Still Life

  The twigs of the lilac hedge looked like mummified fingers. The shadows behind each leafless tree seemed to bend and move on their own. The houses themselves seemed to be watching her, just like they did in the painted version of Linden Street. Olive could almost feel painted eyes following her, making the hair on the back of her neck twinge—but when she whirled around, no one was there.

  The windows of the tall gray house were dark. As Olive edged across the yard, she got the sudden, stomach-twisting sense that there was something ominous within that darkness. Anything could have happened behind those heavy curtains and locked doors. And she could already be too late.

  With one shaking hand, she tapped on the wooden door.

  It flew open.

  Olive took a startled jump backward.

  Standing in the doorway was a smallish, youngish woman. Light blond hair bounced in ringlets around her head. Her cheeks were round and rosy, her blue eyes were clear and bright, and a huge, welcoming smile was spread across her face.

  “You must be Olive Dunwoody!” she cried, throwing out both arms. Her long skirts swished as she wrapped Olive in a hug and dragged her over the threshold. “Please, come in! Come in!”

  I HAVE HEARD SO much about you!” Mary Nivens went on, pulling a stunned Olive into the hallway and kicking the front door shut. “We both have! Harold and I, that is. Morton told us how you found him, and how the two of you bested Annabelle McMartin, and how you figured out where Harold and I had been hidden—”

  Mary’s words were cut off by a resonant slam from upstairs.

  “Found it!” shouted Harold’s voice. A second later, he came jogging down the steps with a gourd-shaped suitcase in his arms. “Ah! Olive! Good morning!” he exclaimed. “Are you a banjo fan?”

  “Am I a—” Olive shook her head dizzily. “What?”

  “The banjo.” Harold shook the gourd-shaped case. Something inside made a twangy thump. “Just found mine, up in the attic. Looks like the bagpipes and the Victrola are up there too!”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Mary clapped her paint-streaked hands. “If there was anything I missed—besides home and family, that is—it was music!”

  Harold strode away down the hall. The next instant, Morton appeared at the head of the stairs. “Mama, watch!” he shouted. Nightshirt billowing like the sail of a very small ship, he glided backward down the banister and bounced to the floor.

  “Very nice, pumpkin,” said Mary. “Now why don’t you go choose a game for us to play?”

  “A game!” Morton yelled, rushing down the hall after his father. “Hi, Olive!” he added over his shoulder.

  “Oh—I must see how my bread is rising! Excuse me for just a moment.” Mary fluttered away as well, leaving Olive alone in the hallway.

  Olive’s head spun.

  Around her, Lucinda’s silent, coffin-like house thrummed with noise and motion. Voices laughed in the dining room. Cupboards banged in the kitchen. She stood perfectly still for a moment, digging her fingernails into her own palm to convince herself that she wasn’t dreaming. She was just about to follow Morton down the hall when a deep voice behind her said—

  “Hello, Olive.”

  Olive spun around. Walter had slipped into the hallway. Even in the dimness, Olive could see that his face was streaked with deeper shadows than usual. The hollows beneath his bulbous eyes looked like someone had carved them with a spoon.

  “Would you—mmm—would you watch them for a while?” Walter yawned, his Adam’s apple bobbing sleepily. “Spontaneous spellcasting wears me out. They’ve been up all night. And—mmm—they’re so loud . . .”

  “Sure,” said Olive. “You should take a nap.”

  “They’re not used to being paint, you know,” said Walter, yawning again. “Harold keeps talking about driving some old car, and mmm . . . Mary’s already tried to use the oven. Twice. And they don’t even eat.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Olive promised.

  Walter nodded. With a last glance toward the kitchen, he turned and trudged groggily up the staircase.

  Olive followed the sounds of twanging and laughing down the hall to the dining room. By the narrow band of daylight that slipped between the curtains, she could see that the room had already been rearranged. Doctor Widdecombe’s writing desk had vanished. The long wooden table that had been scattered with Walter’s books and plants and bottles and other magical equipment was now completely clear, and a familiar pile of books and plants and bottles and other magical equipment waited just beside the door. A worn velvet couch stood beneath the windows. Harold sat at one end of it, plucking at his banjo, and Morton was jumping up and down on the cushions at the other end.

