Wavering to her feet, Olive followed the two cats up the rickety staircase. Neither of them paid any notice to the ribbon of light, sometimes trotting on its blue path, sometimes darting off of it, as though they didn’t see it at all—and of course, Olive realized, this was because they couldn’t see it. Horatio led the way up the stairs, now and then glancing back to check on the other two. Leopold stayed behind him, right in front of Olive, but he did not turn around. He didn’t speak either.
“What about Harvey?” Olive asked as they stepped through the basement door. “Isn’t he coming?”
“Harvey does not require convincing,” said Horatio, with a short, hard glance at Leopold.
The pathway of light crossed the kitchen and trailed into the hall, just as it had when Olive followed it to the basement. Olive veered away from the path and dug a flashlight from the kitchen drawers, just in case. “You two can see in the dark, but I need some help,” she explained.
Horatio gave an irritated huff before turning and leading the way forward.
They continued along the glowing ribbon of light. Horatio climbed the stairs and turned to the right, trotting past Olive’s bedroom. Olive noticed that the light no longer ended at her bedroom door. Instead, it continued down the hall, lengthening as she tiptoed along its width, almost as though it too, were following Horatio’s silent footsteps.
Moving faster now, Horatio and the ribbon of light raced past the lavender bedroom and the blue bedroom, making for the pink room. A prickly sense of foreboding moved from the tips of Olive’s fingers up the length of her arms.
“Are we going into the attic?” she asked. But the cats didn’t answer.
By the time she reached the painting of the ancient city, the light was already there, glowing in the surface of the canvas. Neither cat offered her his tail. Olive fumbled to put on the spectacles as Horatio gave Leopold a commanding nod, and the black cat leaped through the frame.
“After you, Olive,” Horatio murmured. “I insist.”
Olive plunged through the canvas with Horatio pressed watchfully against her leg, tripping over the bottom of the frame and almost falling face-first through the attic door. The cat raced up the steps into the shadows.
But for the glowing blue ribbon leading her up the stairs, the darkness in the attic was smothering. What little moonlight slipped through the small round window was all that kept the walls from disappearing into solid blackness. Olive flicked on the flashlight, slashing its beam across the room. She gave a little jump when she spotted another light shining back at her, but this turned out to be a reflection from the cluster of mirrors. Still, if Olive’s heart had been beating at high speed before, now it kicked up to a drum roll.
Both cats had darted away into the shadows. Olive hesitated at the top of the stairs, testing the darkness with the flashlight while the rivulet of magical blue light lapped at her bare feet. For a moment, the light seemed to condense, making itself brighter…and then it reached out one radiant blue beam that unrolled across the attic floor like a skein of silk.
Olive followed the path of light as it wound between the attic’s usual oddities—the miniature cannon, the skeletal hat racks—until it stopped beneath the ghostly shape of the cloth-draped easel. There, the light gave a final flare before sinking slowly into darkness.
The flashlight wavered in Olive’s hand. Her racing heart jerked to a halt.
Wait a minute…
The cloth that covered the painting had been moved. Olive was sure of it. Where before it had hung in even ripples all the way to the floor, now it looked slightly lopsided, as though someone had tossed it hurriedly into place. She ventured closer to the easel. Two paintbrushes, their bristles still damp, stuck out from behind the cloth, on the easel’s shelf. A smudge of brown paint stained the fabric—a smudge that Olive was positive hadn’t been there before.
Horatio and Leopold slipped out of the darkness and seated themselves in front of the easel.
“Olive,” Horatio commanded, “uncover the painting.”
Olive gripped the flashlight in her left fist. Her right hand shook as she reached out for the drop cloth. Then, with one quick motion, as though she were pulling off an especially large and bloody bandage, Olive ripped the cloth aside.
Aldous McMartin stared back at her from the easel.
Olive stopped breathing.
It was easy to recognize him. His face had burned itself into her brain when she’d found his photograph in the lavender room’s dresser months ago. Now, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted that very same photograph sitting on the easel’s shelf, removed from its old-fashioned folder and propped amid a collection of brushes and fresh splatters of paint.
