23
OLIVE BLINKED, LETTING her aching eyes adjust.
The attic was quiet. It was not the ominous quiet that tells you something is sneaking up behind you, but a peaceful quiet—the kind of quiet that makes you want to curl up and sleep. There were still shadows in the corners, of course, but they thinned and shifted harmlessly as Olive stood up, lifting the lantern. She could feel the air growing warmer.
With the lantern in one hand, Olive stumbled exhaustedly down the attic stairs. The door swung open on the first try. The lantern’s bright beams fell over Morton and the cats, who huddled together in the entryway, all of them squinting into the light. For a moment, no one moved.
“Olive?” Morton whispered.
Olive took a deep breath. “He’s gone.”
Horatio and Leopold let out yowls of joy. Morton hopped up and down while holding on to Olive’s arm, his round white head bobbing like a helium balloon on a string. Harvey rocketed from wall to wall above them, whooping, “Youdidityoudidityoudidit!” between fits of laughter.
Leopold was the first to collect himself. “Miss,” he proclaimed, “your household thanks you. Your courage and cunning in battle have—” But here Leopold was interrupted by Harvey landing on his head.
Horatio gazed up at Olive as Leopold and Harvey rolled through the picture frame and into the pink room in a hissing, chortling ball. Then Horatio smiled. And it was an actual smile, without a trace of sarcasm in it. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “You did it. You really did it.” Olive reached down to scratch Horatio gently between the ears.
Morton threw his spindly arms around Olive’s ribs, still jumping up and down. “I’m going to tell everybody on the whole street about you!”
Looking down at his tufty head, Olive felt her smile waver. A lump began to form in her throat, but a stubborn yawn pushed it away. “Let’s go get some sleep,” she said.
Olive grabbed Horatio’s tail and held on to Morton. The three of them trooped out into the hallway, where all the paintings were back in their frames, and all the lights had turned back on.
They stopped in front of the painting of Linden Street. The picture was different now. The sky was a softer, warmer shade of dusk, and a few stars twinkled at the edge of the frame. The mist that had smothered the field had thinned to a few decorative wisps. In the distant houses, Olive spotted the glimmer of cheerful lights.
Olive cleared her throat. “I guess—I guess this didn’t really help you,” she said, looking everywhere but at Morton. “I mean, it won’t help you get back home. To your real home.”
Morton was quiet.
Olive forced out the next words. “Morton, I don’t know how to help you. I can’t make what happened to you not have happened.”
“I know,” Morton said softly.
“I’ll keep trying, though,” Olive promised. “Maybe someday . . .” She trailed off. There were no words to finish that sentence.
“Olive?” said Morton. “That light is hurting me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Olive turned off the camping lantern. Morton cautiously rubbed his arm, where it had been closest to the bright light. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“I’ll come visit you, though,” Olive said at last. “I mean, if you want me to. And if the cats will bring me.”
Horatio rolled his eyes in a beleaguered sort of way, then nodded.
“I want you to,” said Morton. “That would be fun.”
“Morton,” said Olive, leaning her forehead against the wall so that Morton couldn’t see it if she started to cry, “I’m sorry.”
Morton shrugged. “It’s all right,” he said, trying very hard to smooth the quaver out of his voice. “Maybe . . .” Morton blinked hard. “Maybe it will be different now. In there.”
“Out here, too,” said Olive. They looked at each other for a moment before Olive turned away.
“Leopold, would you help Morton get home?” Olive called as the yowling ball of cats rolled back into the hall. Leopold extracted himself from Harvey’s grip, gave Olive a salute, and offered Morton his tail.
“Godspeed, Sir Pillowcase!” cried Harvey to Morton with a knightly wave as Leopold and Morton slipped through the frame.
Olive let out a deep breath. Then she scuffled into her own bedroom and flopped down next to Hershel in a pile of fluffy pillows and soft, warm blankets. Before she could think another thought, she had fallen asleep.
24
WE’RE HOME!” CALLED Mr. Dunwoody cheerily from the front door.
Olive looked up from a massive breakfast of hot cocoa, bananas, Mrs. Nivens’s cookies, and pink kittens with marshmallows. Mrs. Dunwoody swept down the hall to the kitchen and gave Olive a kiss on the forehead.
“How was the conference?” Olive asked.
“It was illuminating,” said Mr. Dunwoody, setting down the suitcases. “We brought you something.” With a flourish, he unfolded a T-shirt printed with a chicken and held it up for Olive to see.
“‘Why did the chicken cross the Möbius strip?’” Olive read aloud. Mr. Dunwoody turned the shirt around to the back. “‘To get to the same side.’”
Mr. Dunwoody beamed. “Do you get it?”
“Kind of,” said Olive.
Mrs. Dunwoody patted Olive’s shoulder patiently. “How was everything here while we were away?”
“It was fine,” said Olive, swallowing a large mouthful of cookies. “The electricity went out for a while.”
“Were you all right?”
“Yes.” Olive shrugged.
“What a brave girl,” said Mrs. Dunwoody. Then she sneezed. “Olive, dear, you are covered in cat hair.”
“Oh.” Olive glanced at her shirt, which was indeed coated with a thick furze of black, orange, and white cat hair. All three cats had piled themselves on top of her during the night. She had woken with Leopold on her feet, Horatio on her stomach, and Harvey curved over her head like a furry beret. “Actually, there’s something I have to tell you . . .” Olive looked up at her parents. “We have three cats.”
