She banged at the surface of the painting. Her hands stung so badly that she gasped. When she glanced down at her palms, she saw that the skin was perfectly smooth—too smooth. Her feet were numb. Of course they were, Olive realized. She had been inside Elsewhere much too long. Even with Aldous gone, some wisps of its power clearly remained.
Her body flared with panic. Her breaths came faster, each one dragging in a prickly swirl of smoke. She banged at the surface again.
Out in the dim hallway, one of the painted neighbors looked up. She turned to another person, speaking quickly. Olive watched the message travel along the hall until suddenly a black cat leaped into the frame.
“Leopold,” Olive choked, “please take the Nivenses out.” She set the frightened spider on his back. “And this spider too.”
“What about you, miss?”
“I—” Olive stopped, coughing. “I’ll wait for Horatio.”
Leopold nodded once. “Be careful, miss.”
Olive watched Leopold, then Morton, then Harold, and finally reluctant Mary disappear safely through the frame. Then she turned back toward what remained of Linden Street.
As Olive ran up the hill a final time, the air was growing hot and thin. Smoke coated her mouth and throat. The ground beneath her felt brittle; her feet crackled in the burned brushstrokes, sending flakes of oily ash into the air.
Cracks had appeared all around, leading down to nothingness. Olive leaped over them, skirting the huge, scorched hole that had emerged in the McMartin yard, racing with a new burst of panic toward what remained of the Nivens house. Her numb legs just managed to keep her upright.
The tall gray house was only a black heap. A few embers still glowed in its foundations. The walls had collapsed into ashy lumps, where wisps of paint undulated gently in the rising air.
“Horatio?” Olive called, running toward the back.
The window where she’d glimpsed the orange cat had dissolved into the smoking rubble. Burned paint bubbled where the back door had been. Another black crevasse was widening across the yard.
“Horatio!” Olive called again.
A cloud of smoke rushed into her open mouth. She doubled over, coughing, inching closer to the embers. Her legs and arms could barely feel the heat. Her fingers might as well have been made of plastic. Olive wondered if a spark from the fire would incinerate her as quickly as Lucinda and Annabelle, making her vanish in one sudden, blazing streak.
But she wasn’t going to turn away. Horatio was here somewhere. She couldn’t abandon him, frightened or trapped or hurt, or wondering why she had never come back.
She crept into the sizzling remains of the house. Her eyes fogged and watered. Itchy sweat dribbled down her collar. Her lungs gave an angry throb as she inched forward into the heat’s core.
Something that had been a wall fizzled away as Olive moved closer. Through the smoke, she could see another bottomless hole where the staircase had stood, and a black smudge that had once been the hallway floor . . . and, half buried in a pile of ash, its rich orange color dimmed to gray, one long, thick, motionless tail.
Horatio.
Olive plunged forward.
The painted ground snapped under her weight. She leaped as the floor crumbled beneath her, landing beside the big orange cat. The smoke was thick, and the stifling air was warped with heat, but she could see that the cat didn’t move.
He didn’t open a bright green eye, or twitch a whisker, or stir one single strand of fur as Olive dragged his limp body out of the ash and into her arms.
CLUTCHING HORATIO’S BODY to her chest, Olive lunged back out of the burned house. The black fissures in the earth were widening, and she had to veer left and right to avoid the dissolving spots, once slipping and catching herself on one rubbery hand just in time to keep from plunging down a cliff that had no bottom. Her other hand was wrapped tight around Horatio, holding him close.
By the time she staggered down what had been the grassy, misty hillside, the air was nearly black. Even the smoke that filled her lungs was burning away, replaced by nothingness. She was running out of air. The painted world crumbled behind her as Olive placed one numb hand on the picture frame.
The surface of the painting didn’t budge.
With Horatio in her arms, it should have softened, letting her through . . .
But instead, her hand pounded against the barrier as though it were made of glass.
Olive’s heart tightened.
