The Strangers

by Jacqueline West

  The people who were supposed to be helping her hadn’t been any help at all, Olive realized. Inside of her, a spark began to snap and fizzle. How much longer did they expect her to shuffle obediently back and forth from school to the house, wasting her time on art projects and—

  A swinging clump of keys smacked Olive between the shoulder blades.

  “Are you all right, Olive?” Ms. Teedlebaum asked. She craned over the side of Olive’s high white table, her bangle bracelets jangling. “You look like something is bothering you.”

  “I’m fine,” said Olive, as calmly as she could. “Thank you.”

  “My story didn’t upset you, did it?” Ms. Teedlebaum lowered her voice. “Have you lost a houseplant yourself recently?”

  “No. I haven’t lost any houseplants.”

  “Good,” said Ms. Teedlebaum. She turned to focus on Olive’s collage, and a corkscrew of red hair, smelling faintly of wood glue, tickled Olive’s cheek. “This is very interesting work, Olive. You have a unique way of looking at the world. That’s just what an artist needs: That vision, and a way to capture it.”

  With those words, Ms. Teedlebaum sailed away on a jingle of keys, leaving Olive chewing on the inside of her cheek. She fought down the sudden, strong urge to tear up her collage, rip that captured image into bits, and set it free into the chilly wind that roared past the classroom windows.

  • • •

  The instant she and Rutherford had climbed off the bus at the foot of Linden Street, Olive whirled around and grabbed Rutherford by the sleeve. “What are they going to do tonight?” she asked urgently. “Your grandmother and the others?”

  Rutherford looked vaguely surprised to find Olive’s fingers wrapped around his arm. “They are making progress,” he said, blinking back at her. “My grandmother says that they haven’t found definitive proof of where your parents might be, but they’ve eliminated several possibilities.”

  A gust of cool autumn wind swept down the hill. Olive scowled at the leaves that flung themselves against her jacket, like a hundred little hands trying to push her backward. “What about Annabelle?” she asked, dropping Rutherford’s sleeve. “Do they know if she’s alone, or if she freed Aldous somehow, or if she’s working with someone else? Anything?”

  “They have not drawn any conclusions on that matter,” said Rutherford.

  “But it’s been days. Why is it taking so long?”

  Rutherford blinked at her through his smudgy glasses. “They are trying to help while maintaining the safety of everyone involved, Olive.”

  “I know. But, I just—” Olive clenched her teeth, imagining a miniature Annabelle between her molars. “I just want to do something. I can’t wait any more.”

  “I understand.” Rutherford’s face brightened. “Perhaps you should join us for dinner this evening. Walter could watch the house, and you and I could play chess. Or we could set up my new figurines for a reenactment of the War of the Roses.”

  Olive shook her head. “I would, but if I even go out to the yard, Walter follows me.”

  They had reached the lawn of the Nivens house. Olive slowed her steps, glancing up at the lifeless windows looming above them. “Are you sure we can trust him, Rutherford?” she asked. “I know he’s not a real witch, and the cats would never let him use any of the house’s secrets—if he could even figure out how—but I hate leaving him there while I’m gone. Yesterday, when I came home, I found him picking through the dead plants in the garden. And on Wednesday, he asked me if there’s a root cellar under the basement. He must have noticed the trapdoor. Do you really think he’s safe?”

  Rutherford halted. He turned to stare at Olive. “You’re asking me if I think Walter is dangerous?” he asked. “I think a baby rabbit with a sleep disorder would pose more of a threat.” Olive pictured a tiny rabbit in a turtleneck flopping down with a snore on the library rug. She giggled in spite of herself. Rutherford tilted his head to one side. “You need to trust people sometimes, Olive.”

  Olive sighed. She wrapped both arms tight around herself and felt the spectacles digging into her skin. “But sometimes I’ve trusted the wrong people.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Through the broken window of Lucinda Nivens’s abandoned bedroom, the curtains gave a ghostly twitch. Olive shivered.

