Morton had halted a few steps away. “Mama?” he whispered.
Olive and Leopold crouched beside him. Olive stared into Mary Nivens’s face: the rounded cheeks, the snub nose that matched Morton’s, the smiling blue eyes. Only now the eyes weren’t smiling. They were frozen, keeping as still as everything else in this frigid world. But then, as Olive watched, Mary’s eyelids trembled. Very, very slowly, they lowered halfway over her eyes, in a weak, unfinished blink.
“What’s wrong with her?” she whispered to the cat.
“She must have turned to paint just in time,” Leopold answered. “Otherwise she would simply have frozen to death. But she didn’t.” The cat shook his head. “Of course, if all of us had the foresight to be born with fur . . .”
Harold picked up Mary’s hand. It sat in his grasp as stiffly as a china doll’s. “Mary?” he whispered.
Morton stared, keeping silent.
“But if she’s paint, why is she—like this?” Olive asked the cat.
“Do you know what happens to paint when it gets extremely cold?”
Olive tried to picture a can of paint freezing. She hadn’t ever seen it happen, but she imagined it cracking open in a colorful, gooey burst, like a can of orange pop left in the freezer.
“It explodes?” she ventured.
“It thickens,” said Leopold. “It grows viscous, or brittle.”
“Oh.” Olive sucked in a breath. She glanced at Morton. “. . . Like taffy when it cools?”
“Precisely.”
Mary’s eyelids twitched again.
“I don’t think she can move,” said Harold, throwing a worried look over his shoulder.
“You are correct, sir,” said Leopold. “You will have to move for her.”
In Harold’s arms, Mary looked smaller and stiffer than ever. Her arms hunched around her body in a motionless shiver. Even her long gray dress had turned solid. Her petticoats crackled like a bag of potato chips as Harold hoisted her out of the snow. The drift re-formed behind her, each painted snowflake settling back in its original spot.
“We should get out of here before that thickening thing can happen to Morton and Mr. Nivens too,” said Olive. “And before I start to change. Or my toes freeze off.”
“Excellent points, miss,” said Leopold. “Follow me.”
The black cat streaked through the frozen trees. Running after, Olive breathed on her hands and wiggled her toes inside of her boots, trying to keep the ache at bay. Morton trotted next to her, his wide eyes fixed on the figure in his father’s arms. At first, Harold Nivens strode steadily beside them, but as they moved on through the hovering snowflakes, Olive noticed that his steps were slowing down. Whether it was the cold affecting his body, or the fact that he was carrying a second person through the drifts, she couldn’t tell.
Leopold seemed to be slowing too. In one knot of trees, he hesitated, ears twitching from side to side.
“Perhaps . . .” he said, half to himself. “I think . . .”
“Leopold?” said Olive through chattering teeth. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s very strange, miss.” The cat’s ears flicked again. “There is nothing to smell. Nothing to hear. There’s only . . .”
“Nothing?”
“Precisely.”
Olive glanced up at Harold. Mary lay in his arms, as motionless as ever. Something strange was happening to Harold’s face too—the crinkly eyes looked duller, and the mustache that had curved with his smile now looked icy and stiff.
“Mr. Nivens?”
Very slowly, Harold’s brown eyes moved to meet hers.
“Are you all right?”
Harold’s mouth opened. No sound came out.
“Uh-oh.” Olive turned and grabbed Morton by the shoulders. “Are you freezing too?”
Morton shook his head stubbornly, but he didn’t speak.
Olive tugged the mittens off of her numb fingers and worked them onto Morton’s little hands. Even in the dimness, she could see that her skin had become streaked and shiny. She whirled back toward the cat. “Which way should we go?”
“I think . . .” Leopold began, taking a few quick steps to the left. “Yes, I think . . .”
But there he halted again. Olive followed his eyes straight up to the black sky. There was no moon, no clouds, no stars. Snowflakes clotted the darkness like bits of floating ash.
