The Second Spy: The Books of Elsewhere: Volume 3 by Jacqueline West Page B
Authors: Jacqueline West
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place to leave the painting. I know I shouldn’t have done it in the first place, but—”
“Shh!” Horatio cut her off. “We cannot discuss this here. ”
“Why not?” Olive demanded.
“Not here!” Horatio growled, already darting away.
The sky seemed to darken from white to gray as the clouds thickened. The beams of sunlight that touched the church were cut off, one after another, like a cluster of candles being blown out.
“I’m sorry, Horatio,” Olive called, following the cat as he raced down the hill. She ran faster and faster, trying to keep up, but Horatio streaked ahead of her. “I know it was stupid,” she panted, “but I just wanted to help Morton. I thought I could—”
Olive tripped over a jutting stone. She landed hard on her palms, scraping her skin against the exposed rock. Thorny stems of the flowering plants snagged at her wounds. Blood, even brighter than the blood-redpaint waiting in her bedroom, seeped through her torn skin.
Olive looked up. Where Horatio’s soft orange fur had glowed through the bracken a moment before, now there was nothing—only a cluster of gray twigs twitching in the wind. Shaking her stinging hands, Olive staggered to her feet again and surveyed the hill. There—far below her, off to her right—she caught the swish of a luxuriant orange tail.
“Horatio, please!” she shouted, running toward the flash of orange fur. “Don’t be mad at me!”
There was no answer.
By the time she reached the spot where she’d seen the flash of orange, Horatio was gone. The brush grew thick and wild all around. Ahead of her lay the forest, canopied in brown and gold. She glanced over her shoulder, but she was no longer sure which way led back to the picture frame. The hillsides folded into each other, one identical ridge following another, and the little stone church had vanished from sight.
“Horatio!” Olive yelled as an icy panic rippled through her. “I lost track of the frame!” Her hands throbbed. The bleeding hadn’t stopped. A little river of blood was trickling along her lifeline. “Horatio!”
From the woods ahead of her there came a soft crackling sound. Olive froze, listening. Between the trunks of trees, she thought she glimpsed another flash of orange. Before it could vanish again, Olive bolted after it, into the forest.
A carpet of brown and gold leaves crunched under her shoes as Olive hurried along, scanning the gray tree trunks. There it was again—a hint of orange fur shifting through the shadows. Olive chased it into the rustling trees. The sky seemed to be growing darker still, and the scent in the air had changed somehow. The flowery smell of the hillsides had been replaced by something sharper and smokier. Olive paused to take a deep breath, scanning the forest all around herfor another fuzzy orange splotch. But this time, what she spotted wasn’t fuzzy and orange. It was solid and wooden and dark, and it jutted out from behind a cluster of birch trees in the distance. Keeping her leaf-crunching footsteps as light as she could make them, Olive tiptoed nearer.
A tiny cottage, hardly more than a shack, waited for her in a small clearing. Its wooden roof was crooked. Stones had been stacked together haphazardly to form its walls. One huge oak tree towered over it, as though protecting it from above, and a trail of painted smoke wound out of its chimney, twisting on the breeze. The cottage’s door was open, and, in the gap left by that open door, Olive caught sight of something orange.
“Horatio!” she shouted, darting to the doorway before the cat could disappear again.
But it wasn’t the cat who greeted her.
13
“H ELLO THERE,” SAID a man’s deep voice.
He stood in the shack’s open doorway, with Horatio seated against his shins. He was tall—so tall that his head almost brushed the ceiling of the little cottage—and young, and very slender, with reddish hair and sharp cheekbones and a strong, square jaw. Something about
“Shh!” Horatio cut her off. “We cannot discuss this here. ”
“Why not?” Olive demanded.
“Not here!” Horatio growled, already darting away.
The sky seemed to darken from white to gray as the clouds thickened. The beams of sunlight that touched the church were cut off, one after another, like a cluster of candles being blown out.
“I’m sorry, Horatio,” Olive called, following the cat as he raced down the hill. She ran faster and faster, trying to keep up, but Horatio streaked ahead of her. “I know it was stupid,” she panted, “but I just wanted to help Morton. I thought I could—”
Olive tripped over a jutting stone. She landed hard on her palms, scraping her skin against the exposed rock. Thorny stems of the flowering plants snagged at her wounds. Blood, even brighter than the blood-redpaint waiting in her bedroom, seeped through her torn skin.
Olive looked up. Where Horatio’s soft orange fur had glowed through the bracken a moment before, now there was nothing—only a cluster of gray twigs twitching in the wind. Shaking her stinging hands, Olive staggered to her feet again and surveyed the hill. There—far below her, off to her right—she caught the swish of a luxuriant orange tail.
“Horatio, please!” she shouted, running toward the flash of orange fur. “Don’t be mad at me!”
There was no answer.
By the time she reached the spot where she’d seen the flash of orange, Horatio was gone. The brush grew thick and wild all around. Ahead of her lay the forest, canopied in brown and gold. She glanced over her shoulder, but she was no longer sure which way led back to the picture frame. The hillsides folded into each other, one identical ridge following another, and the little stone church had vanished from sight.
“Horatio!” Olive yelled as an icy panic rippled through her. “I lost track of the frame!” Her hands throbbed. The bleeding hadn’t stopped. A little river of blood was trickling along her lifeline. “Horatio!”
From the woods ahead of her there came a soft crackling sound. Olive froze, listening. Between the trunks of trees, she thought she glimpsed another flash of orange. Before it could vanish again, Olive bolted after it, into the forest.
A carpet of brown and gold leaves crunched under her shoes as Olive hurried along, scanning the gray tree trunks. There it was again—a hint of orange fur shifting through the shadows. Olive chased it into the rustling trees. The sky seemed to be growing darker still, and the scent in the air had changed somehow. The flowery smell of the hillsides had been replaced by something sharper and smokier. Olive paused to take a deep breath, scanning the forest all around herfor another fuzzy orange splotch. But this time, what she spotted wasn’t fuzzy and orange. It was solid and wooden and dark, and it jutted out from behind a cluster of birch trees in the distance. Keeping her leaf-crunching footsteps as light as she could make them, Olive tiptoed nearer.
A tiny cottage, hardly more than a shack, waited for her in a small clearing. Its wooden roof was crooked. Stones had been stacked together haphazardly to form its walls. One huge oak tree towered over it, as though protecting it from above, and a trail of painted smoke wound out of its chimney, twisting on the breeze. The cottage’s door was open, and, in the gap left by that open door, Olive caught sight of something orange.
“Horatio!” she shouted, darting to the doorway before the cat could disappear again.
But it wasn’t the cat who greeted her.
13
“H ELLO THERE,” SAID a man’s deep voice.
He stood in the shack’s open doorway, with Horatio seated against his shins. He was tall—so tall that his head almost brushed the ceiling of the little cottage—and young, and very slender, with reddish hair and sharp cheekbones and a strong, square jaw. Something about
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