Still Life

by Jacqueline West

  DIAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

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  New York, New York 10014

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  Text copyright © 2014 by Jacqueline West

  Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Poly Bernatene

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  West, Jacqueline, date.

  Still life / by Jacqueline West ; illustrated by Poly Bernatene.

  pages cm. — (The books of Elsewhere ; v. 5)

  Summary: “An old magic resurfaces in twelve-year-old Olive’s house, and in order to save herself, those she loves, and all of Elsewhere, she must uncover the complex history of this eerie, painted world, its magical origins, and its creator”— Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-698-14790-4

  [1. Space and time—Fiction. 2. Dwellings—Fiction. 3. Magic—Fiction.]

  I. Bernatene, Poly, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.W51776Sti 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013041383

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Version_1

  For Jess,

  from beginning to end

  —JW

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  WINTER IS A dangerous time.

  There is ice to slip on. There is snow to skid through. There are whiteouts and wind chill, frostbite and head colds. And there are all kinds of winter sports—like sledding and skating and downhill skiing—that will help you hurt yourself very efficiently.

  Simply stepping outdoors in the wintertime can be dangerous. If you’re the kind of person who tries to avoid danger and discomfort, you might step outdoors as rarely as possible. If you’re a gangly, distractible twelve-year old girl who is prone to falling down even without snow and ice to help you do it, you might avoid the outdoors whenever you can.

  And if you are a gangly, distractible twelve-year-old girl with a huge stone house to nestle inside, and if you have far more chilling reasons than frostbite to avoid the outside world, you might hardly leave your house at all.

  You’ll burrow down inside those thick-walled rooms with a book to read and something warm to drink, perhaps with a costumed cat for company, and you’ll feel almost safe.

  Almost.

  Because no matter how many blankets you hide under, or how many lights you turn on, you’ll remember what is waiting for you outside. You’ll hear shards of blown ice tapping at the windows. You’ll hear the moan of cold wind battering the walls. You’ll know that the ice and the darkness are waiting for their chance—any tiny gap, any unlocked door—to get in.

  And out there, in that cold and darkness and ice, something else is waiting for you. It’s as cold as the snow that blows around it, as slick as the icicles that drip from the eaves, as dark as the longest nights of the year. It watches you through the glowing windows as you huddle inside its house.

  Deep down, under all your blankets and bravery, you’ll know that even with the windows sealed, and the doors locked, and the sturdy rooftops and solid walls all around you, that dark, cold thing will get inside.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  MR. HAMBERT, REALTOR, puffed his way along the creaking downstairs hall. He didn’t like this tall gray house. He didn’t like the way his footsteps echoed disconcertingly from every side at once. He didn’t like the way the stiff white furnishings seemed to be waiting for someone to come back. He didn’t like the way this house felt: chilly and muffled and half-petrified, like something stuffed into the back of a freezer.

  This made him think about frozen steak.

  Which made him think about dinner.

  Which made him all the more eager to finish this tour and get out of here.

  He put on his shiniest smile.

  “It’s an unusual situation, of course,” he told the client trailing quietly behind him. “Selling the house complete with its contents, that is. Though it’s not unheard of on this street.” Mr. Hambert cast a glance through the parlor windows at the towering stone house next door. Then he made his smile even shinier. “Besides, you are a rather unusual client!”

  The young man behind him gave a start.

  “You must be the youngest homebuyer I’ve worked with,” Mr. Hambert explained.

  “Oh,” said the young man—the very tall, very thin young man, in a voice so deep that it seemed to be coming from somewhere beneath his feet. “Mmm.”

  Mr. Hambert beamed. “They just don’t build grand old places like this anymore, do they?” he asked, moving onward down the hall. “So much space. So much charm.” He opened the next door and groped for a light switch. A gust of air, thick with spice and smoke, drifted out into the hall. “So much history.”

  The light switch clicked. A dusty chandelier flared to life, illuminating what had once been a formal dining room.

  It was clearly not a dining room anymore.

  The long table was littered with bits of strange plants: purple leaves, fuzzy blue berries, flowers on black stems that twisted like corkscrews. The sideboard was arrayed with trays of unfriendly looking brass tools. A huge stuffed raven perched on the curtain rod. In one corner, a human skull, which might or might not have been made of plastic, grinned from atop an ink-spattered desk.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Hambert, in a wobbly voice. “Well. As I was saying.” He closed the door with a decisive bang. “So much history.” He gave the client another smile. “Shall we continue?”

  Puffing a bit more loudly now, Mr. Hambert trundled to the end of the hall. He had just reached the foot of the stairs when a soft thump came from the floor above.

  “Did you hear that?” Mr. Hambert asked.

  The young man shook his head.

