“You can come back for a visit tomorrow,” said Horatio, giving his whiskers a final stroke. “You can always come back.” He offered her his slightly scorched tail.
Olive turned back to the pink bedroom. The surface of the painting shimmered as she and the three cats stepped through it. She felt the ground turn back to carpet beneath her feet. The air grew warm and still.
Olive paused for a moment, feeling the house gaze back at her. So much about it had changed . . . and yet, so many things had stayed just the same. And Olive wanted it that way.
Down the hall, in her own bedroom, Aldous McMartin’s paint-spattered easel waited, holding Olive’s assortment of ordinary paints and canvases. In the shadowy library, her first finished painting sat beneath the pine tree, closed in one of the empty frames and wrapped in silvery paper, with a tag that read To Mom and Dad. In the attic above, lace dresses and painted china and one small, battered cannon nestled safely in their corners. Next door, Walter was changing his sweater in what was now his very own bedroom. Down the street, Mrs. Dewey and Rutherford were putting on their winter coats, getting ready to step back out into the twinkling snow.
As Olive stood, thinking, a small brown mouse zipped across the carpet and darted through the open attic door.
“The counterspy!” Harvey shouted. He whipped off his eye patch. “He’s infiltrating the head of headquarters! Espionage is imminent. Agent 1-800 out!” With a bound, he shot off for the attic stairs.
Olive stooped down to give Leopold and Horatio a quick scratch between the ears. Then she headed back out into the house, its history and its secrets and its high stone walls standing safely all around her, and followed her parents’ voices down the stairs into the warm yellow light.
A story begins as a wavery little daydream in one person’s mind. By the time it travels out into the world as an actual, on-paper book, it has been helped along by hundreds of other people. And by the time it becomes a five-book series . . .
. . . I’ll try to keep this short.
MASSIVE, LOVE-LADEN THANKS GO TO:
Jessica Dandino Garrison, who is simply the most insightful, understanding, and trusting editor a writer could ever hope for.
Chris Richman, who pulled Olive out of the slush pile and opened the door, and Danielle Chiotti, Michael Stearns, and everyone else at Upstart Crow Literary who has kept that door open.
Illustrator Poly Bernatene, who blends light and shadow, humor and fear, beauty and oddity in a way I can only hope to imitate with words. Poly, muchísimas gracias con todo mi corazón.
Regina Castillo, the superheroine of copyediting, who catches things that can’t be seen by the eyes of mere mortals, saving authors from themselves again and again.
Designers Natalie Sousa and Jennifer Kelly, who create books that readers love to climb inside.
The editorial, marketing, publicity, sales, and production teams at Penguin, both past and present: Lauri Hornik, Claire Evans, Kristen Tozzo, Steve Meltzer, Courtney Wood, Emilie Bandy, Marie Kent, Samantha Dell’Olio, Kristina Aven, Bernadette Cruz, Molly Sardella, Lindsay Boggs, Elyse Marshall, Shanta Newlin, Vicki Olsen, Jackie Engel, Felicia Frazier, and every one of the sales reps.
All of the librarians, teachers, parents, booksellers, students, journalists, bloggers, artists, and young readers who have hosted me, written to me, penned reviews and interviews, shared your writing and artwork with me, and otherwise made me feel like the luckiest person on earth. (I hope you know who you are, because I sure do.)
Phil and Andrea Hansen and Amelia West, for their brilliant naming of cats.
The furry ones—Ceili and Brom Bones, and the real Leopold, Horatio, and Harvey—for their companionship and inspiration, and without whom life would be a lonelier, duller, cleaner thing.
The battalion of family and friends who have supported these books, reading early drafts, mounting events, and spreading the word: Cobians (extra hugs to Mom, Dad, Alex, Dan, and Katy), Wests, Swansons, Betzels, McHargs, Nelsons, Kellers, Jenkinses, Lundgrens, Engbergs, Tomasiks, Hansens, and everyone in the wonderful kids’ lit community in Minnesota and beyond.
And, finally, my traveling companion, tech support, and teammate Ryan West. I don’t know where or who I would be without you, but I’m so glad to be right here.
JACQUELINE WEST loves stories where magic collides with real life—from talking cats, to enchanted eyewear, to paintings that are portals to other worlds. An award-winning poet, former teacher, and occasional musician, she lives with her husband in Red Wing, Minnesota, surrounded by large piles of books and small piles of dog hair.
Learn more about what Jacqueline is writing and where she’ll be next at www.JacquelineWest.com and www.TheBooksofElsewhere.com
Jacqueline West, Still Life
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