Still Life

by Jacqueline West

  “So you do know the story.”

  “No,” said Leopold quickly. “Only that it’s long and unpleasant.”

  “Please, Leopold.” Olive thumped forward onto her knees. “Aldous McMartin must have done something to her. Mary Nivens saw them in the garden—Aldous, and Aurelia, and Horatio—and Aldous was treating Aurelia like a prisoner. I just want to help her.”

  “Horatio?” Leopold repeated softly.

  Olive nodded.

  The cat released a quiet breath. “I can tell you this much, miss. To the best of my knowledge, Aurelia is gone. Gone forever. And that is probably a good thing.”

  “A good thing?” Olive echoed. “Why?”

  “Did I say a good thing? I just meant a thing.” Leopold nodded. “She’s gone. It’s a thing.”

  With a sigh, Olive got back to her feet. “Okay,” she said. “If that’s all you can tell me . . .”

  “It is, I’m afraid,” Leopold answered. “Yes. That is all.”

  In spite of the cold, Olive climbed very slowly up the basement steps. When she turned to close the door behind her, she could still see a pair of bright green eyes watching her, glittering steadily in the dark.

  OLIVE STOMPED ALONG the first-floor hall and turned back into the library. The rows of books glimmered on their shelves. The piney scent of the tree filled the dusty air, and its perfectly spaced lights shone softly.

  As she crossed the room, Olive could have sworn that she saw the glint of a cat’s eyes among its branches.

  “Horatio?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

  The tree kept quiet.

  Olive crept closer, the spicy smell surrounding her, until she could see that the green glints were just two small blown-glass balls.

  Still, as she turned away, she couldn’t shake the sense that she was being watched.

  She headed toward the bookshelves behind her mother’s desk, taking frequent glances over her shoulder. A row of old encyclopedias with bumpy green covers stood on the lowest shelf. Olive pulled down the A volume. Then she plopped down on the nearest creaky velvet couch.

  The dancing girls in their painted meadow hung just above her. They had resumed their usual pose, their heads thrown back, mouths smiling—but Olive thought she saw something tense and brittle in their expressions now, and their painted eyes were wary.

  She flipped to the back of the heavy book.

  AURELIA, she read, also known as the MOON JELLY. A bell-shaped, translucent marine jellyfish of the order semaeostomeae.

  Well, that was no help.

  Olive sighed.

  The scent of coffee blended with the scent of pine, and Olive glanced up to see her father striding through the library doors.

  Mr. Dunwoody’s face lit up when he noticed the encyclopedia in Olive’s hands.

  “What are you researching?” he asked.

  “Jellyfish,” said Olive honestly.

  “Ah. Fascinating creatures, gelatinous zooplankton.” Mr. Dunwoody took a sip from his coffee mug. “Are you finding what you need?”

  “Not really,” said Olive.

  “If you could use additional research materials, we could go to the university library later this week.”

  “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure what I need is right here in this house. I’m just not seeing it.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Dunwoody seated himself at his desk. “I don’t know how likely you are to find any jellyfish in this house, Olive.”

  “It’s not just the jellyfish,” said Olive, letting the book thump shut in her lap. “It’s a bigger problem, and I just—I can’t put the pieces together in the right way.”

  “Hmm,” said her father again. “Have you ever heard of the incubation effect?”

  “Is that what doctors do to babies that are really small?”

  “It’s what happens when we step away from a problem temporarily. Studies have shown that often our unconscious minds will make connections between elements that were already there. Later, the solution seems to come to us out of the blue, but really, it’s just our brain catching up with itself.”

  “Oh,” said Olive slowly. “So I should just try not to think about it?”

  “No. You should come to the kitchen and frost cookies with us. Your mother is currently calculating the surface area of each cookie in order to mix up the ideal amount of frosting.” Mr. Dunwoody hopped eagerly out of his desk chair. “Let’s go!”

  Olive sighed again. But she got up from the couch, leaving the encyclopedia behind, and followed her father out of the library.

