The Second Spy: The Books of Elsewhere: Volume 3

  There was a soft whimper. “Shh,” someone hissed.

  Olive wished that she could press a pause button on her heart. Its pounding in her ears had grown so loud that very little could squeeze past it. Nevertheless, she managed to catch a muffled thump and a creak, as though someone had jumped on the old floorboards. And then everything was still.

  Olive stood as if she were frozen, with both hands clutching the doorknob and one wide eye staring through the gap. She stood there for so long, hearing nothing, that she almost managed to convince herself that she had imagined it all. Perhaps what she’d heard had been the house settling, or the TV from her parents’ room. This house had ways of tricking you, as Olive knew—of sending sounds echoing through empty rooms until you couldn’t tell what had come from where, what was nearby and what was far away, what was real and what was only the trick of your own fear.

  But then, as Olive watched, a shadow slipped silently into view. It was stretched and blurred, as moon-shadows are, but it was clearly the shadow of a cat. It darkened as the cat came closer. Its black outline could have belonged to anyone—to any cat, that is—but, as Olive waited, one very specific cat’s head appeared.

  Its orange fur was washed by the moonlight. Its luxuriant whiskers glinted. It trotted nearer, and soon Olive could make out its tufted paws, its sleek coat, and its long, twitching tail, as big around as a baseball bat.

  Horatio.

  The cat padded soundlessly past her open door. He turned at the staircase, vanishing down the steps into the darkness.

  It took a few minutes before Olive’s heart and lungs remembered how to work normally again. We didn’t see anything strange, Olive reminded them. It isn’t unusual for Horatio to be patrolling the house at night. Maybe he was talking to Harvey, or to someone in a painting, or to himself. Maybe no one was talking at all.

  Gently, Olive closed her bedroom door, checked under her bed, and climbed back between the covers. Then she pulled the blankets up to her chin and tried to figure out why she’d felt compelled to hide from Horatio, her friend…and why the sight of him slipping along the dark hall had filled her with a strange, low thrum of terror.

  17

  MONDAY MORNING ARRIVED like a skillet falling on a toe.

  Olive wasn’t ready for it. Half of her brain still refused to return from that strange, dreamy scene in the darkened hallway, when for a time she’d felt sure that she was witnessing something important—something that needed to be figured out. The other half bumbled through the school day, too dazed to notice the hours sliding by.

  She didn’t hear anything but the bell in math or English class. At lunch time, she hurried past the cafeteria, where she knew Rutherford would be waiting, and ducked into the nurse’s office instead, saying that she had a terrible headache and needed to lie down (which wasn’t too far from the truth). Science class passed in a gummy blur. Finally, after a lecture in history that made both her brain and her backside fall asleep, Olive let the flood of students carry her along the halls to the art room.

  Ms. Teedlebaum stood at the front of the classroom, covered from neck to ankles in something that looked like a paint-spattered doctor’s coat. If the doctor who wore it had been a giant. A giant who got dressed backward. The teacher went on arranging several jugs of paint, pouring colorful streams from one jug into another, as the students trickled in. After the bell rang and a few more anticipatory seconds had passed, she finally looked up.

  “Okay. You’ve transferred your sketches to canvas board at this point,” said Ms. Teedlebaum, brushing a hank of kinky red hair away from her cheek and leaving a wide blue paint streak in its place. “Today, we’ll start painting. First, you’ll get your sketches and your canvas board. No—scratch that. Get your paints from the front table first. But before you get your paints, you’ll need a palette.” Here Ms. Teedlebaum held up something that looked like an egg carton for some very flat eggs. “So, get the palette first. But remember, before you get the palette, you need to cover your work surface. So, first, cover, then palette, then…Wait,” Ms. Teedlebaum interrupted herself. “Did I say to put on a smock first? No? So, first, put on a smock. Second, cover your table. Third, get your palette. Fourth…” Ms. Teedlebaum’s eyes seemed to glaze over. She gazed down at the huge jugs of tempera paint directly in front of her. “Paint. That’s it. Get your paint. Then your canvas boards. Did I mention brushes?” she asked the class, blinking around at the sea of baffled faces. “Never mind. I’ll pass out the brushes while you…” Ms. Teedlebaum paused, then appeared to give up. “While you do all those other things I said. Get started.”

