No. They would need to bring Annabelle someplace secure. Someplace where she couldn’t hurt anyone else.
And Olive knew the perfect spot.
“I wouldn’t call her here,” Olive told Morton and the cats. “I’d call her into her own portrait. If she doesn’t tell us everything we want to know, then we’ll leave her there. She’ll be stuck, just like she was before.”
There was a moment of quiet as the three cats studied Olive, their shadows quivering on the wall.
“A clever plan, miss,” said Leopold at last.
Horatio whirled toward him.
Leopold looked into Horatio’s wide eyes. “Why not contain her, before she can plot any further harm to us?”
“Because ‘containing’ Annabelle in this house is like tossing a viper into your own bathtub,” Horatio retorted.
“But Agent Olive’s strategy could work,” Harvey chimed in. “We may need to strike pretentiously in order to avoid a greater risk.”
“He means preemptively,” Leopold murmured to Olive. “A preemptive strike is generally wiser than an emptive one.”
Horatio let out a sigh. “As all of you seem to agree, and as I know how stubborn some of you are,” he added, his eyes flicking to Olive, “I won’t waste my time trying to dissuade you.” With a flourish of his tail, the orange cat trotted toward the door.
“Are you leaving us, Horatio?” Olive asked, disappointed.
“I’m heading to Annabelle’s portrait,” Horatio snapped. “Allowing you to rush into this confrontation without a single sane witness seems like a bad idea.”
Olive gave Horatio’s receding tail a smile. Carefully, gently, she slipped her fingers through the metal loop of the candleholder and lifted it from the table. The candle’s blue light flickered, but it didn’t dim.
Morton held the front door of the house open as everyone else hurried out.
“I’m not coming with you,” he muttered to Olive as the door thumped shut behind them. “You talk about magic too much. And it’s not safe. And I don’t . . .” Morton hesitated, twisting his bare toes against the floorboards. “. . . I don’t want to see her.”
Morton wouldn’t meet her eyes, but Olive knew he was thinking of the last time they had confronted Annabelle together—when Lucinda had thrown herself between Morton and Annabelle, saving Morton from Annabelle’s burst of fire by being burned herself.
“I understand,” she said softly. She gave Morton’s arm an awkward pat before following the cats into the street.
Halfway down the hillside, Olive glanced over her shoulder. Morton stood at the crest of Linden Street, staring after them. The hem of his too-long white nightshirt rippled over his bare toes. “Be careful!” he called.
Olive gave him the bravest wave she could manage. She guessed this was what knights must have felt as they rode into combat: a mixture of anxiety and readiness and anger, all pushing down the fear that kept threatening to rise. Holding the candle steady before her, she hurried the rest of the way down the hill.
• • •
The upstairs hall was silent.
Horatio led the way along the corridor. Olive followed, flanked by the other two cats, keeping her eyes on the candle. Even in the late-afternoon light that floated through the house’s windows, the glow of the candle was strangely vivid, its color unearthly, too startling to be beautiful. Olive cupped her hand around the flame, trying to keep any stray beams from flickering down the stairs and catching Walter’s eye.
Inside the lavender bedroom, everyone paused. The cats sniffed the air. Olive wondered what their noses noticed, besides the scent of lilies of the valley and un-breathed air and emptiness. Olive shivered.
Harvey leaped onto the chest of drawers below the picture frame. “Begin Operation Tea Party Two,” he announced into his imaginary transistor wristwatch.
“When did we decide on that name?” asked Leopold, stiffening to his most commanding height. “I believe we ought to call this the Lavender Battle.”
“The Lavender Battle?” Harvey repeated, looking dubious.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of the War of the Roses,” said Leopold, even more stiffly.
“What do you say, Agent Orange?” Harvey asked. “Operation Tea Party Two or the Lavender Battle?”
Horatio rolled his eyes. “Why not call it ‘Art Restoration’ and get it over with?”
“Operation Art Restoration,” said Harvey. “I like it.” He slipped through the frame, with Leopold marching after.