  • • •

  It was the part of the morning that is really still night when Olive’s eyes flicked open.

  In her dreams, she’d been back at the art museum. Ms. Teedlebaum was leading her on a tour. They were the only two people in the building, and their footsteps echoed through the deserted rooms like stones falling into a well. As they passed through the spotlights that illuminated each painting, Olive could see Ms. Teedlebaum’s hair change its hue, going from red to purple, red to black, red to royal blue. Oh, Olive thought each time. So that’s her real hair color.

  Impasto, Ms. Teedlebaum said, stopping in front of a painting of a big bowl of pasta. See how thick the noodles are?

  Dream-Olive had nodded, and they’d wandered on.

  Pentimento, said Ms. Teedlebaum to a painted bowl of olives. See how the pimentos are hidden inside the olives, Olive? The art teacher giggled. But there’s no hidden painting inside you, is there?

  Dream-Olive shook her head.

  And a still life, Ms. Teedlebaum announced.

  They had paused in front of a large painting. Inside the painting, there was only a tabletop and an empty silver bowl.

  That’s funny, said the dream-Teedlebaum, pushing back a hank of kinky green hair. I wonder where the life went?

  Olive sat up.

  Hershel toppled over on the pillow beside her.

  She knew that still life. She knew that silver bowl, and the tabletop it sat on, and the room that table stood in. Even without the strange fruits filling it, Olive would have known that still life anywhere.

  It may not be what she would choose, but it is still life.

  It is still life.

  The answer was right there. The whole truth, as it was told to Mary Nivens, straight from Aldous’s mouth.

  Olive kicked her legs out from under the covers.

  The floor was icy cold. She tugged on a pair of thick socks and pulled a sweater over her pink penguin pajamas. Then she edged carefully into the hall, closing her bedroom door behind her.

  The sky beyond the windows was just beginning to thin from black to blue. Faint hints of daylight stretched along the edges of hanging picture frames. Tiptoeing over the carpet, Olive headed down the hall straight to Aldous McMartin’s still life.

  She pressed her palms to the frame and leaned closer. The strange fruits glistened in their silver bowl. The tabletop beneath them was shiny and bare. The walls, painted with panels of dark wood, looked as solid as ever. But there had to be something there. It was only a matter of looking hard enough. Olive slipped the spectacles out of her collar and balanced them on her nose. The painting shimmered.

  Throwing her belly over the bottom of the frame, Olive tumbled forward into the painting, sliding across the polished table and hitting the floor hands first.

  She hopped swiftly back to her feet. She had checked the bowl of fruit for clues once before, but she overturned it again, just in case. There were no keys or maps or secret buttons this time, either. The fruits flew back into their places before she’d even turned the bowl upright again.

  Wheeling away from the table, Olive examined the wooden walls, running her palms over the panels. Each panel was larger than a door, heavy and shiny and identical. At least, they looked identical. But in the cen
ter of one panel, Olive’s fingertips hit something small and sharp-edged—something made of metal. Olive bent down to look. Hidden in the painted shadow was a tiny brass keyhole.

  An electric rush shot through Olive’s body.

  She wheeled around, eyes skimming the room. There was a good chance that the key wasn’t here, she realized, as the rush began to tingle away. It could be hidden somewhere—anywhere—in this huge, cluttered, secretive house.

  Or . . . if she was really lucky, it might be waiting right under her nose.

  Olive plunged both hands into the bowl of strange fruit. She picked up the cluster of aquamarine grapes, popping a few of them off of their stems. They popped straight back on again. These were too small to contain a key, anyway. But the cylindrical orange fruit was more than large enough. With her fingernails, Olive tore into its squishy body. Trickles of juice and bits of painted pulp slipped through her fingers before pulling themselves together again. Olive tossed the fruit back into the bowl. She squished her fists into the pink-peeled citrus fruit and ripped apart something green and spiny that smelled like clover.

  Nothing.

