“There was a locket,” Aurelia began.
The back of Olive’s neck started to prickle.
“A beautiful gold locket,” Aurelia went on. “Aldous had it made for me. I thought it was a gift . . . but really, it was a leash, a way to control the one who wore it. Once I was shut away in here, he gave it to someone else.” In the painted flecks of Aurelia’s eyes, Olive saw a shimmer—whether it was hope, or cunning, or a deep-buried memory, she couldn’t be sure.
“You know what has happened to it, don’t you, Olive?” Aurelia whispered. “That’s another of the locket’s powers. Its true owner always knows where it is.”
In the back of Olive’s head, something began to clang. It charged forward, growing louder and louder, until Olive realized what it was: alarm bells.
“No,” she said, working the key into the lock. “No way.”
The shimmer in Aurelia’s eyes died. Her face looked sad and hollow once again. “Of course,” she said softly. “It is up to you. Perhaps you would like to keep the locket for yourself. Perhaps you have even decided to work with Aldous rather than against him, or—”
“No I haven’t!” Olive shot back. “I would never work with him!”
“Then you must get rid of it,” Aurelia whispered. “Please believe me, Olive. Let me destroy it before it hurts someone else.”
The trusting part of Olive inched out, wanting to believe—but Olive could feel danger creaking beneath her, like the rung of a ladder about to snap.
“I’ll think about it,” she said at last. She turned the little metal key.
Behind her, Aurelia sighed. “Of course,” she whispered. “I understand.”
Olive pried open the hidden door. She glanced around, making sure that the outer room was clear. Just before she could step through, something on the painted shelves to her left caught her eye.
It was a book, bound in worn brown leather. Its embossed cover faced the room. Carved into that cover, with sharp angles and shimmering smudges of gold, was a large, elaborate letter M.
Horatio had hidden the grimoire, just as Olive had asked him to.
He had hidden it here.
Aurelia’s voice suddenly sounded as though it had traveled through a mile of swirling gray fog. “Good-bye, Olive.”
Olive didn’t answer.
She lunged into the outer room. The paneled door banged shut behind her, throwing her forward. The key tugged itself out of her fingers and flew through the air, darting back into the strange yellow fruit.
Olive sprawled across the table and dove through the canvas, landing on the hallway carpet. Her mind spun with so many questions that she couldn’t even see straight—which was why she nearly stepped on the huge orange cat waiting in the patch of early morning sunlight just below the frame.
Olive let out a startled squeak.
Horatio kept silent. His eyes moved from the painting to the spectacles on Olive’s nose.
Olive tugged them off. She could hear her parents downstairs, the soft thump of footsteps in the lower hallway.
“You know what’s in there, don’t you, Horatio?” she whispered.
“Yes. I know exactly what’s in there.” Horatio’s words were slow and deliberate. “But I am not sure that you do.”
“I do too,” Olive argued. “She told me herself. She’s Aurelia McMartin, and she was going to die, so Aldous put her there. She’s why he made Elsewhere in the first place.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And you gave her the grimoire.”
Horatio’s eyes narrowed. “I did not give it to her. I left it where it would be hidden and guarded.”
Olive dropped to her knees, bringing her face close to Horatio’s. “But she’s a McMartin! What if she uses it?”
“She doesn’t need to use it.” Horatio’s eyes darted toward the banister. There was a muted creak from the foot of the stairs. “Believe me, Olive, that book is in the safest spot in this house.”
Olive sank back against her heels, feeling suddenly sad. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?” she whispered. “How could all three of you have kept this big secret?”
“All three of us didn’t,” the cat snapped. “I was the lucky one who had to keep it—and her, and you—safe.” Horatio padded closer. “Olive, for the sake of everyone in this house . . . leave Aurelia alone. Promise me, no matter what happens, that you will not let her out.”
“I wasn’t going to,” said Olive. “Probably.”
