The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows by Jacqueline West Page B

a fancy dish, and flounce around the living room and the parlor, imagining she was a Victorian heiress. Then she was going to find Horatio and make him explain about Aldous McMartin. Maybe this would be the key to helping Morton. Finally, when the house began its nightly creaking and moaning, she would bring Hershel downstairs, make a bed for the two of them on the couch, and spend the whole night watching movies, with all the lights on.
    “You’re absolutely sure you want to stay here?” said Mrs. Dunwoody, tucking a toothbrush and floss into her overnight bag.
    “Absolutely. One hundred percent. One hundred and fifty percent sure.”
    Mrs. Dunwoody gave Olive a conspiratorial smile. “Don’t let your father hear you say that.”
    Olive ran her mother’s blue silk scarf through her fingers and tucked it gently into the suitcase. “What do you do at a math convention, anyway?”
    Mrs. Dunwoody’s eyes took on a glow. “We converse, compare ideas, listen to speeches, go to presentations.”
    “Is there a pool at your hotel?”
    Mrs. Dunwoody paused, looking puzzled. “I’m not sure.”
    How could anyone not be sure if their hotel had a pool? Olive wondered. Indoor pools were the best part of any hotel—apart from the tiny bars of soap and toothbrushes and mending kits all wrapped in paper on the bathroom counter, like very sanitary presents.
    “Anyway,” Mrs. Dunwoody resumed, “I’ve asked Mrs. Nivens to keep an eye on the house tonight, and she’ll stop by to check on you. She says you’re still welcome to change your mind and sleep at her house.”
    Olive shook her head violently. If the inside of Mrs. Nivens’s house was anything like the outside, Olive didn’t belong in it. Olive was destined to break things in houses like Mrs. Nivens’s, where everything was spotless and carefully arranged. During just one weekend at her great-aunt Millie’s house, Olive had smashed a glass tabletop by dropping an antique marble egg through it and had made the toilet overflow. Twice.
    “You can call us at the hotel, too, and they will page us no matter where we are.”
    “I know, Mom.”
    “My goodness.” Mrs. Dunwoody smiled and laid one smooth palm softly against Olive’s cheek. “Look at how grown-up you are.”
    A few minutes later, Olive stood on the front porch and waved as her parents drove down the shady green street. Then she went to the kitchen and fixed herself a gigantic crystal bowl of Triple Ripple ice cream topped with chocolate chips. She glided through the parlor, settled herself regally on the living room sofa, and ate her ice cream in front of the television. It was early afternoon, and at first there were plenty of cartoons to watch, but soon there was nothing to choose from but news and courtroom shows. Olive switched off the television.
    The big stone house was quiet. Late-afternoon sun filtered in through the ivy-covered windows, and patches of colored light fell through the stained-glass trim, making soft watercolor hues on the parquet floors. The refrigerator motor kicked in with a tinny growl. Olive got up and stretched. Then she spun around and around, looking up at the patterned tiles on the ceiling, until she got dizzy and had to sit back down.
    She touched the spectacles on their long chain. With her parents gone all night, she could go into any painting she wanted to. She could even let Morton out for the night. Of course, it might be difficult to make Morton go back in again. Besides, she was no closer to knowing how to help him, and she didn’t want to visit him only to abandon him again. And she wasn’t even sure that what he told her was true. The only other person—or sort-of person—who would know the truth was Horatio.
    “Horatio!” Olive called, glancing around the empty living room. “Horatio!” But no fluffy orange cat appeared.
    She went back through the parlor and imagined Annabelle sitting there at her tea table so long ago, posing for her portrait. Olive