  “I sure am rusty!” Harold announced, as Olive inched through the door. “And it’s tough to pick with these slippery fingers!” He played something that sounded like two chickens pecking at an aluminum can. Morton laughed and bounced higher.

  “The dough is rising!” said Mary happily, swishing through the door after Olive. “But my beautiful pantry is bare. We’ll have to place an order with Mr. Kowalski.”

  Olive felt sure that Mr. Kowalski—whoever he was—wasn’t around to take orders anymore. “Um . . . it probably isn’t safe for you to use the oven, Mrs. Nivens,” she began. “But I can put the bread in it for you this once. I mean, you don’t need to eat, anyway.”

  “Oh.” Mary’s smile wavered like a beam of sunlight in a trembling glass. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “You can always bake for that scrawny Walter,” Harold suggested. “He could use some fattening up!”

  Mary’s smile straightened again. “It’s so stuffy in here!” she cried, waving both hands through the dusty air. She hustled across the room and grasped the curtains. “Let’s let in a bit of light, shall we?”

  A streak of sun, honed to blade-like brightness by the snow, sliced across the room.

  With a gasp, Mary dove backward. Harold and Morton cowered against the sofa.

  Olive flew across the room and yanked the curtains shut.

  “Oh,” said Mary, sounding rather out of breath. She gave a little laugh. “Yes . . . I keep forgetting that light isn’t so pleasant anymore. Well!” She turned to Morton, clapping her hands. “Have you chosen a game for us to play?”

  “We could play checkers,” said Morton excitedly. “Out here, the pieces stay right where you put them!”

  “Wait,” Olive interrupted, before Morton could charge out of the room. “Don’t we need to talk about—I mean, don’t you want to talk about everything that’s changed, or about the McMartins and Lucinda, or . . .”

  Mary glanced at Harold, who was avidly tuning his banjo. “Morton told us everything,” she said softly. Then she turned toward the china shelves. “That plate doesn’t belong there,” she declared, beginning to rearrange the porcelain. “And I wonder where my German candlesticks have gone?”

  “Morton and I will find them, won’t we?” said Harold, dropping the banjo and hoisting Morton onto his shoulder. “It’s a treasure hunt!”

  “A treasure hunt!” Morton cried.

  Olive wasn’t good at being pushy. She was much better at un-pushy things, like waiting until all of your classmates have gotten their papers before tiptoeing up to the teacher’s desk, or letting all the other kids rush into the cafeteria ahead of you and ending up with the smallest, squishedest piece of cake. But a thousand questions had piled up inside of her. Their collected weight pushed her forward.

  “Wait,” she said again. “I need to talk to all of you. It’s important. Please.”

  Harold let Morton slide from his shoulder back onto the couch. Morton folded his arms and gave Olive an impatient frown.

  “Mrs. Nivens,” Olive began, “everybody says there was something special about you.” She inched closer to Mary’s turned back. “They say that nobody could lie to you. That the McM
artins were afraid of you. And I think I know why.” Olive wrapped her fingers around the back of a chair. “It’s because you have powers. You’re like them.”

  Mary whirled around.

  At first, Olive thought she was angry. But then she saw that Mary was smiling—and not just smiling, but laughing, as though Olive had told a hysterical joke.

  “Me?” she gasped between peals of laughter. She pressed one paint-streaked hand against her chest. “Oh, Olive dear, I’m afraid you are utterly wrong!”

  “Utterly wrong!” Morton echoed, bouncing happily on the couch again. “Olive is utterly wrong!”

  “But—but what about the paintings?” Olive stammered. “Weren’t you trying to learn about Aldous’s magic?”

  “Yes,” said Mary, “but not to use it myself!” She shrugged, still laughing, and the ruffles of her collar rustled prettily. “I have one teensy little talent. It’s a family trait, really, like being double-jointed, or being able to curl your tongue.”

  Morton and Harold stuck out their curled tongues at each other and chuckled.