At that moment, Mr. Dunwoody’s head appeared between the rungs of the banister. He was climbing the stairs very slowly, because he was reading a book at the same time. He reached the top of the steps, spent a few moments searching blindly with one foot for a stair that wasn’t there, and drifted to the right. In the door of Olive’s bedroom, he looked up. A puzzled expression floated across his face.
“Your room is the other way, Dad,” said Olive.
“Oh. Thank you, Olive.” Mr. Dunwoody gave her a smile. “I just can’t think about directions and self-consistent recursive axiomatic systems at the same time.” Raising the book again, her father shuffled off through the correct doorway.
Olive glanced down. The fluffy orange cat had vanished too.
Before Olive could trace him, there came a loud, rapid knock from the front door.
Olive hurried down the steps. She tugged the door open, and a blast of frigid air swept into the front hall, nearly tearing her breath away.
Rutherford stood on the porch, wrapped in layers of scarves that coiled around his head like a knitted boa constrictor. His glasses were fogged, and he was jiggling quickly from foot to foot, but Olive could still see the worry in his dark brown eyes.
“Olive,” he said, “I’m afraid we have a problem.”
ANOTHER KNOT ADDED itself to the tangle in Olive’s mind. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Walter,” Rutherford answered, through the layers of scarves.
“Walter?”
Rutherford nodded urgently, still jiggling. “Can you come next door? Immediately?”
Olive glanced along the hall. Her mother was in the kitchen, arguing with a TV program. Something sizzled on the stove.
“I can come for just a minute,” she said, grabbing her coat. “If it’s so urgent.”
“It is,” said Rutherford, jiggling even harder.
“I’m coming.” Olive squished her feet into her boots. “You can stop jiggling now.”
“The thing is . . .” said Rutherford. “. . . Mm . . . Would you mind if I used your restroom?”
“Oh,” said Olive as Rutherford jiggled past her into the entryway. “Sure. Go ahead.”
“No need to wait for me.” Rutherford hustled toward the stairs. “I’ve started to pick up Walter’s thoughts even when we’re not face-to-face. I’m afraid something very bad is beginning to unfold.”
In the thin morning light, Olive dashed across the lawn. Last night had been even colder than the one before, and a new, rock-like crust had formed over the surface of the fallen snow. Her boots crunched with every step.
As she approached the front door of the tall gray house, she caught a strange sound coming from inside. It was a violent pounding sound, like someone kicking a wall with a steel-toed boot. Olive’s heart clenched. What could be happening in there? The pounding grew louder and louder, ending in a sudden bang as Olive threw open the front door.
Even with the lights dimmed and the curtains drawn, Olive could tell that something had changed inside the tall gray house. She looked around at the floors scattered with freshly unrolled rugs, and the walls hung with unfamiliar pictures, and the rooms stuffed with rearranged furniture, and realized that the something that had changed was everything.
Lucinda’s perfect white furniture had disappeared, replaced by older, cozier chairs. The bare walls were decorated with black-and-white photogr
aphs. Every modern appliance and electric lamp had been whisked out of sight.
Gathered in a heap at the foot of the stairs were all of Walter’s possessions. Olive took in the crates of old books and brass tools, the bags of unusual plants, and the limp brown sack full of Walter’s limp brown clothes. Standing beside the heap, looking even limper and browner and sadder, was Walter himself.
“Hi, Olive!” Morton crowed as he and Mary trundled down the stairs with an old steamer trunk. It gave a final bang as it slid from the bottom step to the floor. “Look! Everything’s the way it was!”
“Good morning, Olive!” said Harold, emerging from the dining room with another stack of old books. “Back again already?”
Olive looked from the Nivenses to Walter’s hanging head. “What’s going on?”
“We’re changing it back,” said Morton proudly. “We’re changing everything back!”
Mary beamed, dusting off her smooth white hands. “I just wish I knew where my cuckoo clock went.”
“I couldn’t find my pliers, either,” said Harold, dropping the books into the heap. “You leave home for a little while, and everything gets turned upside down.”
“You did all of this in just one day?” Olive asked.