This meant the cat in her arms was—
He was—
“Milady?” Harvey’s splotchy body appeared in the frame. “Take hold of my tail and—” His eyes caught on Horatio, lying limp in Olive’s arms. “Oh,” he whispered.
With her free hand, Olive grasped the cat’s tail. She crawled through the frame, lifting Horatio as gently as she could. As her feet kicked through the surface that final time, Olive felt a stiffening around her, the jellyish surface of the painting turning brittle and thin. Then, with an explosion of vaporous shards, the last fragments of the painting dissolved.
Olive threw a glance over her shoulder. Where the painting of Linden Street had hung, there was now only an empty gold frame. She turned away.
For several minutes, she merely crouched against the hallway wall, cradling the huge orange cat and taking deep, raspy breaths. The bristles of invisible hairbrushes were pounding at her foot soles, and her hands felt like they’d been stung by a hundred tiny bees, but Olive didn’t make a sound. She knew if she even opened her mouth, all that would come out would be one long, hopeless scream.
The house around her kept silent too.
At the edges of her bleary vision, Olive could see Harvey and Leopold standing guard. The painted faces of neighbors and musicians and dancers encircled her, worried and watchful. Morton inched through the crowd. He hesitated next to Olive for a moment. Then he touched Horatio’s side very gently, running his small fingers over the thick orange fur.
“Good kitty,” he whispered.
Horatio didn’t move.
“Grandma?” Olive heard Rutherford’s voice coming from somewhere that seemed very far away. “Can we do anything?”
Mrs. Dewey’s round form bent down next to Olive. “For a creature like this . . . For a problem like this . . .” She examined the cat’s limp form. Then she shook her head. “That would take more powerful magic than any witch possesses.” She patted Olive’s shoulder. “Olive dear,” she murmured. “I am so sorry.”
Still cradling Horatio in her arms, Olive rose slowly to her feet. She carried him across the hallway. Harvey and Leopold flanked her. Morton and Rutherford followed them as far as the head of the stairs. There they stopped, letting Olive and the cats continue down the steps alone.
At the bottom of the staircase, Leopold and Harvey stopped too. They seemed to know that Olive needed these few moments with Horatio. They stood at attention on either side of the steps, their eyes watchful, but a bit dimmer than before.
Olive trailed through the darkened lower hall. To either side of her, paintings were turning to ash and dwindling away, leaving only their empty frames behind. She carried Horatio past the parlor doors where a collection of Parisians and pigeons had gathered. They watched her pass, keeping still.
Olive thought of the dozens of times she’d slammed through the front door and seen Horatio’s wide orange face appear in the very same spot, making sure that she was securely inside.
“Look at everything you kept safe,” she whispered to the cat.
The three stonemasons and Baltus sat in the kitchen. They all hopped to their feet as Olive entered.
“Miss Olive!” said one of the men. Then his eyes landed on the furry lump in her arms. All of them went silent. Even Baltus stopped jumping. One of the masons took off his dusty black cap and held it quietly in his hands.
Olive carried Horatio
through the family room, past the windows that looked out into the backyard. The winter wind had died away. Snow fell, soft and thick, outside the panes. It was very late, Olive could tell, but the moon cast its sheen over the snow, turning everything to silver.
“We’re really safe, Horatio,” Olive whispered. “My parents, and Leopold, and Harvey, and the Nivenses and Deweys, and all the people from Elsewhere. The whole house. You kept us all safe.”
The cat didn’t stir. A beam of moonlight fell across his face, revealing his closed eyes.
Olive turned and headed back down the hall.
A knot of girls in gauzy dresses stood between the open library doors. They had been whispering together, but they hushed as Olive approached. As one, they stepped back, their dresses rustling, to form an aisle for Olive.
Olive passed through.
Inside the library, the huge frame that had enclosed the painted meadow hung empty, its corners blackened with soot. The books gleamed softly on their shelves. The pine tree, its limbs hung with pearly glass balls, breathed its spicy sweetness into the air.