  “I’ll show you.” Mary leaned over the dining table. “Have you ever stolen anything, Olive?”

  Olive looked back into Mary’s eyes. They were a very pale shade of blue, like a shard of sky-colored glass.

  “I stole a library book once,” Olive blurted. “But it was an accident. I lost it, and my mother told the library it was gone, but then I found it again, and it was already so late, and it was one of my favorite stories, so I just peeled the library cover off and kept it.” She stopped, clapping both hands over her mouth. Thank goodness she’d caught herself before the story of the paint-making jars from the basement—and who knew what else—could come tumbling out too.

  Mary straightened up, smiling widely. “You see? As long as I am looking you in the eye, you feel compelled to tell me the truth.”

  “You said it was a family trait?” Olive asked. “So other people in your family could—”

  “Oh, families pass down all sorts of skills,” Mary interrupted briskly. “Some can read thoughts, some can concoct potions. As talents go, mine is pretty unimpressive. Compared to some members of my family, I am a huge disappointment!” Mary let out another laugh, not looking disappointed at all.

  “You mean, there were people in your family who—”

  “My great-aunt Viola had all sorts of talents,” Mary interrupted again. “She belonged to a group that tried to fight the use of dark magic. Her kitchen was always full of interesting ingredients.”

  “She sounds like Mrs. Dewey,” said Olive.

  “When I was little, I wanted to grow up to be just like Aunt Viola,” Mary went on, as though she hadn’t heard Olive at all. “But I just grew up to be me.”

  “And we are awfully glad you did!” said Harold, grabbing Mary by the waist and twirling her around the room in a lively polka. The dishes rattled on the shelves. Morton jumped higher. The squeaking couch grew louder.

  “Wait!” said Olive for the third time. “Did your aunt Viola know about the McMartins? Was she watching them, like Mrs. Dewey?”

  Harold spun Mary in one last rustling whirl.

  “Aunt Viola?” said Mary, looking momentarily confused. “Of course she knew about the McMartins. The whole town knew about the McMartins. Everybody could tell there was something strange about them. There were rumors about where they had come from, about the Old Man and his paintings . . .”

  “But Aunt Viola was getting old,” Harold put in.

  “Yes,” said Mary. “She helped us buy this house so that we could keep an eye on the McMartins for her. We were to get to know them, to learn if they were doing anything dangerous—but they were so unfriendly!” Mary’s eyes widened. “Aldous, that silly Albert and his wife, their daughter Annabelle; all of them as cold and stiff as iceboxes. They wouldn’t join us for picnics. They wouldn’t let Morton play in their yard. They even complained about Harold’s banjo! Can you imagine?”

  “No,” said Olive, who could imagine it very easily.

  “They didn’t even like my cookies,” Mary added.

  Morton gasped. “Even the molasses cookies?”

  “Even those,” said Mary.

  Morton’s eyes widened.

  “So, you knew Albert McMartin?” Olive asked.

  “I wouldn’t say we knew him,” said Harold, picking a little pattern on the banjo. “The unfriendliness, you see.”

  “Oh,” said Olive. “Because—because later—Aldous killed him.”

  Harold stopped picking. Morton stopped jumping.

  Mary’s eyes widened. “Killed him? His own son?”

  Olive nodded. “Because Albert wasn’t like Aldous. Eventually, Albert tried to work against him—and that’s when Aldous turned on him.”

  Mary and Harold exchanged a look.

  “They’ll sacrifice anyone, won’t they?” Mary murmured at last.

  There was a minute of thick quiet in the room, while no one answered Mary’s question, and the dusty mantel clock ticked patiently to itself.

  “So . . . if the McMartins were so unfriendly,” Olive picked up again, “how did you get Aldous to give you art lessons?”

  “Oh, must we talk about this?” Mary’s voice was suddenly angry. “It was all pointless. Pointless. A waste of a hundred years.” Her voice brightened again—but now it was too light, too brittle. “My bread dough!” she exclaimed, rushing toward the door. “It must be overflowing the pans by now!”

  “Wait! I’ll help you!” Olive called, running out of the room after Mary’s fluttering skirts.