With the four of them frozen in place, the world inside the painting was utterly, terrifyingly still. In that stillness, Olive could feel Aldous watching them. Observing them. If it weren’t for the air itself, they could have been underwater, trapped like figurines in a motionless snow globe, or like specimens in a jar.
“Perhaps we should split up to look for the frame,” Leopold murmured.
“But what if one of us gets lost?” Olive scanned the forest. Glassy branches surrounded them on every side. “I don’t even remember which way the riverbed was. Mr. Nivens, do you—”
The words turned to ice on her lips.
Harold Nivens stood, frozen, beside her. His painted skin was dull. His eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking. His bare white hands clasped the folds of Mary’s dress. The two of them might have been some strange, painted statue; something molded in plaster, or carved out of stone. Morton stood a few steps away. His mittened hands clasped his arms. His nightshirt made a frozen pool around his feet.
“Oh no,” Olive breathed.
She took a step toward Morton and stumbled, one deadened foot giving out beneath her. She landed on her knees in the snow. The burning numbness in her feet was climbing higher.
“I’ll summon help,” Leopold promised, lunging into the trees.
“Leopold, no!” Olive tried to get back to her feet. “Don’t leave me here!”
“Soon it will be too late,” the cat called over his shoulder. “Just stay right there!”
Panic lanced through Olive’s body. She glanced from the frozen figures beside her to the shape of the dwindling black cat. She was going to freeze here too, she realized, with horrible, icy certainty. She would be like Morton and Mary and Harold: Ice-bound but conscious, unable to call for help or to try to find it, unable to move or even speak . . .
“Leopold!” she screamed.
“Leopold!” shouted another voice.
Rutherford and Walter barreled through the trees.
The spectacles were perched on Rutherford’s nose, wedged awkwardly under his own smudgy glasses. Walter’s baggy brown cardigan appeared to have shrunk upward, leaving only its collar behind. A strand of crinkly yarn trailed away from his neck, winding back through the frozen trees.
Leopold whirled gracefully around.
“This way, men!” he shouted, racing back toward the spot where Olive and the Nivenses were gathered.
Rutherford and Walter were already heading in the right direction. They stopped next to Olive in a swirl of quickly settling snow.
“It’s awfully fortunate that I can read your thoughts even from a distance, Olive,” said Rutherford, readjusting the spectacles and glasses and squinting at her worriedly. “That is you, isn’t it? The transformation to paint is not yet complete?”
“No,” said Olive, managing to get up onto both boots. “But it hurts.”
“I’m sure we can get Olive out of here,” said Rutherford. He nodded at the frozen family around her. “But what about these three?”
Walter gazed at the Nivenses. His bulbous eyes narrowed. He swallowed hard. Then, with a little shudder, he raised both hands and squeezed his eyes shut. Just above the surface of his palms, a soft, orange shimmer appeared.
Olive recalled Annabelle forming a ball of blue fire between her hands before hurling it at Morton, and started to take an instinctive step back. But the fire in Walter’s hands wasn’t going anywhere—and she could feel a comforting warmth radi
ating from it, making her take two clumsy steps closer instead.
Cautiously, Walter held both hands toward Morton. He moved them slowly from the top of Morton’s head down to his ankles, as though he were drying him off with two invisible blow dryers. The painted snow on the ground melted into dewy beads, crystalized, and became snow again.
Morton blinked up at him. “Now do Mama and Papa,” he demanded.
Walter aimed both hands at the Nivenses, starting at the top and working his way down. When he’d finished drying Harold’s cuffs, Walter stepped back. The fire in his hands flared and vanished. Rutherford, who’d been watching this through both pairs of glasses with a look of bleary fascination, gave his head a shake. “That spontaneous spellcasting is truly impressive.”
Harold’s mustache twitched. His brown eyes blinked. In his arms, Mary blinked too.
“Harold?” she breathed, in a voice as small and fragile as the snowflakes.