  Olive, whose brain had wandered out of the building and across town while Ms. Teedlebaum was speaking, glanced around to see what everyone else was doing. Once she’d gathered all the materials, she sat back down at her table and stared at her canvas board with its sketch of Morton’s parents.

  “Mary and Harold,” she whispered.

  “Here you go,” Ms. Teedlebaum announced over Olive’s shoulder, dropping a handful of brushes onto the table. She paused as her eyes traveled over Olive’s work. “That’s really quite good,” she said, nodding. The keys around her neck jangled. “You have an excellent eye. Watch out with the foreshortening of this arm, though.” Ms. Teedlebaum nodded and jangled again. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

  Olive’s head jerked up. Her startled hand slashed a streak of lead across Mary Nivens’s skirt. “What do you mean?”

  Ms. Teedlebaum’s excited eyes stared at her from just a few inches away. Up close, they looked like a mosaic of green and brown glass. “You’ve done portraits before,” she said, smiling at Olive.

  “Oh. Yes,” said Olive carefully. “But…they didn’t really turn out right.”

  Ms. Teedlebaum tipped her head to one side. A moment later, the springy bush of her red hair tipped over too. “Well,” she said, “you know what they say about practice and perfection, and one being next to the other.” She gazed at Olive’s sketch again. “I wouldn’t give up if I were you.”

  A wisp of Ms. Teedlebaum’s springy hair brushed against the skin of Olive’s neck, as distracting and ticklish as the questions in Olive’s mind. What if Ms. Teedlebaum, like Lucinda Nivens, was secretly working for Annabelle? What if Ms. Teedlebaum had let Annabelle into the art room, or even placed Annabelle’s note on Olive’s shelf? What if she hadn’t come to the old stone house for an art tour at all, but to bring information back to Annabelle?

  “Um…Ms. Teedlebaum…” Olive began, forcing the words out before they could beat a retreat to the back of her mind, “…what do you know about my house?”

  “Your house?” Ms. Teedlebaum repeated.

  “Yes. You came over to my house on Friday, to—”

  “Oh, the McMartin house!” Ms. Teedlebaum crowed. “Of course. Well, everyone in town—at least, anyone in town who’s interested in art—has heard all about Aldous McMartin, the painter who built it. He was a bit of an eccentric, I guess,” she said, pausing to un-tangle a piece of toilet paper that had gotten caught in the giant clump of keys on her beaded necklace. “He never sold his paintings, never let them be displayed in public…and then he died, and left the place to his granddaughter, and then she died, and now it all belongs to you. And that’s about it, as far as I know.”

  Olive took a breath. “So did you ever meet—Annabelle?”

  “Who?” Ms. Teedlebaum asked, looking confused. Olive had seen this expression on the art teacher’s face several times before. As far as she could tell, it wasn’t faked.

  “His granddaughter.”

  “Oh, Ms. McMartin? I met her once, yes, but she was a very old lady by then. She didn’t look much like an Annabelle—more like a Millicent or a Prunella. Or maybe a Gertrude. No one names babies Gertrude anymore, do they?” Ms. Teedlebaum turned away, looking thoughtful. Then she whirled back around so suddenly that Olive dropped her pencil. “Oh—and Alice—”

  “It’s Olive.”

  ?
??Right. Olive.” Ms. Teedlebaum leaned on the edge of Olive’s table. “Would you mind if I visited your house again sometime? I’d love to do some sketches, study Aldous McMartin’s work in a bit more depth.”

  “I don’t know,” said Olive quickly. “I’m not sure my parents would—I mean, we’re all really busy, and—”

  “Of course.” Ms. Teedlebaum waved her hands. Rows of silver bracelets chimed sweetly. “I’m sure you have plenty to worry about, after moving into a big old place like that.” She smiled. “Maybe another time, Alice.”

  Olive watched Ms. Teedlebaum wander away. Plenty to worry about? Ms. Teedlebaum had no idea.