  Mr. Hambert stood still for a moment, listening. The tall gray house kept quiet.

  “Never mind,” the Realtor said loudly. “Must have been the house settling. These old places, you know. These grand, historic old places!” The stairs groaned under his tasseled loafers. “The house has three good-sized bedrooms, along with—”

  He stopped. Ano
ther sound—the soft, rapid rhythm of running feet—seemed to echo from the head of the stairs before dwindling quickly away again, leaving the house as still as it had been before.

  Mr. Hambert pulled a tissue from his pocket and blotted his forehead. “What was I saying? Oh yes: Three bedrooms, two and one-half baths . . .”

  They stepped into the upper hall. Just ahead of them, a wisp of pale fabric vanished through an open doorway.

  Mr. Hambert swallowed audibly. “Bedroom number one,” he announced, sounding a bit like someone who’s just been punched in the stomach. He reached out and gave the door a nervous inward push.

  The door pushed back.

  It closed with a slam right in Mr. Hambert’s shiny face.

  The sound Mr. Hambert made was something between a gasp and a honk. He wheeled around, loafers squealing, and bounded back down the staircase three steps at a time.

  “I’ll buy it!” the young man called from behind him.

  “Excellent!” shouted Mr. Hambert, streaking toward the front door. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy here!” He wrenched the door open with both sweaty hands. “Congratulations!”

  “Congratulations!” echoed two voices from the other side of the door.

  Mr. Hambert gave another gasp-honk.

  An oldish woman and a youngish boy stood on the porch of the tall gray house. The woman’s body was made up of large, round shapes, which balanced on her little booted feet like several scoops of ice cream on a tiny cone. The boy had messy brown hair and smudged glasses. A T-shirt with a picture of a dragon on it peeped through the lapels of his flapping winter coat.

  “I’m Lydia Dewey, and this is my grandson, Rutherford,” said the round, smiling woman. “We’re here to welcome our new neighbor to Linden Street.” She wafted a plate of cookies under Mr. Hambert’s nose. “My Dutch-cocoa-sour-cream swirls,” she said. “Maybe you’d like to try one? Or two? Or three?”

  • • •

  In the towering stone house next door, a girl and a splotchily colored cat sat on the sofa in the front parlor, their noses mashed against the frosty windowpane.

  “Now he’s eating his fourth Dutch-cocoa swirl,” the girl murmured. “He’s probably already forgotten what he’s doing here.”

  “I believe your postulation is correct, Inspector Olive,” the cat replied in a lofty British accent.

  Through the glass, they watched Mr. Hambert totter down the sidewalk to his car and drive off in the wrong direction.

  “Now Walter is officially our neighbor,” said Olive.

  “Indeed,” said the cat. “He will make a valuable addition to the Yard.”

  “But it isn’t really his house.” Olive skimmed a fingernail through the frost in a long, looping swirl. “If Morton ever finds his parents, it will be their house again.”

  “Another logical conclusion.”

  “Inspector Harvey, do you think . . .” Olive hesitated. “Do you think this house is still waiting for someone else to come back?”

  The cat narrowed one bright green eye. “No, Inspector Olive. I do not. But is someone else waiting to return to this house? That is another question entirely.”

  Olive turned back toward the window. The Deweys had disappeared into their own cozy white house. Mr. Hambert’s car coasted past again, now heading in the opposite direction.

  She took a deep breath. “I should go next door,” she said, sliding reluctantly off of the slippery silk couch. “Maybe Morton has finally found something that will help.”

  “I shall join you,” Harvey answered. “Officers Leopold and Horatio can oversee Scotland Yard while we are away.”

  “I’ve always wondered, why do they call it ‘Scotland Yard’ if it’s in England?”

  “An excellent question,” said Harvey, with a knowledgeable lift of his chin. “You see, Inspector Olive, the force maintains a strict dress code. Men in kilts are required to remain outside police headquarters, in the yard. Thus: Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh. Like ‘No shirt, no pants, no service’?”

  “Precisely.”

  Olive turned toward the door. “I’m getting my sweater. I’ll be right back.”

  Leaving Inspector Harvey to monitor the street, she dashed out of the parlor, skidded across the hall, and started up the creaking staircase. On the walls around her, gilt-framed canvases glimmered softly. Whorls of paint caught the sheen of electric lights.

  Aldous McMartin, the original owner of the old stone house, had been a very talented—and very unusual—artist. Though Aldous himself had been dead for nearly a hundred years, he had left all of his paintings behind, firmly stuck to the house’s stone walls. And inside of those paintings, a host of McMartin family secrets lived on. Aldous had used his paintings to hide treasures, trap enemies, and create deathless versions of himself and his beloved granddaughter, Annabelle. And now, as Olive knew all too well, Aldous’s final self-portrait was free of its painting, wandering the real world beyond the old stone house.