“Mary!” Harold shouted back, beaming down at her. “I’ve got you! We’re almost home!”
“And I suggest that we get the rest of the way there,” said Rutherford, throwing one of Olive’s tingling arms over his shoulders.
Walter kept a close eye on Harold, who was looking down at Mary. Morton trotted after them. Leopold led the way. Together, they followed the line of worn brown yarn all the way back to the picture frame.
Leopold stepped smoothly to the side as Walter helped haul Harold and Mary through the frame. They settled her stiff body on the bed as Olive, Morton, and Rutherford tumbled off of the dresser. Mary’s eyes moved back and forth between Morton to Harold, and her mouth seemed to be trying to smile, but the rest of her remained perfectly still.
“Mama?” Morton whispered. “Is she . . .”
“She—mmm—she’ll be all right. I think,” said Walter, untying the crinkled brown yarn that was still knotted to the bedpost. “She was—um—frozen for a very long time.”
Harold tugged the quilt up over Mary’s ruffled dress. “There we are, my darling. All tucked in.”
Morton patted the blankets. “So she was right there, all along.” His eyes flicked to Olive. “. . . Do you think Lucy knew?”
Olive, who was flexing her fingers and breathing through her teeth, shook her head. Her toes still zapped and burned, but the invisible needles poking her hands were getting duller. “I don’t know,” she managed. “I guess we won’t ever know.”
Morton’s eyes went back to his mother.
“We’ll take good care of her,” said Walter gently. He put one knobby hand on Morton’s shoulder. “We should let her keep still until she . . . mmm . . . thaws.”
Olive glanced from the two of them to the windows. Even through the curtains, she could tell that the sky had turned to tarry black.
“I have to go,” she said, staggering toward the door on her numb feet. “I’m already late. My parents will be worried.”
“It’s all right. Mmm—come back tomorrow,” said Walter. “Things might be better by then.”
Olive looked at Harold and Morton, their heads bowed over Mary’s face like two lamps over an open book. She hoped things would be better by morning too. And, for now, that was all she could do.
• • •
A suspicious orange face greeted them in the doorway of the old stone house.
“What have you two been up to?” Horatio asked as Olive and Leopold dove inside. Olive locked the door soundly behind them.
“I’ll explain the particulars before returning to my station,” Leopold murmured.
“Is that you, Olive?” Mrs. Dunwoody’s voice called from the kitchen. “Dinner is waiting! And what did we tell you about being out after dark?”
“I’m sorry,” Olive called back, tugging off her coat. “I just—I got held up a little bit.”
She flung her jacket over the coatrack and turned toward the kitchen. Her feet and fingers still stung, but she was safe. They were all safe. Even Mary Nivens, as damaged as she was, would be watched over by Walter and her family. They were home, and they were safe, and this was . . .
Olive paused, halfway down the hall.
. . . This was terrifying.
Aldous McMartin had been with them inside the museum. He had hidden in that vast, dark basement. He had driven the wind inside the painting of the quaking bog. His darkness had filled the painting of the snowy forest, where he had watched them nearly freeze into a sort of living death.
Only watched.
Never before had he let Olive remove something—someone—from Elsewhere without giving any sign.
If he had simply let them go this time, then he must have some other reason, some other plan. Something slower, and sneakier, and much, much worse.
Olive crept back down the hall toward the windows that looked out over Linden Street. Aldous McMartin was out there still. He was waiting for something—and Olive knew, with a sudden, hideous certainty, that it could only be coming closer.
WAKING UP FROM a night of bad dreams is generally a good thing.
Being woken is another thing entirely.
And being woken from those bad dreams by a cat’s chilly paw poking you in the face when you’ve just been dreaming about being drowned in cold, black water that’s plopping down onto your cheek drop by drop might make you want to swat that cat straight off of the bed.
“Leave me alone, Harvey,” Olive muttered, burying her head beneath her pillow. “We can play detectives later.”