Horatio waited until Olive had clambered up onto the chest of drawers before following the others into the painting. She adjusted the spectacles with one hand, made sure the candle was steady in the other, and dragged herself backward through the frame with one arm in the air, like someone heading down a playground slide while holding an ice-cream cone.
She landed on her knees on a slippery silk couch, still holding the candle over her head. She flipped around, surveying the painted room. Everything looked exactly as it had on her first visit. Unwilting bunches of lilies and lilacs clustered in porcelain vases. Polished seashells and figurines decorated each surface. The cats had already darted off in three directions, peering under furnishings, checking each corner, sniffing at the fireless fireplace. Olive pulled herself out of the sofa cushions and ventured toward the tea table.
The silver filigree teapot still sat where Annabelle had left it. Two cups and saucers waited on the spotless tablecloth, flanked by delicate silver spoons. Olive set the candle down in the center of the table before picking up the cup that she had sipped from months ago, on her first visit with Annabelle. The cup was still warm. Olive picked a sugar cube from the bowl and plopped it into the cup. She took a tiny, tentative sip. The tea was still not sweet enough—maybe because the sugar cube Olive had just dropped in had appeared again, whole and dry, inside the sugar bowl.
With a deep breath, Olive set the cup back in its place and picked up the Calling Candle. “Is everybody ready?” she asked, wondering why she felt compelled to whisper. “Should we start?”
“The area is clear,” said Harvey, in Agent 1-800’s British accent. “I will monitor the entrance.” He bounced up from the back of the couch and perched on the bottom of the frame, his body half inside, half outside the painting.
“Remember to keep your distance from her,” Horatio warned, moving toward Olive. “Don’t let her come near enough to touch the spectacles. And remember to think before you speak.”
“I will.”
“If she turns violent, we will defend you,” Leopold said, in his gruffest voice. “You can be sure of that.”
Olive gave him a shaky smile. “Thank you, Leopold.”
She took another breath. Now that she was about to do it, bringing Annabelle here felt almost insane—just like dropping a viper into your bubble bath, as Horatio had said, or lowering a spider down your own shirt collar. But she had come this far, and she couldn’t go back—not if she wanted to see her parents again.
“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to the cats. She raised the candle with both hands. Its flame was tinted and transparent at the same time, like a droplet of molten glass. Olive stared into the layers of burning color, from the purplish halo around the wick to the ripples of aquamarine and emerald that paled to gold-white at the top.
“Annabelle McMartin.” The flame shivered in her breath. “Annabelle McMartin. Annabelle McMartin.”
The candlelight began to pulse. A sudden breeze entered the room, fluttering the lace curtains, making the tablecloth billow and the teacups rattle. Olive felt the air swirl around her, an invisible wave flooding the room. The back of her neck prickled sharply. In her hand, the candle dimmed, its flame shrinking to a crumb of turquoise fire.
Then, as suddenly as if someone had flicked a switch, the wind died. The tablecloth straightened itself. The curtains rippled in
to place. The flames of the candle brightened again, only now they were the yellow-gold flames of any ordinary candle—like all the other candles inside the painted windows of Linden Street.
And standing inside the parlor, with waves of smooth dark hair and a string of pearls gleaming softly around her neck, was a young woman in a long white dress.
15
THE PRICKLE IN Olive’s neck flooded down her spine, collecting in an icy pool in the pit of her stomach. The candle trembled in her hands. Leopold and Horatio pressed steadyingly against her legs. Harvey jumped down from the picture frame and planted himself beside the other cats, glaring up.
“Well, Olive Dunwoody,” said Annabelle, in a voice like poisoned sugar. “Are you playing with magic again?” She stepped closer to Olive, and the candlelight cast its rippling sheen over her painted skin. Her golden eyes glimmered. “You’d better be careful, or you’ll burn your fingers.”