Olive carried Horatio to the worn velvet couch and sat down. The cat sagged in her lap, cold and heavy. The springs in the ancient cushions creaked. Then that sound died away, and the entire house was still.
It wasn’t the stillness of sleep, or of danger, or the lonely stillness of a place where no one lived. It was a different kind of stillness. It was the stillness of a moon-bright night in midwinter, when everyone is safe indoors.
“We did it, Horatio,” Olive whispered into the cat’s ear. “The McMartins are gone for good. You kept the house safe all along.” Her eyes filled with tears. She rubbed her chin against Horatio’s furry forehead. “You did such a good job. And now your job is done.”
Then, for a while, Olive cried.
She sniffled, and wiped her nose on her cuff, and she sobbed out loud once or twice as the dancing girls squeezed each other’s hands and watched, hanging their heads.
Olive sniffled again. One teardrop plopped from the tip of her nose to Horatio’s ear. The ear twitched, flicking it away, but Olive was wiping her face and didn’t notice.
Something soft and furry bumped at her arm. Olive jerked upright, her heart leaping with hope, but it was only Leopold and Harvey settling on the couch beside her.
They gazed down at the cat in Olive’s lap, their faces solemn.
“I didn’t get to thank him.” Olive’s throat tightened again. “He warned me not to let Aurelia out, but I didn’t listen. And he was right.”
“Perhaps,” said Leopold, very softly.
“I should have told him I was sorry. And I should have told him how thankful I was.”
“He knows,” said Harvey, in his own quiet voice.
“I hope so.” Olive blotted her eyes on her sleeve and stared down at the motionless cat. She gave his fur a stroke. “Maybe it’s silly, but I didn’t—I didn’t think you could die.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” said a dry, slow voice from Olive’s lap.
Olive froze.
“We live until something stops us,” said Horatio, in a voice that was much softer than usual.
“And then . . . ?” Olive breathed.
“And then, if we have a very good reason, we can start living again.”
Olive grabbed Horatio in both arms and squeezed him as hard as she could.
“Considering that I wasn’t breathing a moment ago, you might allow me to do it now,” said the cat, in a voice that was muffled by Olive’s neck.
Olive loosened the squeeze a teeny bit. “But I’m part of your reason, aren’t I?” she whispered into his ear. “At least a little part?”
“Yes, Olive,” said Horatio’s muffled and grumpy voice. “You are more than a little part of the reason.”
• • •
By the time Olive stepped back through the library doors with Horatio at her side, word had spread. Perhaps Leopold and Harvey had carried the news up and down stairs, or perhaps the house itself had sensed it, but its wintery stillness was thawing fast.
The orchestra had moved downstairs to the formal parlor. As Olive crossed the entryway, she could hear them launching into an out-of-tune waltz. The dancers swayed in the hallway, spinning in small circles and bumping into one another, and the Parisian café patrons joined in, the fat pigeons waddling between their feet.
“This way, this way . . .” The castle porter’s lantern bobbled as he led a flock of geese from the attic’s painted farmyard safely through the crowd.
Behind Olive, there was a rush of giggles. She turned to see the dancing girls flit off toward the family room, with Harvey hurrying behind. “Fair maidens!” he cried. “You need not run from zee chivalrous Lancelot!”
In the bathroom doorway, the bathing woman tightened her towel. The bird from the fencepost perched on a wall sconce, looking crankily down at everyone.
The painted neighbors had gathered on the staircase. Roberto the Magnificent stood above them, spreading his skinny arms. “As you can see, my hands are empty,” he announced. “But watch closely . . .”
A furry blur shot past Olive’s legs. Leopold, followed by Baltus, charged up the stairs into the crowd.
“Voila!” shouted Roberto as a bouquet of roses that didn’t shoot right back into his sleeve appeared in his hand. At the same instant, Leopold took a graceful leap, landing safely on the magician’s shoulders, and Baltus took a much less graceful leap straight at the magician’s stomach. Roberto, cat, dog, and several neighbors toppled in a squealing, kicking heap.