  With hope and exasperation tangling in her chest, Olive grabbed the teardrop-shaped fruit with the long, looping vine and dug into it with her fingers. She could feel its cold flesh fighting to rebuild itself, and its slick, painted peel tugging inward around its holes, and, far down at its core, something hard and thin and made of metal.

  Like a dentist extracting a tooth, Olive yanked the metal thing backward. The teardrop-shaped fruit sailed back into the bowl, leaving a tiny brass key in Olive’s hand.

  Blood pounded in her ears. The back of her neck zinged. Olive dove toward the paneled wall, fitting the key into the lock. There was a click.

  The panel was even heavier than it looked. Clamping the key tightly in one fist, Olive pried the painted door open just wide enough to slip through.

  The panel thumped shut behind her. The lock clicked again.

  Olive whirled around, saw where she was standing, and let out a loud, involuntary gasp.

  The room inside the still life was small.

  The room hidden behind that room was not.

  Its ceilings were high. Its floor was covered with soft gray carpet. Tiny-paned windows lined one long wall, letting in a summery view of trees and blossoms. The opposite wall was filled with shelves, and each shelf, in turn, was filled with books. A golden harp nearly as tall as Olive stood in one corner. A piano with a cushioned stool waited for someone to sit down and play in another. At the room’s far end, between two grand vases full of blooming flowers, was a bed draped with dove-colored curtains. Rugs and cushions and overstuffed couches covered the floor like decorative bubble wrap.

  And, a few steps in front of Olive, with its back to the wood-paneled door, there sat one grand velvet armchair.

  At the sound of the closing door, the armchair gave a creak. A ripple of gray silk trailed over one armrest.

  “Aldous?” whispered a voice that was as soft and brittle as a moth’s wing. “Aldous? Is that you?”

  OLIVE HESITATED, HER back pressed to the hidden door.

  “Um . . .” she began. “. . . No. It isn’t.”

  There was a rustle of silk against velvet. Very slowly, the head and shoulders of a woman rose up above the chair’s high back.

  The woman turned around, clinging to the armrests. Her hair was long and reddish brown, shot with silver threads. Her face should have been pretty, with features like an old ivory cameo, but her cheeks were sunken, and there were violet half-moons under her eyes. Her painted skin didn’t look like either paint or skin, but even more lifeless, like melted wax. Actually, Olive thought, she looked like a moving, speaking corpse.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked. Her voice came out in a raspy wheeze.

  “I’m Olive—Olive Dunwoody,” Olive stammered. “I live here now. In this house.”

  The woman’s eyes flickered. One hand, long-fingered and spidery, clutched at the back of the chair. “I knew it had been a long time,” she whispered. “But I was sure he would find a way.”

  “You mean . . . Aldous McMartin?” said Olive, taking a small step forward. “He’s the one who trapped you here, isn’t he?”

  The woman’s eyes widened in her otherwise motionless face. “You know about me?”

  Olive swallowed. “I know your name is Aurelia.”

  The woman gave a little start, as though Olive’s words had struck her. “Please,” she whispered. “Come and sit beside me.”

  Hesitantly, Olive padded across the carpet. A second, smaller velvet chair waited beside the larger one, and Olive perched on its edge, keeping the key clamped in her fist and one eye on the hidden door. This woman seemed about as threatening as a wet sheet of paper, but Olive knew enough to be wary.

  The painted woman sank back into her own chair. “Aldous was always so careful,” she said, keeping her sunken eyes on Olive. “How did you learn about me?”

  “One of the neighbors saw you,” said Olive carefully. “A long time ago.”

  “And now you walk in here, wearing his spectacles,” the woman rasped. “How?”

  “Well—because Aldous is gone,” said Olive. “My family moved into the house last summer, after Annabelle McMartin died.”

  The woman blinked. “Annabelle?”

  “Aldous’s granddaughter. She was really old. Really, really old.”

  “His granddaughter.” One of the woman’s bony hands rose, patting absently at her chest. Olive would have guessed that she was struggling to breathe—if she hadn’t known that the woman didn’t need to breathe at all. “And Aldous himself?” Her eyes focused on Olive again. “How long has he been gone?”