Olive took a small step backward, clutching the candle protectively in front of her body, and bumped into the squishy couch. The cats stayed as stony and silent as sculptures. “You’re trying to scare me,” she said, hoping she sounded less terrified than she felt. “But you can’t hurt us here. This whole house is surrounded by protective spells, and we have allies all over Linden Street, keeping watch.”
“This is Elsewhere, Olive,” said Annabelle. Her painted mouth formed a tiny smile. “Your neighbors can’t save you here.”
“Y-yes they can,” Olive stammered. “If you try anything, one of the cats will run for help. Rutherford will know that we need him before a message could get there anyway. Besides, now that Aldous is gone—from this house, I mean—you don’t have any power here. Not anymore.”
“We’ll see,” said Annabelle, her smile unwavering. She leaned down, bringing her face close to Olive’s. The pools of paint in her eyes were flat and cold. Olive swallowed. With a delicate puff, Annabelle blew the candle out. “First things first,” she said, in her sweetest kindergarten-teacher voice. “Why don’t you tell me what you think you’re doing by calling me here?”
Olive set the snuffed candle on the tea table, nearly knocking it over with her rubbery hands. “You have something I want,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “And if you don’t help me get it, we’ll leave you stuck in here. Just like you were before.”
“Is that so?” Annabelle looked mildly amused. “And just what would I need to do to escape this terrifying threat?”
“You—you need—” Olive faltered, staring at the gold in Annabelle’s painted eyes. “If you don’t want us to trap you here forever, you’ll have to give me my parents back.”
A strange expression flickered across Annabelle’s face, but it was gone again before Olive had the chance to identify it. “Two prisoners in exchange for one?” she asked. “That doesn’t sound like a fair exchange. In fact, I think it’s only fair that you lost your parents in the first place.” Her rosebud mouth snaked into a smile. “You removed my family from our home, and now we have removed yours.”
Olive glanced down at the cats, standing steady and silent around her. “It’s our home now,” she said. “And you haven’t removed me.”
“This house will never belong to you,” said Annabelle, as if Olive hadn’t spoken at all. “But as long as we are bargaining, why don’t we make it an even exchange?” She paused for a moment, tapping one finger thoughtfully against her chin. “Shall we say a pair of parents for a pair of spectacles?”
Olive sucked in a breath. “No!”
“Very well.” Annabelle gave a dainty shrug. “If you refuse to compromise, I won’t tell you anything at all.”
Olive looked down at the cats again. They kept quiet. “But . . . then you would be stuck here,” she said hesitantly.
“Is that what you really want, Olive?” Annabelle’s smile widened. “You want me back inside of this house, with all of your friends?” Her eyes flicked to the cats, glimmering. “Really, that’s quite generous of you. I would be much closer to what I want. And you would be no closer to what you want.” Annabelle gave a little toss of her head. “It’s your choice, I suppose. If you don’t really want to learn what I know about your parents . . .”
“Wait,” said Olive, more urgently than she meant to. “You mean . . . if I do give you the spectacles, you would tell me exactly where my parents are?”
The cats’ eyes, six burning arrows, zoomed from Olive’s face to Annabelle’s.
“I think that’s fair,” said Annabelle. She bent down again, bringing her eyes in line with Olive’s. She dropped her voice to a compassionate murmur. “I’m sure that waiting and wondering about them has been terrible, hasn’t it, Olive?” Olive looked down, away from Annabelle, fighting the prickling pressure in her eyes. Annabelle’s gentle voice went on. “You just want to know if they are alive—if they are safe, if they are scared, if they are in pain. If there is any way you can put your family together again. Don’t you?” She waited. Olive pinched her tongue between her teeth, fighting the urge to answer. “I know you do,” Annabelle breathed. “So you will give me the spectacles, and in exchange, I will tell you everything I know about where to find your parents.”
Olive tugged the spectacles off her nose. They fell, caught by their ribbon, and bumped softly against her chest. “Wait . . .” she said again. “You’ll know that I’m handing you the spectacles. But how will I know that you’re telling me the truth?”
“An excellent question, Olive,” said Horatio, speaking up at last.