  “Did you say something?” Rutherford asked abruptly.

  “When?”

  “Just now.”

  “I said, ‘Sometimes I’ve trusted the wrong people.’”

  “After that.” Rutherford blinked. “I thought I heard you say something about parabolic equations.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever said anything about parabolic equations,” said Olive. “Except right now.” She smiled, thinking how happy her parents would be if they knew she had even used the words parabolic equations . . . and then her lips began to tremble. She wheeled back to the sidewalk, striding toward the old stone house. Rutherford hurried to keep up.

  “Tonight, I’m going to do something myself,” said Olive as they climbed the creaking porch steps. The cold that radiated from the walls swirled over them, enveloping them in its chilly breath. “Maybe I’ll sneak out of the house, maybe I’ll get the cats to help me search; I don’t know. But I have to do something.” She glanced at Rutherford. “You can come with me, or not—but don’t tell anyone. Please.”

  Rutherford nodded solemnly. “I will consider your proposal,” he said. “And my secrecy is assured.”

  “Good.” Through the windows to her left, Olive could see a twitch of motion as a dark, skinny figure scurried past the glass. Walter was in the library. An anxious feeling began to spread like a burning rash over Olive’s skin.

  “That reminds me,” she said, pulling an empty lunch container out of her bag and pressing it into Rutherford’s hands. “Please tell Mrs. Dewey thanks again for making all my lunches. And my dinners. Walter tried to fix dinner two days ago, and somehow he set canned soup on fire.”

  “I will relay the message,” Rutherford announced. “Good luck with tonight’s endeavors.”

  “Thanks,” said Olive, opening the door. “See you tomorrow.” With a last little wave at Rutherford, she stepped inside and locked the door behind her.

  Walter’s head popped through the library doors. “Hello, Olive,” he rumbled.

  “Hi, Walter,” said Olive, hoping the distrust that prickled on her skin wouldn’t seep into her voice.

  “Mmm.” Walter blinked at her. “How was your day?”

  “It was fine.” Olive dropped her book bag and leaned against the front door. “How was yours?”

  “Excellent.” Walter nodded, his head bobbing on his long, skinny neck, which in his black turtleneck looked even longer and skinnier. “No sign of trouble. And Horatio finally stopped ignoring me. When I said ‘Good morning, Horatio,’ he said ‘Hmph’ instead of nothing.”

  Olive forced a smile. “That’s good.”

  “Mmm. I was wondering—um . . .” Walter hesitated. “. . . do you know—did the McMartins keep books anywhere besides the library? Maybe in the attic, or . . .”

  “I don’t think so,” said Olive firmly. “Why?”

  “I just—mmm—it seems strange that there isn’t a single book about magic. Not in the whole library.” Walter’s voice grew even deeper as he drew his head toward his shoulders. “No magical history. Or folklore. Or anything.”

  Olive stared hard at Walter. He still reminded her of a giant bird. But now, in his black turtleneck, he looked less like a crane and more like a vulture.

  “Maybe Ms. McMartin destroyed them,” she said pointedly. “Maybe she didn’t want anyone else to find them.”

  Walter’s head bobbed in a way that might have been a nod.

  “Well,” Olive resumed, “I’m going up to my room for a while.”

  Olive started up the staircase. She looked
back over her shoulder, just once, to see if Walter was watching her—but he had already vanished behind the closing wooden doors of the library.

  Once she’d heard the doors click shut, Olive tugged the spectacles out of her collar. She raced the rest of the way up the stairs and dove into the painting of Linden Street.

  In front of his tall gray house, Morton was hopping through the squares of a game of hopscotch. The chalk lines were rapidly disappearing from the pavement, and the acorn cap he threw flew straight back to its spot by his feet. He didn’t look up as Olive approached.

  “Can I play?” she asked.

  Morton shrugged, stopping to pick up a stick of chalk and redraw the fading lines. “I don’t know. That’s up to Elmer.” He nodded toward an empty spot on the sidewalk.