“Thank you for that exciting offer,” said a sarcastic voice. “But as I am not delusional, I believe I’ll turn it down.”
Olive shoved the pillow aside.
In the faint pre-dawn light that filtered through the windows, she could make out the shape of a large orange cat sitting on top of her bedspread. His green eyes stared down at her, bright and hard as gemstones.
“Horatio?” Olive yawned, dragging herself up onto her elbows. Beside her, Hershel flopped over on his fuzzy brown back. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to speak to you. Alone.”
Olive sat up straighter. “Is this about what I did yesterday?”
“It is.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have snuck into the museum, but I was just—”
“You were just trying to help. And you did.” Horatio’s eyes glittered. “You reunited Morton and his parents. It was a brave and kind thing to do, and you did it without anyone getting hurt. For now.”
“For now?” Olive echoed.
“Olive . . .” Horatio brought his nose closer to hers. The tips of his whiskers brushed her skin. “You cannot make a change like this without it having other, drastic consequences.”
Olive gave Hershel a tight squeeze. “If you’re talking about Aldous, I—”
“I am not referring to Aldous McMartin,” said Horatio sharply. “I am referring to Mary Nivens.”
“Mary Nivens?” Olive bolted upright. “Did something happen? Is she—”
“Nothing has happened, as far as I know,” said Horatio, before Olive could leap out of bed. “My concern is what will happen when Mary becomes herself again.”
Olive sucked in a breath. “I knew it! She has powers, doesn’t she? She’s secretly a super-powerful witch!”
“‘A super-powerful witch,’” Horatio repeated dryly. “Yes, Olive. I’m sure she’ll be back to fighting crime with her spandex suit and magic broomstick in no time.”
Olive blinked. “But everyone says—”
“Yes, everyone says that Mary Nivens was a threat to the McMartins,” Horatio interrupted. “She was. And now she threatens them again. There is something special about Mary Nivens,” he went on, lowering his voice. “But I want you to remember this: Don’t believe everything she tells you. Sometimes the truth is very different from the whole truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like what?” Olive asked.
Horatio’s tail lashed softly back and forth across the bedspread. “You’ve already done so much, Olive. You’ve rid this house of the shades. You’ve destroyed Annabelle. You’ve reunited Morton and his parents. Our trouble with Aldous isn’t over—but it would be easier to handle if it was our only trouble. Don’t you see?”
Olive rubbed her chin over Hershel’s fuzzy head. “Horatio . . .” she said slowly, “. . . are you keeping a secret from me?”
For a moment, Horatio kept quiet. “It is my job to protect this house and everything in it,” he said at last, in a voice that was so low Olive had to hold perfectly still to hear it. “I will continue to protect it for as long as I possibly can. That is why I am asking you: Let some secrets lie.”
With a swish of his feathery tail, Horatio turned and leaped to the rug. Olive heard the click of her door closing behind him.
Several minutes tiptoed past. Olive sat in place, listening to the hushed patter of snow against the windowpane, and the deep, grumbling growl of the furnace far below. Getting out of bed—putting her feet on that chilly floor and heading out into the big, dark house—lay somewhere between unpleasant and impossible. But waiting just next door were Morton and his parents, and inside of them were all the missing pieces of the McMartins’ giant puzzle.
Simply visiting with the Nivenses, learning how they had been trapped inside those hidden bits of Elsewhere, wasn’t digging. It was just being neighborly. It was what anyone would do.
She didn’t have to put the pieces together, Olive reasoned. She could just hold them up, and look at them, and know where they belonged. And once she was finished, she would let them go.
• • •
By the time Olive ventured out the front door, the world was washed with the lavender light of daybreak. Except for the bowl of Sugar Puffy Kitten Bits that sloshed loudly in her stomach as she ran through the snow, Linden Street was silent.
The silence didn’t make her feel any safer.
Still Life Page 9