Annabelle ignored the cat. She arched her delicate eyebrows. “As it happens, I was going to tell you the truth, Olive. But if you like, why don’t I swear on something we both love?” She glanced around the painted room, her eyes sweeping coldly over the cats, gliding across the silk couch, the lacy windows, the row of photographs along the mantelpiece. “I swear by my house,” she said. “My beautiful house, which sheltered my family for generations, and which will continue to shelter us until its stones dissolve into sand—that I will tell you everything I know.”
Olive swallowed. Her trembling fingers reached to pull the spectacles’ ribbon from around her neck. Before she could tug it over her head, a black shape streaked in front of her.
“No, miss,” said Leopold. “We cannot let the spectacles fall into her possession.”
“But I need to know where my—”
“I understand, miss.” Leopold paused. “And that is why I will offer myself in their place.”
Horatio froze. Harvey made a small, startled noise.
Olive felt the breath whoosh out of her lungs. “Leopold, no.”
“It will be safer this way.” Leopold turned to face Annabelle, raising his head and puffing out his glossy black chest.
Annabelle’s eyes fastened on Leopold like two golden hooks. “You willingly enter my service?”
“I do,” the cat answered.
With the heel of her shoe, Annabelle scratched a line across the parlor’s pastel rug. Looking more than ever like a miniature panther, Leopold squared his shoulders, stepped over the already fading line, and seated himself at Annabelle’s side. His eyes met Olive’s for a fraction of a second, and then shifted away, staring with soldierly steadiness into the distance.
Olive had stopped breathing. She didn’t realize this until her chest began to ache and the room tilted dizzily to one side, like an egg sliding out of a greased pan. She swallowed a mouthful of air.
“And now,” said Annabelle, leaning closer to Olive’s gaping face, “I will tell you everything I know about where to find your parents.” She paused, letting the moment stretch.
Olive’s heart thumped against her shriveling lungs.
“I know nothing,” Annabelle said sweetly. “I do not know where they are. I don’t know where you’ll find them . . . if you can find them at all. You see, I am not fighting alone either. And you cannot get rid of
my family, Olive. Not as long as you infest our home like the little pest that you are.” Annabelle straightened, smiling again. “Now, this is what I would call ‘fair.’ I reclaim a bit of what was already mine. You learn a bit of the truth.”
The shock and rage that shot through Olive were so thick, so heavy, that she couldn’t move. She could only stand and stare as Annabelle bent down and swept Leopold into her arms, holding the huge black cat securely against her chest. Leopold kept completely still. He did not look at Olive or anyone else.
“Good night, everyone,” said Annabelle. Then she stepped onto the sofa and climbed gracefully through the frame. There was a muted creak from the lavender room’s door, and she and Leopold were gone.
Olive managed to take a breath at last. It came back out in a roar. “We have to get him back!” she shouted, whirling to face the cats.
Harvey merely stared at her. When Horatio spoke, his voice was soft and hollow. “And how will we do that, Olive?” he asked. “With Leopold in her possession, Annabelle can come and go freely; she can leave or enter any painting . . .” Horatio stopped. His last words hung in the air, like smoke from a distant and terrible fire.
“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go!” Olive cried, digging her fingernails into her palms. “We were controlling her for once! I thought—if we just gave her the spectacles, we might—”
“No. Leopold was right,” Horatio cut her off. “With the spectacles, Annabelle would have been far more dangerous. Leopold has a will of his own. He may be able to resist her commands, and delay setting Aldous free.” Horatio hesitated. “For a while.”
“No.” Olive clenched her fists even harder. If she hadn’t known it would just pick itself up again, she would have kicked over the elegant little tea table, sending its china and silver smashing through the air. She wanted to destroy something that would last. “No,” she said again. “They can’t keep controlling us! This isn’t their house!”
Shoving the spectacles back onto her face, Olive leaped for the couch. She tumbled through the frame, banging her forehead on the chest of drawers and somersaulting onto the carpet. The door of the lavender room stood open.