The Second Spy: The Books of Elsewhere: Volume 3 by Jacqueline West Page A
Authors: Jacqueline West
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used the wish. Olive closed her eyes and tried to think. She couldn’t destroy the painting—not while Morton’s parents stared out at her with their too-large, lifeless eyes. It was too gruesome. No. She had to hide it. She had to hide it someplace safe, and pleasant, and unexpected.
And, with or without her 11:11 wish, Olive suddenly thought of the perfect hiding spot.
With the canvas under her arm, Olive bolted down the upstairs hall and skidded to a stop in front of the painting of the craggy hill. This time, instead of a flock of birds or a flurry of leaves, she saw the clouds in the painted sky begin to shift until one long, bright finger of sun broke through and landed directly on the roof of the old stone church.
That’s where she was meant to hide this painting. Olive knew it. Elsewhere was telling her so.
Olive put on the spectacles. She struggled over thebottom of the picture frame, hauling the canvas with her, and landed with an almost musical crackle in the bracken on the other side. The hill where she lay was carpeted with ferns and grasses and a low, woody plant bearing tiny pink flowers, which tinted the whole landscape with a rosy glow. The breeze that touched her face was cool, and the air smelled spicy, smoky, and sweet. Birds flew above her, calling softly.
Holding the canvas to her chest, Olive stood up and looked around. Rocky hillsides rolled up and down around her, ending in threads of oak and birch forest, where the leaves had turned to gold. At the crest of the nearest hill, the little church was waiting. Olive ran toward it, loving the soft snapping sound her shoe soles made in the flowering plants.
A tiny graveyard encircled the church, with its worn headstones half submerged in flowers. Olive had never seen a less creepy graveyard. It seemed practically friendly, with all the graves gathered in a sociable cluster around the church’s stone walls.
The doors of the church stood open. Olive slipped inside and found herself in a long, quiet room lined with wooden benches. Rows of windows let in the glow of painted sunlight. One large stained-glass window, at the far end of the church, cast a shattered rainbow across the floorboards.
Gently, Olive set her painting in the very last pew,out of sight of the church doors. No one would find it here. It would be safe and sheltered, and her poor, deformed portraits would have something pretty to look at.
Olive straightened up. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn’t carrying the painting anymore, but she suddenly felt fifty pounds lighter. She skipped back through the open doors into the white sunlight, taking deep breaths of the spicy air—and found herself face-to-face with a huge orange cat, who was seated imperiously on the top of a tombstone.
“Olive Dunwoody,” said Horatio softly, “you are a fool. What’s more, you are a stubborn fool, which makes you a dangerous fool.”
Olive didn’t know where to begin. So she began at the ending. “I—I just wanted to give Morton his parents back,” she stammered. “If I didn’t find them in three months, Morton said he would run away.” Horatio merely glared, so Olive went on. “I’m going to burn the paint-making papers. And I’ll dump out the stuff in the jars. And I’m never going to use them again. And—”
“What did I tell you?” snapped Horatio, green eyes glittering. He was still using a quiet voice, but he looked as though he would have liked to use a much louder one. “It’s bad enough that you would do something as imbecilic as attempt to concoct and use Aldous’s paints.But then you add insult to idiocy by disobeying my warning.” The cat rose to his feet. “I told you not to come into this particular painting. And what did you do? You came directly into this particular painting.” Horatio leaped down from the headstone. “We need to get out of here. Now. ”
“Okay,” said Olive. “But would you please tell me why? Because this seemed like a really good
And, with or without her 11:11 wish, Olive suddenly thought of the perfect hiding spot.
With the canvas under her arm, Olive bolted down the upstairs hall and skidded to a stop in front of the painting of the craggy hill. This time, instead of a flock of birds or a flurry of leaves, she saw the clouds in the painted sky begin to shift until one long, bright finger of sun broke through and landed directly on the roof of the old stone church.
That’s where she was meant to hide this painting. Olive knew it. Elsewhere was telling her so.
Olive put on the spectacles. She struggled over thebottom of the picture frame, hauling the canvas with her, and landed with an almost musical crackle in the bracken on the other side. The hill where she lay was carpeted with ferns and grasses and a low, woody plant bearing tiny pink flowers, which tinted the whole landscape with a rosy glow. The breeze that touched her face was cool, and the air smelled spicy, smoky, and sweet. Birds flew above her, calling softly.
Holding the canvas to her chest, Olive stood up and looked around. Rocky hillsides rolled up and down around her, ending in threads of oak and birch forest, where the leaves had turned to gold. At the crest of the nearest hill, the little church was waiting. Olive ran toward it, loving the soft snapping sound her shoe soles made in the flowering plants.
A tiny graveyard encircled the church, with its worn headstones half submerged in flowers. Olive had never seen a less creepy graveyard. It seemed practically friendly, with all the graves gathered in a sociable cluster around the church’s stone walls.
The doors of the church stood open. Olive slipped inside and found herself in a long, quiet room lined with wooden benches. Rows of windows let in the glow of painted sunlight. One large stained-glass window, at the far end of the church, cast a shattered rainbow across the floorboards.
Gently, Olive set her painting in the very last pew,out of sight of the church doors. No one would find it here. It would be safe and sheltered, and her poor, deformed portraits would have something pretty to look at.
Olive straightened up. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn’t carrying the painting anymore, but she suddenly felt fifty pounds lighter. She skipped back through the open doors into the white sunlight, taking deep breaths of the spicy air—and found herself face-to-face with a huge orange cat, who was seated imperiously on the top of a tombstone.
“Olive Dunwoody,” said Horatio softly, “you are a fool. What’s more, you are a stubborn fool, which makes you a dangerous fool.”
Olive didn’t know where to begin. So she began at the ending. “I—I just wanted to give Morton his parents back,” she stammered. “If I didn’t find them in three months, Morton said he would run away.” Horatio merely glared, so Olive went on. “I’m going to burn the paint-making papers. And I’ll dump out the stuff in the jars. And I’m never going to use them again. And—”
“What did I tell you?” snapped Horatio, green eyes glittering. He was still using a quiet voice, but he looked as though he would have liked to use a much louder one. “It’s bad enough that you would do something as imbecilic as attempt to concoct and use Aldous’s paints.But then you add insult to idiocy by disobeying my warning.” The cat rose to his feet. “I told you not to come into this particular painting. And what did you do? You came directly into this particular painting.” Horatio leaped down from the headstone. “We need to get out of here. Now. ”
“Okay,” said Olive. “But would you please tell me why? Because this seemed like a really good
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