she were being pulled along, hoisted up by invisible hands. Maybe the branches themselves were helping her. She was weightless and graceful. She floated like milkweed. Dewy breezes played with the ends of her hair.
As she climbed through the whispering blue leaves, Olive noticed something sparkling on the tree limbs—something she originally thought was just a trace of starlight flaring on the glossy bark. As her hands clasped one smooth, stone-solid branch, the sparkling outline flared to life. Floating just above her fingers was a row of glittering letters. Olive read them. Athdar McMartin.
She climbed higher. Another name glistened beside her, sparkling like dragonflies’ wings: Ansley McMartin. She climbed past Alastair McMartin and Angus McMartin, and Ailsa and Aillil and Argyle McMartin. The names dimmed again as she left them behind. She was getting close to something wonderful; she could feel it.
Even at the highest reaches of the tree, the branches felt strong and solid. The leaves thickened, forming a rippling, whispering dome. Olive . . . Olive . . . they called. And Olive climbed.
Aldous McMartin flared and burned out as she left his branch behind. There was Annabelle McMartin, the delicate chain of silver letters beckoning her to the highest branch. And finally, Olive had reached the top of the tree. Above her fists, the final name glistened. Olive Dunwoody. Olive pulled herself onto the last branch, and slowly, fearlessly, she stood up. Her head broke through the canopy of leaves, and the whole tall blue tree rustled and sparkled below her. She could see to the ends of the earth. The ground glimmered far below her. The sky above was purple and rich with stars. She took a deep breath.
Olive. Olive. Olive . . .
If she jumped now, she would fly. She would soar like a snowy owl, or drift on the breezes, like a cottonwood seed. The voices would hold her up. They wouldn’t let her fall.
Olive curved her toes over the edge of the branch and spread her arms. The air was sweet and cool, billowing around her, tugging eagerly at her cotton pajamas. She closed her eyes.
Jump, Olive, said the thousand whispering voices. Jump.
Jump.
Olive bent her knees. She took a last, deep breath—
Something sharp tore into her ankle.
Olive’s eyes flicked open. The tree vanished as suddenly as if it had been pounded into the earth like a big, leafy nail. By the silver-blue light of a distant streetlamp, she could make out the pattern on her penguin pajamas. Below the pajamas were her own bare feet. Just beyond her bare feet, the edge of the roof of the old stone house glinted dimly, and, between the pajamas and the feet, a huge black cat was biting her leg.
Olive let out a gasp and staggered back from the edge.
The cat looked up. “I’m sorry, miss. Did I hurt you?”
“No . . .” choked Olive. “Not really.”
“Oh,” said Leopold, with just a hint of disappointment. “Well. Good.”
Olive took a dizzy look around. She was standing at the highest point of the roof, just a
bove the attic’s peaked ceiling. Far, far below, the backyard with its overgrown gardens rustled softly. One faroff streetlamp sent its glow across the yard, dipping everything in dull silver. Just a few inches in front of her toes, the roof ended, severed by the darkness.
“How did I get up here?” Olive whispered to the cat.
“You climbed.”
“I climbed?” Olive breathed. She edged forward, craning to see over the ledge. It was a very long way down.
“It was most impressive,” said Leopold. “You climbed onto the porch roof, up the drainpipe, onto a window ledge, and over the edge of the roof.”
Olive’s knees, frightened by the view, suddenly decided to go on strike. She plunked down on her backside, grasping the shingles with both hands, while Leopold’s green eyes scanned the darkness.
“How did you find me?” she asked, when she could get her brain and lungs and mouth all working together again.
“I didn’t find you,” said Leopold stiffly. “I followed you. I’ve been following you on all of your nightly expeditions. This is the farthest afield you’ve ever gone, except for the night when you left the book on Mrs. Dewey’s picnic table, but—”
“Wait—what” Olive interrupted, her mind reeling. “When I left the book there? You mean I’ve done this before?”
“You’ve done this almost every night since you found that . . . that book.” Here the big cat paused for a second, swallowing what sounded suspiciously like a lump in his throat.
“But, Leopold,” said Olive, rapidly scraping her thoughts back together, “I don’t walk in my sleep!”
“I can assure you that you do, miss. Of course, you might not have realized it, because you are generally asleep at the time,” Leopold explained, nodding his head wisely. “It’s a bit like when someone insists she doesn’t snore, because she’s never awake to hear the snoring.”
Spellbound: The Books of Elsewhere Page 13