  For one thing, Olive had to be constantly on guard to avoid both Rutherford and Annabelle, either of whom might appear around a bend in the school corridors at any moment. Luckily for Olive, the big brick building provided a number of handy places to hide.

  There were the stairwells that led down to the basement, where huge pipes and vents huffed and whined, and which made a useful (if somewhat nerve-racking) spot to eat lunch all by yourself. There was the third-floor hallway that hardly anyone used, where one small sixth grader could scuttle quickly past the supply rooms and offices, breathing the air that smelled permanently of chalk dust and clay. And there was the all-but-forgotten bathroom at the very end of the music hall, with stalls that had been painted so many times, chips in the metal doors looked like bites out of a many-flavored gobstopper.

  But as she darted from classroom to classroom, making herself as inconspicuous as she could, part of Olive wished that she could stop hiding—that Rutherford would just go away and give her one less thing to hide from. She even found herself hoping that Annabelle would simply get it over with, looming out of the shadows to put an end to all of this awful anticipation. This was like a game of hide-and-seek that had gone on much too long. What was Annabelle waiting for, anyway?

  And then—on Friday—the seeker finally found her.

  Just before lunch, Olive went to her locker to get the sandwich that she’d planned to eat in the basement stairwell. But the moment she tugged the locker door open, a small, folded paper emblazoned with the name OLIVE fluttered out onto her shoes.

  Panic hit Olive like a semi truck. She whirled around, scanning the busy hallway for any traces of Annabelle—the whispering hem of a long skirt, or the flash of dark hair around a corner. There was no sign of her.

  Shakily, Olive bent down and picked up the note. Her enemy had been inside the school again. She had watched Olive go to her locker, had memorized the number, and had come back to slip this message through the closed door. But as Olive unfolded the note, she realized that it was not from the enemy she had expected.

  Olive, read the note, in small, square print,

  Initially I had planned to shoot this message into your house, wrapped around the shaft of an arrow, in the style of medieval messengers who were unable to surmount a castle’s barricades, but my grandmother eventually convinced me that this would be a wiser method. In any case, to show that you have received this missive, please attach the enclosed heraldic flag to your sleeve.

  With a sigh, Olive picked up the small blue paper flag that had been folded inside the note and taped it to her arm.

  We have highly important matters to discuss, the note went on.

  I have information to impart that I am sure will interest you. If you agree to this conclave (a conclave is a secret meeting; the term comes from medieval Latin; “clave” means key, and this type of meeting was often held in locked rooms), join me at our usual table for lunch.

  Your ally,

  Rutherford

  Information that would interest her? Olive crushed the note into a small white ball. Rutherford was wrong about that. She wasn’t interested in hearing one more word about that amazing international school in Sweden. She shoved the crumpled note into her pocket, grabbed her lunch, and stomped toward the cafeteria.

  The moment Olive stepped into the room, Rutherford’s head snapped up. He craned in his seat at their empty table, testing the air like a dog who’s just heard a sound too faint for any humans to catch it.

  Olive pretended to ignore him. She turned to the side, so that Rutherford could get a clear view of the blue paper flag on her sleeve. Then, still feeling Rutherford’s eyes on her, she stalked straight back out the lunchroom doors and down the hall to the deserted stairwell, where the wrappings of yesterday’s lunch were waiting for her.

  On the bus ride home, Olive took a seat next to a stranger, just to make sure that Rutherford couldn’t sit beside her there either. The moment that the doors whooshed open at the bottom of Linden Street, she jumped down the steps and broke into a run, her shoes slapping the leaf-strewn pavement. But their slapping wasn’t quite loud enough to cover up the sound of Rutherford shouting after her.

  “Olive!” he called. “Olive! Halt!”

  Olive didn’t turn around. A split second later, the sound of two more running feet joined hers.

  “Olive!” Rutherford shouted. “I have been attempting to get your attention all week! I have something important to tell you!”

  Olive ran faster. Shade thrown by the towering trees rippled around her, whipping airy black stripes over her skin.

  “Olive! In the name of our friendship, I ask you to STOP!”