With or without the photograph, she would have known that face: that rigid, carved-looking face, with its jutting cheekbones and square jaw and eyes that burned like fires in two deep, dark pits. A pair of arms, now complete, ran down to the long, bony hands that Olive had wrestled for the spellbook. The top of his head was missing, so he had no hair, and one of his shoulders was only a murky outline, but it was clear that this portrait was only a few hours—perhaps less—from completion. And, as Olive stood staring, unable to breathe, the portrait shifted. Aldous McMartin’s burning eyes locked with hers. His fingers, long and bony, twitched on the pages of the open scrapbook. And then he started to smile.
Olive yanked the spectacles off of her face with such force that their ribbon gouged into her neck. She nearly lost her grip on the flashlight, fumbling it so that its beam raced back and forth across the portrait, gleaming on the glossy streaks of fresh paint. Aldous’s eyes seemed to glimmer, as though he was watching her, even now.
“You see, Leopold?” said Horatio’s voice from the darkness behind her. “I told you that she was working against us.”
20
OLIVE WHIRLED AROUND. Shakily, she aimed the flashlight at the cats. Its beam flared in Leopold’s bright green eyes, like a match touching a wick. Horatio dodged the light. He edged to one side, staring hard at Olive as he spoke.
“This is what she’s been up to,” he said softly. “Didn’t I tell you, Leopold? Do you believe me now?”
Leopold’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t speak.
“What?” gasped Olive, whose mind was racing like a mixer in a bowl full of batter, spattering droplets everywhere.
“It was you who dug the hole in the backyard, to get the paint-making materials without us knowing,” said Horatio.
“No it wasn’t!” Olive argued.
But Horatio went on, circling her in the shadows. “It was you who reassembled the instructions and took the jars.”
“Well—yes, but—”
“It was you who mixed the paints. Harvey saw you.”
Nothing but air came out of Olive’s mouth now. She turned, trying to catch Horatio in the flashlight’s beam, but he slipped out of its path again. “I—” she stammered. “But I—I didn’t—”
“That’s why Harvey remained in the basement, guarding the lower room,” said Horatio. “He didn’t need any more proof of what you’d done.”
Leopold shifted uncomfortably. His eyes remained fixed on Olive.
“Leopold,” Olive began, “you can search my room if you want to. I don’t have the paints or the instructions for making them anymore. I told Horatio to take them away, because I’m never going to use them again, and—”
“Told me to take them away?” repeated Horatio. “I found them in your room only yesterday. I proceeded to destroy them before you could use them for your dangerous purposes.”
Olive’s mouth fell open. “Horatio! That’s not true! I swear, Leopold,” Olive pleaded. “I’m not the one who—”
“Do you deny that you used Aldous’s paints to create a portrait?” Leopold demanded, in a voice that was even lower and gruffer than usual.
“No—but I—I just— Honestly, I didn’t do this one, I was just trying—”
“She was trying to bring Aldous back,�
�� said Horatio’s voice. Olive slashed at the darkness with the flashlight again, but Horatio remained invisible. “Now she needs him to teach her what she can’t master on her own. She wants just what Lucinda Nivens once wanted, just what Annabelle herself once wanted. Didn’t she prove as much with the spellbook? She wants to be his apprentice. She wants his power.”
“I DO NOT!” Olive exclaimed. “I don’t want to be like him! I didn’t do this!”
Horatio slunk to the edge of the light, standing just over Leopold’s shoulder. “She’s a danger to all of us,” he murmured in Leopold’s ear. Horatio stepped forward, nudging Leopold closer to Olive. “Perhaps we should put her into the painting with her master.”
Olive took an involuntary step backward and felt her shoulder bump the canvas. She jerked her arm away.
The cats crept closer.
“First, you must give us the spectacles, Olive,” Horatio continued. “You are obviously not to be trusted.”