“What?” said Mrs. Dunwoody.
“Did you buy three cats while we were gone, Olive?” asked Mr. Dunwoody.
“No, they were here before we came.” Olive toyed with her mug. “They’ve been here all along. I don’t think we can make them leave.”
Mr. Dunwoody nodded, frowning thoughtfully. “It hasn’t ever seemed fair to me that animals never get to decide where they would like to live for themselves.”
Olive looked up at her parents, making her eyes as pleading as possible. “Can they stay? I’ll make sure they don’t ever go in the library or your bedroom. They’re all very well-behaved.” She paused, thinking of Harvey. “Well, almost all.”
Mr. Dunwoody looked down at Mrs. Dunwoody. “What do you think, sweetheart? The responsibility might be good for Olive. And we have this big house . . .”
Mrs. Dunwoody sniffled. She looked at Olive’s hopeful face and sighed. “All right. I’ll just have to get an anti-allergy injection, I suppose.”
Olive wrapped her parents in an energetic hug, then rushed upstairs to give the cats the news.
Mr. Dunwoody looked mistily down at his wife. “Thank you, dear,” he said, lifting her hand and kissing it. “My love for you is a monotonic increasing function of time.”
Mrs. Dunwoody sneezed.
Olive, Horatio, Leopold, and Harvey, who was wearing a bedraggled white feather between his ears, stood together in the upstairs hallway.
“Why the feather?” Olive whispered to Horatio.
“Cyrano de Bergerac,” Horatio answered dryly.
Olive gazed around at the paintings, which all seemed a bit friendlier than before. All but two, anyway. An empty portrait frame hung in the violet guest room, and the painting of the dark forest now featured a woman with disheveled hair and a very sour expression.
Olive tapped the corner of the frame, and the forest painting swung back and forth on its hook just like any ordinary pictu
re.
“Well, blow me down,” said Leopold. “It moved.”
Slowly, Olive lifted the heavy picture from the wall. Ms. McMartin didn’t move, but she seemed to glare even more pointedly out of the frame.
The four companions carried the painting out into the backyard. Olive lay it on the dewy grass and brought a shovel from the garden shed. Harvey got merrily to work, slinging pawfuls of dirt in all directions. Leopold directed the excavation, and Horatio sat at a short distance, keeping his luxuriant fur clean.
When the hole was several feet wide and deep, Olive wedged the painting soundly inside. Ms. McMartin glared up at them. Olive scooped in the first heap of compost. Soon the painting was completely hidden from sight. When the hole was neatly filled in, the cats walked up and down on the fresh-turned dirt, tamping it down with their round footprints.
“There,” said Olive. “The end.”
“Well done, miss,” said Leopold with a dignified nod. “Victory is ours.”
“En garde!” shouted Harvey, pouncing after a grasshopper.
Horatio winked at Olive, then began cleaning the crumbs of dirt from his fur.
Back inside the house, Olive was pouring a glass of milk for herself and three dishes for the cats when something across the room caught her eye. Olive moved closer to the painting of the three men who had been building a wall. The men had put down their stones and were now seated on the grass, all of them patting a big dark brown mutt. The dog’s face wore an expression of tongue-lolling ecstasy.
Olive smiled. Baltus wouldn’t be bothering the cats again.
The quiet tapping of computer keys filtered from the library where Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody were finishing their work for the day. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the porch swing creaked gently in its nook of ferns and ivy. Olive ran her fingers along the banister that ran up the wide staircase. This was her house now. And she liked it here.
She paused next to the painting of Linden Street. Lights glowed cozily in the distant houses, and a few stars twinkled softly in the twilit sky.
“Good night, Morton,” Olive whispered.
Then she headed back down the stairs. There was a lot more to explore.
Acknowledgments
First, huge thanks to my fabulous agent, Chris Richman, for taking a chance on me and Olive, and for being the pilot fish to my whale shark (or, if he prefers, the grooming bird to my hippo).
Equally huge thanks to Jessica Garrison for her kindness, her wisdom, her humor, and her unflagging encouragement, and to all the wonderful people at Dial—notably copyeditor Regina Castillo, who went through this manuscript with infinite patience and a comb so fine-toothed it would find the tangles on a chinchilla.
To Phil and Andrea Hansen and to Amelia West for the magical naming of cats: thank you, thank you, thank you. You all rock.
I will always be grateful to the staff and students of Stockbridge Schools, Stockbridge, Wisconsin, for their generosity and support.
And finally, to all the Cobians, Swansons, McHargs, Nelsons, and Wests who read this in all its many drafts and phases: I love you, and I am so lucky to have you.
About the author
JACQUELINE WEST is obsessed with stories where magic intersects with everyday life—from talking cats, to enchanted eyewear, to paintings as portals to other worlds. What paintings might she sneak into if she got her hands on Olive’s old glasses? “I would probably have to go with Salvador Dalí ’s paintings,” she says, “because they would be such amazing worlds to explore. I imagine everything would feel rubbery and slick, sort of like Silly Putty or fried eggs.” An award-winning poet, Jacqueline lives with her husband in Red Wing, Minnesota, where she dreams of talking cats, dusty libraries, and many more adventures for Olive and Morton. This is her first book.
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