Read Online The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows by Jacqueline West - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline West
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painting hadn’t moved—the trees hadn’t shifted in the breeze, dry leaves hadn’t blown across the path—until she had put on the spectacles. Without the spectacles, the other paintings seemed like ordinary, motionless pictures. And here was a painting that had moved once before but that now refused to move at all, with or without the spectacles. “I don’t get it,” she mumbled.
“What don’t you get?”
Olive looked up at the portrait through the spectacles. The woman in the painting had turned her head and was looking down at Olive with an expression of kind concern.
“Did you just talk?” Olive whispered.
“Yes, I did,” said the woman. She gave Olive a sympathetic little smile. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but you look so unhappy.”
“I’m not really unhappy ,” said Olive slowly. “I’m just trying to figure something out. But I can’t tell my parents, because they would think I’m making it all up.”
The woman in the portrait nodded. “It’s always hard to move to a new place. Why don’t you come in here with me, and we’ll have a real visit?”
“Really?” said Olive.
“I’d be delighted to have a guest. Climb right up,” the woman said, smiling.
Olive clambered onto the chest of drawers and leaned into the portrait’s silver frame. She landed with a bounce on a squishy sofa covered with dozens of ornamental pillows, all in different shades of pastels. Long, lacy curtains were draped around the windows, delicate vases full of lilacs and lilies stood on every surface, and elegant collections of seashells and bottles and porcelain rosebuds were scattered everywhere.
In her jeans and sweat socks, Olive felt like she had wandered into the pages of Little Women or Anne of Green Gables, two books that she liked very much but that she wouldn’t have wanted to live in. She could never have kept all those petticoats clean.
The woman from the portrait was seated at a little cloth-covered table, just pouring a cup of tea from a filigreed silver pot.
“Won’t you join me?” she asked, gesturing to the other chair.
Olive freed herself from the sofa pillows and made her way to the table.
“Do you take sugar?” asked the woman.
“Yes, please,” said Olive.
The woman dropped a lump into Olive’s cup and passed it across the table. Olive tried to take the cup gracefully, but her hands weren’t cooperating. The delicate saucer slipped out of her fingers, hit the tabletop, and split in two with a brittle chink .
Olive shut her eyes and wished that she could disappear. She had wished the same wish many times, and it hadn’t come true yet. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The woman across the table smiled. “Don’t worry. Everything stays the same here. Look.” She gestured to the broken bits of porcelain. Olive glanced down. The two halves of the saucer had pulled back together, like magnets. Olive picked up the saucer very, very carefully, and turned it over in her hands. There wasn’t even a chip in the glaze.
“I’m so glad you came,” said the woman, picking up her own teacup. “I haven’t had a visitor for ages.”
Olive looked around the room while the blush on her cheeks started to cool. “This place seems familiar to me,” she said.
“It should,” answered the woman. “It’s the downstairs parlor of this house.”
Suddenly Olive could recognize the shape of the fireplace, the built-in bookcases, the carved wooden panels of the door. The woman seemed funnily familiar too—not just because Olive had looked at her picture so many times, but because she reminded Olive of the kindergarten teachers at her old school. She had the same sweet, slow way of speaking and moving, which always ended up seeming a bit too sweet and slow to be real.
“I grew up in this house, years and years ago.” The woman gave a little laugh. “It belonged to my father, and to his father before him. But I’m sure that many things about the place have changed since I
“What don’t you get?”
Olive looked up at the portrait through the spectacles. The woman in the painting had turned her head and was looking down at Olive with an expression of kind concern.
“Did you just talk?” Olive whispered.
“Yes, I did,” said the woman. She gave Olive a sympathetic little smile. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but you look so unhappy.”
“I’m not really unhappy ,” said Olive slowly. “I’m just trying to figure something out. But I can’t tell my parents, because they would think I’m making it all up.”
The woman in the portrait nodded. “It’s always hard to move to a new place. Why don’t you come in here with me, and we’ll have a real visit?”
“Really?” said Olive.
“I’d be delighted to have a guest. Climb right up,” the woman said, smiling.
Olive clambered onto the chest of drawers and leaned into the portrait’s silver frame. She landed with a bounce on a squishy sofa covered with dozens of ornamental pillows, all in different shades of pastels. Long, lacy curtains were draped around the windows, delicate vases full of lilacs and lilies stood on every surface, and elegant collections of seashells and bottles and porcelain rosebuds were scattered everywhere.
In her jeans and sweat socks, Olive felt like she had wandered into the pages of Little Women or Anne of Green Gables, two books that she liked very much but that she wouldn’t have wanted to live in. She could never have kept all those petticoats clean.
The woman from the portrait was seated at a little cloth-covered table, just pouring a cup of tea from a filigreed silver pot.
“Won’t you join me?” she asked, gesturing to the other chair.
Olive freed herself from the sofa pillows and made her way to the table.
“Do you take sugar?” asked the woman.
“Yes, please,” said Olive.
The woman dropped a lump into Olive’s cup and passed it across the table. Olive tried to take the cup gracefully, but her hands weren’t cooperating. The delicate saucer slipped out of her fingers, hit the tabletop, and split in two with a brittle chink .
Olive shut her eyes and wished that she could disappear. She had wished the same wish many times, and it hadn’t come true yet. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The woman across the table smiled. “Don’t worry. Everything stays the same here. Look.” She gestured to the broken bits of porcelain. Olive glanced down. The two halves of the saucer had pulled back together, like magnets. Olive picked up the saucer very, very carefully, and turned it over in her hands. There wasn’t even a chip in the glaze.
“I’m so glad you came,” said the woman, picking up her own teacup. “I haven’t had a visitor for ages.”
Olive looked around the room while the blush on her cheeks started to cool. “This place seems familiar to me,” she said.
“It should,” answered the woman. “It’s the downstairs parlor of this house.”
Suddenly Olive could recognize the shape of the fireplace, the built-in bookcases, the carved wooden panels of the door. The woman seemed funnily familiar too—not just because Olive had looked at her picture so many times, but because she reminded Olive of the kindergarten teachers at her old school. She had the same sweet, slow way of speaking and moving, which always ended up seeming a bit too sweet and slow to be real.
“I grew up in this house, years and years ago.” The woman gave a little laugh. “It belonged to my father, and to his father before him. But I’m sure that many things about the place have changed since I
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