  Olive had met Morton’s invisible friends before. They weren’t exactly imaginary friends. They had been real once, just like Morton—but unlike Morton, they had gone on being real. By now, they had probably grown up and gone away, while Morton never would.

  She waved at the empty sidewalk. “That’s okay, Elmer,” she said. “But after you’re done, maybe you could help me. Both of you.”

  “With what?” asked Morton, tossing the acorn cap. It landed on square 8, then zipped back to its starting spot.

  “I thought we might sneak out of the house—we can’t let anyone see us, because I’m not supposed to go anywhere on my own—and search for my parents.”

  Morton frowned at the pavement, flicking the acorn cap with his toe. “What if we find them? Won’t she be there too? With the Old Man?”

  “He can’t be there,” said Olive. “He’s still stuck in his portrait. Probably.”

  Morton folded his spindly arms. “And how come you’ll let me out of the house to look for your parents, but not mine?” With a ripple of his long white nightshirt, Morton whirled around. “I don’t know if I will help you,” he said.

  “Morton, please!” Olive called. But Morton strode toward the crest of the hill without looking back.

  They hurried up the quiet street, Morton storming ahead, Olive scurrying after. On either side, sleepy houses towered over them, their curtained windows staring out like blinded eyes. A few candles burned on the other side of foggy panes, tiny flecks of warmth pressing against the night.

  “Please, Morton,” Olive panted to the back of Morton’s tufty head. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to get either of our parents back. I’m just—I’m just trying to do the best I can.”

  Morton’s footsteps began to slow. He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t move away as Olive caught up with him either. Side by side, they walked past a porch where a budding rosebush that would never bloom twined its thorny arms through the railings.

  “I’ve never walked down this part of the street before,” said Olive as they passed another deserted lawn.

  “These houses are empty, mostly,” said Morton.

  Olive looked up at the dark windows and looming rooftops, enclosing spare rooms for guests who would never arrive—or, if they did, who would never leave again.

  They passed a house with a rounded tower, its siding such a deep shade of green that in the twilight it looked almost black. The house might have vanished into the darkness, if not for a delicate light glowing in the first-floor windows of the tower. The light glimmered softly, like a candle, but it had a very un-candle-like color. This light was an unearthly greenish blue, like an aquamarine held in front of a fire.

  Olive stopped, putting a hand on Morton’s arm. “Who lives in that house?” she asked.

  “In there?” Morton frowned up at the glowing windows. “No one.”

  Something feathery and nervous fluttered inside Olive’s chest. “But there’s a candle burning inside. Why would an empty house have a burning candle?”

  Morton shrugged. “It’s always been there.” Slowly, he turned to follow the worn brick path that led to the stoop. Olive trailed after him. Their footsteps thudded on the wooden stairs.

  They stood before the closed front door, wavering on their feet. At last, Olive reached up and tapped cautiously on the cold wood. There was no answer. Olive counted to ten under her breath (“You skipped eight,” said Morton), but no one came. When she grasped the heavy brass knob and pushed the door inward, it pushed back at her. “Go inside, quick,” Olive whispered. They darted across the threshold before the painted door could pull itself shut.

  The slam echoed through the empty house. Keeping close to the door, Olive glanced around. No rugs lay on the floor. No lights hung from the ceilings. The walls were drab and bare. One lonely velvet couch sat in the front room, with no one sitting on it. The only light inside the house came from just around the corner, where the bluish glow reached toward them, beckoning them on.

  Olive edged around the wall. Morton tiptoed behind her.

  In the center of the bare, round room, there stood a small wooden table. Atop the small wooden table was a candle in a silver holder. Its flame danced lightly in Olive’s breath as she leaned in, studying the wax’s strange blue color, and the silvery coating that glittered atop it, almost like frost on a windowpane.

  Olive gave a little gasp.

  “It’s a Calling Candle,” she whispered.

  “A Calling Candle?” Morton whispered back.

  Olive’s mind flew back along the painted street, where candles burned in window after window.