It was at that moment that the Dunwoodys emerged from Olive’s bedroom.
They blinked around at the people in old-fashioned pajamas and the magician who’d just wrestled a dog to the floor.
Mr. Dunwoody leaned toward his wife. “What door did we just step through?” he murmured.
“Mom! Dad!” Olive hurried up the stairs. “Um—all the power went out on Linden Street. It must have been the snow or something. Everybody’s heat turned off, except ours—so, to be safe, they all came here.”
The pajama-clad people nodded. Baltus gave Roberto a slobbery lick on the face. Downstairs, a goose honked.
Olive swallowed. “These are our neighbors.”
Mr. Dunwoody’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, I see!” he said cheerily. “In that case, welcome, everyone! Make yourselves at home.”
“Alice Dunwoody,” said Olive’s mother, holding out her hand to the old woman in the nightcap.
“Alec Dunwoody,” said Olive’s father, shaking Mr. Fitzroy’s hand.
The Dunwoodys made their way through the hall and down the stairs, greeting neighbors on every side.
“Excellent thinking,” said Rutherford as the stonemasons appeared to haul Baltus away. “A reasonable and almost truthful explanation.”
“They’ll be all right,” Mrs. Dewey promised, nodding at Olive’s parents. “And don’t worry; I’ll whip up something that will erase their memories of most of this.”
“What about everybody else?” Olive asked. She watched the castle porter set down his lantern to shake Mr. Dunwoody’s hand. One of the dancing ladies was teaching Mrs. Dunwoody the two-step. “Can you fix them?”
Mrs. Dewey let out a soft sigh. “They’re not alive, Olive. And making something not alive be alive again is beyond any magician on earth.”
“Oh.” Olive took another look at the Nivens family. Morton had left his parents to watch Roberto’s magic show, but Mary and Harold still stood apart, Mary’s face buried in Harold’s old-fashioned jacket.
“And Horatio was correct: They won’t be safe in the real world,” added Rutherford. “There are too many dangers, on top of the threat of exposure. You saw what a struggle it was for the Nivens family, and they were only out for a few days.”
Olive looked around at the hollow
picture frames. Silvery water, rolling hills, blooming flowers, eternally glowing moons: Everything had vanished. There was nothing left to fix. There was only emptiness.
Meanwhile, filling the house were dozens of friends and neighbors and not-quite-animals, all needing someplace safe to stay. As Olive gazed at the empty frames and the unused bedrooms and the faces of the painted neighbors and Walter and Rutherford and Mrs. Dewey, a brand-new plan began to sketch itself in her mind.
She sucked in a breath.
“I think I have an idea,” she whispered.
IT WOULD BE a lie to say that the old stone house returned quickly to normal.
Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody thought it did, but they had both eaten double portions of Mrs. Dewey’s Crunchy Caramel Coffee Cake, and woke up the next day unable to remember their own middle names.
“The long-term memories will return,” Mrs. Dewey assured Olive. “But for the next couple of days, keep a close eye on them. Make sure they turn off the oven, take the keys out of the ignition before locking the car, and so forth.” She opened a dusty jar, sniffing carefully at its contents. “Walter, hand me that blue glass bowl, would you?”
Olive, Walter, and Mrs. Dewey stood in the stone room at the end of the basement tunnel. On the shelves around them, ingredients winked in their dusty glass jars. Sheets of yellowed paper, crisscrossed with tape and scrawled with Aldous’s handwriting, were arranged on the high wooden table. Leopold sat beside them, keeping watch over the goings-on. It was freezing in the underground chamber, so everyone—except for Leopold, who was equipped with his own fur coat and mittens—was bundled up in winter jackets and hats and gloves. Two cheery gas lamps burned on the table, making the air bright enough to reveal their puffs of breath.
While Mrs. Dewey filled the blue glass bowl with a stream of white liquid, and Walter ground what looked like glossy beetle shells in the big stone mortar, Olive bounced up and down, rubbing her arms with a mixture of impatience, cold, and excitement.
Still Life Page 20