  She chased Mary into the kitchen. Three pans of bread dough, which were starting to look like three rectangular, helium-filled mushrooms, waited beside the oven.

  “I’ll put them in the stove,” Olive offered, before Mary could reach for the handle. She opened the metal door, and felt a blast of hot air rush out to meet her. Inside her collar, the metal frame of the spectacles burned.

  Mary turned to the sink, where a stack of doughy bowls was waiting. “I suppose I can’t even wash the dishes without washing myself away too.”

  “Probably not,” said Olive. “But I can do them.”

  She turned the hot water tap and added a stream of soap, watching Mary’s face out of the corner of her eye. Mary looked surprisingly sad for someone who had a permanent excuse not to do dishes. Olive picked up the cloth and began to rub a slippery bowl.

  “I saw your sketches,” she said at last. “You were learning to draw from Aldous, weren’t you?”

  For a moment, Mary didn’t answer. Olive began to worry that she had pushed too far, but then Mary leaned against the wall and let out a little sigh.

  “That was my excuse,” she said. “I was stubborn, turning up at his house, begging for lessons. Eventually he must have figured it would be easier to let me in than to try to keep me out.”

  Olive swished the bowl through the water. “What did you learn?”

  Mary laughed shortly. “Nothing. He barely spoke to me. He just seated me in his front parlor, watched me draw, and made little growling noises in his throat. I couldn’t learn anything about his family, or what he was really doing in that big stone house. I’m sure Lucy knew more than I did, spending all that time with Annabelle, but at the time, I—” Mary stopped, her face working. “I just didn’t realize. I didn’t suspect. Not my own daughter.”

  “Then why did Aldous trap you and Morton?” Olive asked. “He must have thought you knew something.”

  Mary’s lips tightened. “That was my fault too.” She lowered her voice until the sloshing of the sink almost covered it completely. “I gave too much away. It’s funny . . . No one can lie to me, and I’m always the one blurting out the truth.”

  Olive froze, mid-scrub. “What was it? What do you mean?”

  “I—” Mary hesitate
d. There was the twang of a banjo from down the hall. “I don’t want them to know, even now. They would be safer not knowing. All of us would be safer not knowing.”

  A soap bubble popped against Olive’s elbow. “Knowing what?” she breathed.

  Mary’s eyes fixed on the curtained window. “It was one night in the early spring, long after dark,” she said softly. “I could hear voices coming from outside. Harold stayed sound asleep, but I got out of bed and went to the window—we’d left it open, and I can still remember the way the curtains wavered in the breeze—and I looked out. I could see them down there, just over the lilac hedge, in the backyard of the big stone house . . .”

  Footsteps thundered along the hallway.

  “Mama,” said Morton, bouncing into the kitchen, “why is it taking you so long? You said we could play a game!”

  Mary’s face brightened as suddenly as if someone had thrown a switch. “I certainly did. Harold!” she called into the hall. “Why don’t you bring down the Victrola and give us some music while we play! I can’t stand this quiet anymore!”

  Hand in hand, Mary and Morton skipped out of the kitchen.

  Olive dumped the bowl into the drainer. “Wait! What was it?” she called, hurrying down the hallway after the others.

  Harold Nivens was clomping down the staircase, carrying something that looked like a huge metal morning glory attached to a coffee grinder. Morton and Mary were busily clearing a space in the parlor.

  Olive followed them inside. “What was it?” she asked again. “Who did you see?”

  Morton glanced over his shoulder. “See where?”

  Mary tugged Olive to the side. Bending close to her ear, she whispered, “I don’t know what I saw anymore. And whoever it was—whatever it was—it wasn’t worth losing all of this.”

  “See where?” Morton demanded again.

  Mary gave him a sunny smile. “Nowhere, pumpkin,” she said, patting his hair. “There!” she added happily as Harold set the Victrola on the cabinet top. She beamed around the room, her clear blue eyes flickering from Harold to Morton, her smile dulling for a split second as her gaze landed on Olive. She looked swiftly away again. “Soon we’ll have everything back where it belongs.”