  “He died a long time ago,” said Olive slowly. “But he isn’t—he’s not completely gone.”

  “Of course not,” the woman whispered, as though she were talking to herself. “He would never give up this place.”

  “He trapped lots of other people—just like you,” said Olive, watching the woman’s eyes. “Magicians. Neighbors who knew too much about him. Anybody he thought was his enemy. But I guess . . . I guess he trapped you first.” She inched closer to the edge of her chair. “Why? Did you know something important about his family?”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose very slightly. “But I am his family,” she said. “I am Aurelia McMartin. Aldous is—or was—my brother.”

  “You’re his sister?” Olive stared at Aurelia’s waxy face. There was a hint of family resemblance in it, she realized—not so much to Aldous himself, but to Annabelle, with her soft, pretty features. Aurelia looked like an Annabelle who’d been dehydrated, frozen, and wrapped in gray silk. Olive swallowed. She clasped the key a little bit tighter. “Then—why would he trap you?”

  “Oh, Aldous didn’t think of it as a trap. At least, not at first.” The woman glanced around the room. “He thought it was a place to keep me safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “From everything. I was ill, you see.” She pressed one corpse-white hand to her chest again. “Consumption.”

  Olive thought of the old novels she had found in the library, in which women coughed delicately into lace handkerchiefs and then keeled over dead. She nodded.

  “For a long time, I was shut away in my bedroom, so as not to infect anyone else,” Aurelia struggled on. “But I only grew worse, and soon everyone knew that there wasn’t much time.”

  “Couldn’t Aldous use magic to . . . fix you?” Olive asked.

  “There are some things in this world that even Aldous’s magic cannot overcome.” Aurelia gave Olive the hint of a smile. “As you can imagine, this made Aldous furious.”

  Olive nodded again.

  “Instead, Aldous created a world of his own. A world where nothing would age, or get sick, or die. He learned to paint his living pictu
res. Next, he began to experiment, leaving real things inside of them.” Aurelia’s weak voice grew even weaker. “Finally, he left me too.”

  “So . . . that’s the real reason for all of this?” said Olive slowly. “He started Elsewhere for you?”

  Aurelia looked away. “Here, nothing would change. I would never get worse. I would never get better. I would be safely hidden, neither dying nor living, forever.”

  “That’s awful,” Olive whispered.

  “Do you think so?” Aurelia’s sunken eyes flicked to Olive’s. “Then set me free.”

  A spike of fear plunged through Olive’s stomach. She shouldn’t have let her guard down, not even for a moment. She shot to her feet. “I thought Annabelle was nice, and sweet, and helpless too. But when I let her out, she tried to drown me.” She backed toward the wooden panels. “I’m not letting you out. And don’t try to make me. The cats know I’m in here, and my friends will come and find me, so don’t come any closer.”

  But Aurelia hadn’t moved. Only her eyes followed Olive, and they looked even sadder than before. “Olive,” she breathed, “you misunderstand. I don’t want to be free of this painting. I want to be set free for good.”

  “What do you mean?” Olive frowned, backing up until her spine struck the hidden door. “You mean . . . you don’t want to exist anymore?”

  Aurelia looked down at the little table beside her chair. Next to a heavy silver box, one white rosebud stood in its vase, ever blooming.

  “I’ve already existed longer than any person should,” she said. “All I want now is to rest.” Her fingers settled gently on the lid of the silver box. “You know ways, don’t you, Olive Dunwoody?”

  Olive did know ways. She’d used a few of them already: Bright light. Paint thinner. Fire. She looked at Aurelia’s waxy face, at her skeletal fingers and slumped shoulders, and forced back a wave of pity before it could come sloshing out in words.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I need to think.”

  “I understand.” Aurelia’s voice was gentle. “. . . In the meantime, there is something I could do to help you.”

  “Really?” said Olive warily. “What?”