  “Maybe they’re all Calling Candles. Aldous could have used them to bring people in here.”

  Morton kept quiet.

  Olive stared at the candle’s bright flame. “But no one’s in this house. I wonder if Aldous left the candle here, waiting for the next person, and just never used it. And if he never used it . . . that means that we could.” Olive felt her heart jump higher and harder, like a huge metal pinball bouncing between her ribs. “We could call my parents.”

  Morton looked into Olive’s eyes. “Or my parents,” he said.

  “Or Annabelle,” Olive added as the pinball turned to a lump of ice.

  Morton gave a little jerk. Instinctively, he put the hand that Annabelle had sliced with a dagger behind his back.

  “It might be the safest thing to do,” said Olive softly. “That way, at least she’d be stuck Elsewhere again.”

  For several silent moments, both Olive and Morton stared at the candle, like two starving people studying their last crumb of food.

  Olive licked her papery lips. “So,” she whispered. “Who should we call?”

  “No one,” said a sharp voice from behind them.

  14

  OLIVE AND MORTON whirled around.

  Three pairs of bright green eyes glittered in the light of the candle.

  “You should call no one,” Horatio repeated, “because you haven’t the faintest idea what you’re doing.”

  “Where have you been?” Olive burst out as a confusing mixture of gladness and frustration rushed through her. “I’ve hardly seen you all week, and now you show up just in time to keep me from finally doing something worthwhile?”

  “As it happens, Olive,” said Horatio, fluffing his thick fur, “we have been doing something worthwhile too: Guarding this house’s secrets and keeping you from making any dangerous mistakes. Apparently we are indeed ‘just in time.’”

  “But I haven’t done anything,” Olive protested. “Nobody has. My parents are gone, and it’s been a whole week, and I can’t keep wasting time!”

  Leopold tilted his sleek black head. “Aren’t Mrs. Dewey and Doctor Widdecombe and Walter’s aunt Deluda—”

  “Delora,” Horatio corrected, “though ‘Deluda’ might be more appropriate.”

  “—aren’t they making any progress?” Leopold finished.

  “No.” Olive spread her arms, exasperated. She looked back at the candle burning on the table. “And here I have t
he chance to do something real.”

  “No you don’t, Olive,” said Horatio. “And not merely because you shouldn’t try to use an object as powerful as a Calling Candle, but because you don’t know how.”

  “Yes I do!” Olive argued. “You hold the candle, and you say someone’s name into the flames, and you can only use it once.”

  “As usual, Olive, you have approximately half of the necessary information,” Horatio said dryly. “First, you can only call one person, so summoning two parents will pose a bit of a problem. Second, if the person you call is being held by other magic—under the influence of another spell, or trapped in another painting, perhaps—they cannot appear. Calling your parents could be a waste of time as well as a waste of a candle.”

  “Third,” Harvey added, in a British accent, “you’d need the assistance of a fellow agent to keep the entrance open, in order for your target to be transported Elsewhere.”

  “What does that mean?” Olive asked.

  “To put it in civilian terms: One of us would have to sit in the picture frame.”

  “Oh,” said Olive. She gazed around at the three cats, their glossy coats shimmering in the candlelight. “You know, Agent 1-800, it seems funny that you would do that to help Aldous McMartin trap his enemies, but you won’t do it to trap your own.”

  The cats were silent for a moment as the meaning of Olive’s words sank in. Leopold cocked his head. Horatio’s eyes narrowed.

  Harvey raised one eyebrow. He turned slowly to the other cats. “I believe she has a point,” he murmured.

  “Olive,” said Horatio in a low, measured voice, “think very carefully about the risks you run by bringing Annabelle McMartin here.”

  Morton took a step backward, pressing himself to the wall.

  Olive pictured the painted Annabelle strolling gracefully up Morton’s street. Her face would be cool and pretty and calm, and her eyes would be terrifying gold glints in the darkness. She would glide toward the porches, the hushed and frightened houses, the windows where Morton’s neighbors stared out, cowering—