Olive gulped. The flashlight wavered in her hand, sending a flickering glow over the two cats. Horatio ducked out of the beam once again. “No,” Olive said, her voice shaking. “And don’t come any closer. I’ll scream. My parents will hear.”
“They might hear you, but they won’t be able to reach you,” said Horatio, gliding nearer.
Olive trained the flashlight on his face. Horatio’s green eyes narrowed. He stopped moving. In the split second before he turned away, Olive noticed something funny about the shade of his eyes, which weren’t quite as bright as they used to be. And his fur…
“Horatio,” she whispered. “What is wrong with you?”
The cat whirled away. “Leopold,” he snapped, darting back out of the light, “you and Harvey must remain on continual watch over the subbasement. That way we can ensure that she can’t steal any more of the jars. I will take care of this portrait myself.”
Leopold gave the tiniest of nods.
“But—then—who will be watching the rest of the house?” asked Olive.
“Who needs to?” Horatio shot back. “We know just where the problem is. It’s wherever you are.”
Olive turned to Leopold, pleading. “Leopold, I swear—you have to believe me—I—”
“Leopold.” Horatio cut her off. “Hasn’t this girl deceived you enough times for you to learn your lesson? Downstairs. Now.”
Leopold hesitated, looking from Horatio to Olive. After another moment, Leopold dragged his eyes away from Olive’s face and trudged slowly toward the attic steps. His inky fur was swallowed by the darkness.
With a last hard look at Olive, Horatio backed across the floor, turned, and disappeared silently down the staircase after Leopold.
Olive stood alone in the attic.
In spite of the chilly air, she felt feverish. Her palms were sweating. Her heart thundered. Inside of her head, a flock of questions whirled and dived.
Whatever Horatio had said, she knew she hadn’t painted Aldous’s portrait. All other considerations aside, she simply wasn’t a good enough painter. And this meant that someone else had painted it.
But who?
Annabelle? She wasn’t a painter, as far as Olive knew. Besides, how would Annabelle have gotten into the attic without the spectacles or one of the cats? Ms. Teedlebaum? But she couldn’t have gotten into the attic either—and how would she have known where to find the ingredients, let alone concoct the paints? Olive chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to think. Could the bony hands have painted the rest of their body themselves? Olive had no idea, but it seemed pretty unlikely. Horatio was acting so strange…Might he have been the painter? Olive tried to picture Horatio holding a brush in one of his furry paws. The image would have made her laugh if she hadn’t been so terrified.
Horatio. Olive’s vision blurred. She blinked back the tears, but not before one slid down her chin and soaked into the collar of her pajamas.
What had happened to Horatio? Why had he turned against her—and gotten Leopold and Harvey to desert her as well? Did he truly believe what he told them—that Olive was trying to serve the McMartins? No, Olive reasoned. He couldn’t believe that. He was the one who knew about her failed painting of Morton’s parents; he was the one she had asked to take away the paints and dispose of them for good.
So why had he lied about her? The Horatio she knew might have been prickly at times, but he was honest. And, in spite of that prickly exterior, Olive had come to believe that Horatio cared for her, deep down in his centuries-old heart.
This Horatio hardly seemed like the cat she knew at all. This Horatio, with his dull eyes, and his cold, hard expression, and his slick, not-quite-soft-enough fur…
He looked like paint.
A breath of dusty attic air caught in Olive’s lungs. The flashlight shook in her hands, sending its jumpy beam over the mountains of clutter.
Her mind flashed through its images of Horatio—the way his fur had flared in the sunlight on her parents’ bed, and how warm and soft it had felt under her fingertips; the cool feeling of his ears as he edged away from her in the upstairs hall, the way the light glanced off of him instead of making each orange strand of hair glow—and a sense of certainty began to fill her, like cement pouring into a mold. It made her feel indestructible. And heavy. And ready for whatever might come next.
With a deep, angry breath, Olive turned around and faced the easel. Aldous McMartin gazed back at her. Every nerve in Olive’s body wanted to pick up the painting and smash it over the old hat rack, and then to kick its broken frame across the attic, and then perhaps to wad the canvas up and see if the small, battered cannon still worked well enough to launch a crumpled painting through the night air. But Olive stopped herself.