“One day and one night!” Harold whistled a happy tune.
“You get so much done when you don’t need to sleep!” Mary sang, adding another book to the pile.
Olive watched the book slide to the floor, its pages crumpling. “But why is all of Walter’s stuff in the hallway?”
“Because Walter is leaving,” Mary chirped.
Olive turned to Walter. “Are you?”
“Well—mmm—” said Walter, shuffling uneasily. “See—they’re putting everything back the way it was. Before. And the problem is—mmm—I wasn’t here. Before.”
“We are so grateful that you’ve watched over Morton, and that you’ve taken such good care of the house.” Mary gave Walter a perky pat on the arm. “You are always welcome to visit. And I’ll need you to come over and eat my baking!”
“But you need Walter here for other things too,” said Olive as a worried knot in her mind began to tighten. Behind her, Rutherford slipped in through the front door. “He’s the one who saved you from that snowy painting. He can protect you.”
“With this stuff?” Harold gave the heap a skeptical look. “I don’t know about all these charms and potions and dead birds and such. Frankly, we would rather not keep any magical trash in our house.”
Rutherford stared at Harold as though he had just declared that the Battle of Hastings had never happened. “Magical trash?” he repeated.
“Preparing yourself for battle often invites it,” said Mary, before Rutherford could explode. “And a battle with him is the last thing we want. Don’t you understand?” Mary turned back to Olive, smiling sweetly. “We just want to get back to our normal lives.”
But you’re not normal, Olive wanted to shout. Something in Mary’s blue eyes made her stuff the words back inside just in time.
“In that case, Walter,” said Rutherford loudly, “I hereby invite you to come and live with me and my grandmother. In fact, I have a project which will require your expertise. The armory can be turned back into a guest bedroom. The replica broadswords and falchions are—”
“Mmm—are you sure?” asked Walter, blinking down at Rutherford.
“I give you my word.” Rutherford bowed. “As emissary for the House of Dewey, I give you my grandmother’s word as well. I’m sure she would say the very same thing. In slightly different terms.”
Walter looked around the hallway. “Maybe I will stay with you,” he said, pushing his sleeves up his spindly arms. “At least for now.”
While Olive, Rutherford, and Walter picked up the first armloads of Walter’s stuff, the Nivenses got back to their noisy work. Harold hammered a nail in the hallway. Morton kicked his striped ball through the parlor. Mary’s happy humming came from the dining room. When Olive opened the front door, letting Walter and Rutherford out before her, Morton and his parents didn’t even say good-bye.
• • •
By the time Olive ran from Mrs. Dewey’s place back to the old stone house, the sky was a pale, dirty gray. Thick flakes were starting to fall. Wind moaned above the house, carrying the promise of a dark, snowy day. Olive scurried across the porch, threw open the door, and slammed it shut behind her.
Her parents’ voices murmured in the distance. A light glowed in the kitchen, sending its warm gold streak along the polished floor. Olive knew that breakfast would be waiting for her. But she didn’t feel hungry. She felt heavy, and tired, and too full of problems to fit anything else inside.
Flicking on the stairway light, Olive trudged slowly up the steps.
There was no sign of Horatio anywhere. Harvey seemed to be making himself scarce. Olive was paying such close attention to the shadowy doorways, watching for glittering green eyes and twitching tails, that she didn’t glance at the paintings at all.
She didn’t notice that she sky above the silvery lake had darkened to inky black, or that the frozen waves seemed to be rippling a bit more urgently toward their painted shore. She didn’t notice that the moonlit forest was no longer moonlit; that the white path had turned gray, and the trees had become one thick black mass, like a wall of thorns. She didn’t notice that the candles in the windows of Linden Street had winked out.
Olive turned into her bedroom and plopped down, face-first, on the rumpled blankets. For a while, she slept, as the sky beyond the windows lightened and then darkened again. She woke up feeling completely exhausted, as though all her bones and muscles and blood had been replaced with lukewarm dishwater.