  Waiting to get back inside.

  Olive scanned the paintings carefully, looking for any suspicious changes. She was halfway up the staircase when something jerked her to a stop.

  To her left, just above the stairs, there hung a painting of a small, silvery lake. Olive had seen this painting a thousand times. She passed it every day on her way to breakfast, on her way back to her room to find the homework or book or pants she’d forgotten, and on her way to bed each night. But when she looked at the painting now, she felt vaguely certain that the sky above the lake had changed color.

  It was twilight inside the painting. Feathery silhouettes of pine trees stood in the distance, and a handful of stars poked through the violet sky. At least, Olive thought the sky had been violet. Now its color was closer to plum. And perhaps she had miscounted them (Olive was prone to miscounting everything, including her own fingers), but there appeared to be fewer stars than usual.

  A cold, unpleasant gust, like winter air blowing through an unlatched door, swept through Olive’s body. With a glance over both shoulders to make sure she was alone, Olive picked up the antique spectacles that hung from a ribbon around her neck and placed them on her nose.

  Around her, Aldous McMartin’s artworks rippled to life.

  In the painting of the moonlit forest that hung at the head of the stairs, bare branches shivered above a twisting path. Heather fluttered in the painting of the Scottish hillside. The still life between the bedroom doors didn’t move, but the strange fruits in their silver bowl seemed to shimmer a bit more juicily.

  Olive turned back to the painting of the silvery lake. Wrapping her hands around the frame, she leaned forward until she felt her nose touch the surface of the canvas. Then, as if she were smooshing her face into a bowl of warm Jell-O, she pushed her head into the painting.

  A lake-scented breeze fluttered her hair. Waves whispered to the sand. Distant pine trees swayed like sleepy dancers. Olive stared up at the sky. She waited, the nape of her neck prickling, to see that familiar darkness rush through the air, eating the light and swallowing the stars. It was the darkness that would mean Aldous McMartin was near.

  Olive had seen it within that very painting, when the living portrait of Annabelle had tried to drown her. She had seen it in the painting of the moonlit forest, when darkness had swirled through the night sky and out of the frame, filling the house with Aldous’s presence.

  But she didn’t see it now.

  The sky’s deep purple hue didn’t change. The stars shone against its darkness, their light soft and steady.

  Slowly, Olive pulled her head back through the picture frame.

  In the upper hall, she checked the other canvases. The moonlit forest didn’t seem any darker than usual, but it was already so dim, it might have been hard to tell the difference. The painting of Linden Street that hung outside her bedroom door hadn�
�t changed either.

  Or had it?

  Olive squinted into the canvas. Far away, in the center of the usually deserted street, something pale and soft gave a twitch.

  With an awkward somersault, Olive toppled through the frame and landed in the misty grass on the other side. The Linden Street of a century ago wound up the hill before her. The residents of a century ago—the ones who had learned too much about the McMartin family, anyway—waited there as well, inside their silent houses, trapped in Aldous’s painted world until they had become paintings themselves.

  Olive rushed up the hillside. Dewy grass straightened itself in her footprints. Painted mist swirled and settled back into place. She ran past houses with candlelit curtains, past empty front yards and quiet porches, toward the hulk of one tall gray house.

  An old man with a long bristly beard was standing on its front lawn. His striped pajamas seemed to glow against the darkness.

  “Oh, Mr. Fitzroy—it’s you,” Olive panted, jogging to a stop beside him.

  “Evening, Miss Olive. I just walked over to check on the place.” Mr. Fitzroy nodded at the tall gray house. Its windows stared down at them, dark and unanswering. “Of course, nothing ever changes here, but with Morton gone . . .” He gave Olive a little smile. “Well, I suppose some things do change.”

  Olive, not knowing what to say but wanting to say it anyway, made an agreeable little “hmm” sound.

  “We miss him in here,” said Mr. Fitzroy.

  Olive’s heart squeezed. She’d liked knowing that Morton was safe and sound inside this painting, right beside her bedroom door. Now that he was outside, in the real world, a low, constant worry for him vibrated inside of her, like the bottom string of a piano. “I miss him in here too,” she said, but she was talking more to her shoes than to Mr. Fitzroy.

  The old man bent down and plucked a weed out of the dewy lawn. So quickly that Olive couldn’t see it happen, the weed had vanished from his fingers and popped up again in its original spot. “Old habits . . .” Mr. Fitzroy sighed. “Any sign of Mary and Harold Nivens yet?”

  “No. But we’re still looking.” Olive looked up at his bushy profile. “Mr. Fitzroy, you said once—you said there was something special about Morton’s mother, didn’t you?”