Whoever had been painting the portrait would be back to finish it. And waiting—as difficult as it would be—was probably the only way for Olive to uncover the identity of its painter. Olive would have wagered her whole piggybank that the painted Horatio and the painted Aldous had more than their paint in common.
But she wasn’t going to let the painter foil her again. Olive snatched the black-and-white photograph off of the easel’s shelf, holding it between the very tips of her fingers, like something that might give her a rash. Without meeting Aldous’s green-gold eyes, she covered the horrible portrait with its cloth.
The moonlight falling through the small round window seemed to brighten as Olive hurried across the room, tucking the flashlight under her arm and using both hands to push at the window frame. The swollen wood gave a low, angry groan. Olive froze for a moment, listening, but there was no other sound—nothing but the night wind whispering through the trees.
Leaning through the open window, Olive tore Aldous’s photograph to pieces. Then she tore the pieces into even tinier pieces, until there was nothing left that was large enough to tear. She tossed the pieces into the air. A breeze caught them, the fragments scattering and spinning until they were whirled away into the darkness.
Then Olive put the spectacles on and climbed back down the stairs, out of the attic.
21
AFTER WHAT HAPPENED in the attic that night, Olive was sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She lay down in her bed and rolled herself up in the covers like silverware inside a napkin, and waited for sleep not to come. But then, suddenly, she was opening her eyes and her bedroom was sparkling with morning sun and the smell of breakfast was drifting up from downstairs. She was sure she would never be able to eat again either, but as it turned out, she managed to put away four muffins and a massive glass of orange juice before she even realized that she was hungry. And maybe it was the sleep, or maybe it was the fortification of muffins, but Olive began to feel more and more steely as the morning went on.
Once she had finished helping dry the breakfast dishes and Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody were happily settled at the table with fresh coffee and giant stacks of quizzes to correct, Olive hurried back up the stairs, put on the spectacles, and climbed into the painting of Linden Street.
She tore u
p the misty hill, toward a small white blotch on Morton’s porch. As she raced closer, the blotch clarified into Morton himself. He was seated on the floor with the folds of his white nightshirt pooled around him, sorting through the pieces of the gigantic jigsaw puzzle Olive had brought.
“Morton!” she gasped. “Morton, I need to talk to you.”
“Found another edge piece,” said Morton, still sorting through the puzzle box. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Is it about that other boy again?”
“No,” said Olive emphatically. “It’s not about…him.” Olive dropped onto the porch steps, pressing her hand to the cramp in her side, where some muffins seemed to be reassembling themselves. “It’s about this house. And the McMartins. And Horatio. And it’s important.”
Morton dropped his handful of puzzle pieces. “Important?” he repeated doubtfully.
“Yes.” Olive leaned forward, bringing her face close to Morton’s. “Something terrible has happened to Horatio. Somehow…he’s been turned into paint.”
Morton frowned. “How?”
“That’s part of the problem. I don’t know how. Maybe he got stuck in Elsewhere too long, just like you, and he—”
But Morton was already shaking his head. His tufts of white hair fluttered in agreement. “The cats stayed here with me lots of times. Like the night when Lucinda was…” He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. “They stayed for a long time. And they didn’t change.” He looked back at Olive, and his face took on an explain-y, teacher-y expression. “They’re not really alive, you know.”
“I know,” said Olive, with a shade of irritation.
“Look,” Morton went on, lifting a puzzle piece and waving it in front of Olive’s nose. “Not alive,” he said slowly. “Not turning into paint. And the papers you brought for me to put together. They weren’t alive. They didn’t turn into paint.”
“Right,” said Olive. “So…he can’t be the same Horatio.” There was a panicky catch in her chest as she realized what else this would mean. The real Horatio—the one she knew and trusted and needed—was gone. “But where did the real one go?”
The Second Spy: The Books of Elsewhere: Volume 3 Page 13