There were too many problems left to solve. And with each one she fixed, another three popped up to take its place.
Aurelia. Horatio’s secrecy. Walter and the Nivens family.
And, worst of all, Aldous himself. Aldous, who was still out there, watching and waiting.
What else was he waiting for? What was he going to do next?
Olive flopped onto her back, feeling the dishwater slosh. Across the room, her collection of old pop bottles winked in a beam of window light. One dust-free oval still marked the spot where the filigreed locket had hung. Olive got up and dragged her feet across the floor. She opened the top vanity drawer and reached inside, all the way to the back, where she’d thrown Aldous’s locket.
Her fingers rattled over old pens and pencils, pieces of hard candy, and several plastic figurines from the dispensers that always stood in grocery store entryways, but there was no locket. Olive yanked the drawer out as far as it would go. She couldn’t see the locket any more than she could feel it.
Breathing a bit faster now, she pulled open the next drawer, tossing out the socks and stockings and one partnerless blue slipper. No locket. She rooted through the other drawers, spilling her collection of smooth rocks decorated with fingernail polish and her sacks of interesting coins. No locket.
By the time she’d dug through the jumbled drawers of her dresser, torn apart her closet, and peered into the darkness under the bed, Olive’s skin was prickling with a panicky fever.
The locket was gone.
Not just gone—taken.
This wasn’t a case of accidentally throwing it across the room in her sleep, as she had done with her retainer, or daydreamily leaving her latest mystery book inside the microwave in place of a plate of leftovers. She’d put the locket with Aldous’s portrait in the top vanity drawer, she was certain, and someone else had taken it out again.
And Olive knew who that someone might have been.
She sank down in a heap of strewn clothes, feeling too shaky to think and stand up at the same time. How could Aurelia have gotten out of the locked room, escaped from the painting, and taken the locket? There were so many things she would need: the key to the
hidden door, a chance to slip through the house unnoticed, another pair of spectacles or one of the cats . . .
. . . and only one of the cats knew Aurelia was there.
Olive stuck a hank of hair in her mouth and chewed it.
Horatio had brought Aurelia the grimoire. Might he have given her the locket too, to keep it safe? Did he trust her that deeply? Olive chewed faster. And if he was keeping another secret, did he trust Aurelia more than he trusted Olive?
This thought made Olive’s stomach ache.
One way or another, she needed to know the truth.
Tucking the hank of damp hair behind her ear, Olive peered out into the hallway.
She’d been asleep for longer than she’d realized. Afternoon was already dwindling away. The light that pressed through the windows was the color of tarnished silverware. Suddenly, the entire house looked darker—the lightbulbs dimmer, the doorways blacker, the carpet a bloodier shade of red.
“Horatio?” Olive whispered.
Downstairs, a door opened and closed. Adult voices blended and faded away.
Olive crept out into the hallway.
Horatio wasn’t on her parents’ bed, or under it. He wasn’t in the white room, or the green room, or the chilly, tiled bathroom. As she slunk back around the corner of the hall, Olive got the distinct sense that something was watching her—something hidden and silent, something that wouldn’t reveal itself until it knew the game was won.
“Horatio?” she whispered again. No one answered.
Olive tiptoed into the lavender room and switched on the light. Across the room, just above the dresser, Annabelle’s empty portrait hung, staring back at her. The painting looked darker now. Much darker. Inside the parlor where Annabelle had posed at her tea table, afternoon had turned to midnight. Silverware glinted like weapons in the dark.
The strangled shriek of the teakettle came from downstairs, making Olive jump. She scurried back out of the lavender room and stopped in front of Aldous McMartin’s still life.
A shadow had fallen over the bowl of strange fruit. The wood-paneled walls had turned black. Olive leaned closer, staring at the hidden door. Perhaps Aurelia was sitting in her room right now, holding the locket in her cold, waxy hands. Perhaps she truly did want to destroy it. Or perhaps that had been one more lie. Perhaps—
Still Life Page 14