  Now Olive whirled around. She halted so suddenly—and Rutherford was moving so quickly—that he smacked straight into her, and the two of them toppled into a neighbor’s bulb garden in a tangle of legs and backpacks.

  “In the name of our friendship?!” Olive repeated. She jumped to her feet. “Some friendship, when one of the friends keeps a huge secret from the other one!”

  “Why are you so angry about this?” Rutherford panted, carefully brushing off his green dragon T-shirt before stepping back onto the sidewalk.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to leave?” Olive countered. “Were you just going to disappear and let me wonder what had happened to you? Why was it Annabelle who had to tell me you were keeping something from me? Should I trust Annabelle more than I trust you?”

  “This is exactly what she was trying to do with that note, you realize,” said Rutherford rapidly, jiggling back and forth inches from Olive’s face. “She was trying to come between us, so you wouldn’t let me or my grandmother help you anymore, by persuading you not to trust me.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t have been so easy to do if you hadn’t given her such good material!” Olive shouted.

  Rutherford blinked at her through his smudgy glasses. “You’ve kept some awfully important things from me,” he said.

  “I didn’t—” Olive spluttered. “I mean, how did you—”

  “Hello, you two,” said a pleasant voice. A soft white hand landed on Olive’s shoulder. “Why don’t we take this shouting match indoors, where the neighbors can’t overhear every word?”

  Olive looked up into Mrs. Dewey’s tightly smiling face.

  “I have a fresh batch of double-chocolate chocolate chip cookies cooling in the kitchen,” Mrs. Dewey went on, taking a firm hold of Olive’s wrist before she could squirm away. “And this time,” she added more quietly, “I insist that you come inside and try one.”

  Something in Mrs. Dewey’s voice convinced Olive not to argue. The words double-chocolate chocolate chip didn’t hurt either.

  With the other hand, Mrs. Dewey grabbed her grandson by the arm. “Come along, Rutherford. And keep quiet until we’re inside.”

  Rutherford obeyed the “come along” part of the command, but the “keep quiet” part seemed to have missed his ears entirely.

  “I got an A on my history quiz today, Grandma,” he announced, pointedly ignoring Olive as Mrs. Dewey hustled the two of them up the sidewalk. “I only got one question wrong. Well, that is, one of my answers was marked wrong, even though it was actually correct. The question was, ‘What is the name for the time period from approximately 500 to 1500?’ and the answer the teacher wanted was ‘The Middle A
ges,’ but of course, the people of that time didn’t call it ‘The Middle Ages,’ they called it ‘The Sixth Age,’ because they didn’t know they were in the middle of anything, so I wrote that the most appropriate name for that time period would actually be ‘The Sixth Age,’ in Augustinian terms.” Rutherford paused to take a breath.

  “Only one wrong is still very good,” said Mrs. Dewey, opening the door and ushering them inside.

  “But I didn’t get it wrong, I was—”

  “Come into the kitchen, both of you,” said Mrs. Dewey.

  The first time Olive had visited Mrs. Dewey’s house, she had been much too terrified of Mrs. Dewey herself to take a good look around. All she had gotten was a foggy impression of a place full of plants. Now Olive’s mind brushed the fog away and added a thousand vivid details to the greenish background.

  Olive’s impression hadn’t been wrong. Mrs. Dewey’s house was full of plants. In fact, it looked a bit like a wallpapered greenhouse with some ruffled, squishy furniture thrown in. Her front hallway and living room and dining room were crowded with shelves and tables and pedestals, all of which were covered with potted plants. Plants with long, trailing tendrils hung from the ceiling. Plants with tiny tufted blossoms basked in the sun on the windowsills. Even the upholstered couches were covered with patterns of leaves and flowers.

  Mrs. Dewey dragged Olive and Rutherford into the kitchen, where another row of plants in tiny white pots sat in the window above the kitchen sink and the scent of melted chocolate wafted through the air. Hundreds of canisters and bottles and jars, all filled with powders and seeds and flavorings and spices—sort of like the jars beneath Olive’s basement, but prettier and more edible—lined the countertops and shelves. A little table, set for three, stood on the spotless linoleum.