Read Online The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows by Jacqueline West - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jacqueline West
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was a girl.”
“I suppose so. It doesn’t look like this anymore.” Olive took a sip of her tea, then plopped four or five more sugar cubes into the cup.
“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?” said the woman with a very sweet smile.
Olive cleared her throat and began the recitation. “My name is Olive Dunwoody. I’m eleven. My parents are Alec and Alice Dunwoody. We just moved here a few weeks ago.”
“And what do you think of the place?”
“It’s kind of . . . strange,” said Olive, hoping not to seem impolite.
“Yes, I suppose it is a bit strange. Most old houses have a secret or two.” The woman rearranged her string of pearl beads and sipped her tea. “Well, Olive, my name is Annabelle. And you can come to see me any time you like.”
“Really?” asked Olive, wondering meanwhile if a person could put more than ten sugar cubes in one cup of tea without seeming insane. “The people in all the other pictures were worried I would get them into trouble. They said there was a man who was watching them.”
“Oh, that,” said Annabelle, stirring her tea with a dainty spoon. “That is really nothing for you to worry about.” She leaned closer to Olive, lowering her voice. “I don’t want to sound unkind, but there are some . . . people in this house who like to make something out of nothing. They’re like cats getting startled by their own tails. You can’t believe everything they tell you.” Annabelle pressed her cold palm hard against Olive’s hand. “Trust me,” she said.
Annabelle stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs out of her lap. “I do hope that you’ll come and see me again sometime, Olive.”
She held out her icy hand, and Olive shook it.
“Be careful as you leave,” said Annabelle. “Don’t hit your head on the chest of drawers.”
“Good-bye. Thanks for the tea,” said Olive, climbing onto the couch. Then she smiled back at Annabelle, pulled herself through the picture frame, and hit her head on the chest of drawers.
11
O LIVE LEFT THE violet room and walked slowly down the hall, past the pictures of the rocky hillside and the bowl of odd fruit, and stopped in front of the painting of Linden Street. The windows of the distant houses were dark. The same starless sky hung above them, stifling the street like a heavy black blanket.
Olive played with a strand of her hair and gazed at the empty street. She tried to imagine living in a painting, like Annabelle or Morton. It would get dull, that was certain. It would be sort of like being sick—lying on the couch, unable to move, while everybody else bustles around you. Olive liked being sick, because it meant she got to stay home from school, and she could read and draw all day. But she supposed that if she were sick for a really long time, she would probably get cranky and impatient. She imagined being stuck like that for years and years, and felt a tiny tug of pity for Morton. Even though he was about as much fun as having a burr caught in your hair.
What if she did go inside the painting of Linden Street? What was the worst thing that could happen? Well, the worst thing would be getting trapped inside and being stuck forever. Olive nibbled nervously on the ends of her hair. Imagine being trapped with Morton for eternity! Still, as long as she kept the spectacles safe and didn’t stay too long, she would be fine. Horatio had said so himself.
Horatio. Even the thought of the giant orange cat had begun to make Olive’s blood simmer. Giving her little slivers of information, telling her what to do, refusing to answer a simple question, and then disappearing for days! Well, if Horatio wasn’t going to help her, she would have to find the answers on her own. Besides, Annabelle had said that there was nothing to be afraid of.
Olive dropped the hank of soggy hair. If she were Morton, what would she want? She would want to get out of the painting, of course. And she would want to know that she hadn’t been
“I suppose so. It doesn’t look like this anymore.” Olive took a sip of her tea, then plopped four or five more sugar cubes into the cup.
“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?” said the woman with a very sweet smile.
Olive cleared her throat and began the recitation. “My name is Olive Dunwoody. I’m eleven. My parents are Alec and Alice Dunwoody. We just moved here a few weeks ago.”
“And what do you think of the place?”
“It’s kind of . . . strange,” said Olive, hoping not to seem impolite.
“Yes, I suppose it is a bit strange. Most old houses have a secret or two.” The woman rearranged her string of pearl beads and sipped her tea. “Well, Olive, my name is Annabelle. And you can come to see me any time you like.”
“Really?” asked Olive, wondering meanwhile if a person could put more than ten sugar cubes in one cup of tea without seeming insane. “The people in all the other pictures were worried I would get them into trouble. They said there was a man who was watching them.”
“Oh, that,” said Annabelle, stirring her tea with a dainty spoon. “That is really nothing for you to worry about.” She leaned closer to Olive, lowering her voice. “I don’t want to sound unkind, but there are some . . . people in this house who like to make something out of nothing. They’re like cats getting startled by their own tails. You can’t believe everything they tell you.” Annabelle pressed her cold palm hard against Olive’s hand. “Trust me,” she said.
Annabelle stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs out of her lap. “I do hope that you’ll come and see me again sometime, Olive.”
She held out her icy hand, and Olive shook it.
“Be careful as you leave,” said Annabelle. “Don’t hit your head on the chest of drawers.”
“Good-bye. Thanks for the tea,” said Olive, climbing onto the couch. Then she smiled back at Annabelle, pulled herself through the picture frame, and hit her head on the chest of drawers.
11
O LIVE LEFT THE violet room and walked slowly down the hall, past the pictures of the rocky hillside and the bowl of odd fruit, and stopped in front of the painting of Linden Street. The windows of the distant houses were dark. The same starless sky hung above them, stifling the street like a heavy black blanket.
Olive played with a strand of her hair and gazed at the empty street. She tried to imagine living in a painting, like Annabelle or Morton. It would get dull, that was certain. It would be sort of like being sick—lying on the couch, unable to move, while everybody else bustles around you. Olive liked being sick, because it meant she got to stay home from school, and she could read and draw all day. But she supposed that if she were sick for a really long time, she would probably get cranky and impatient. She imagined being stuck like that for years and years, and felt a tiny tug of pity for Morton. Even though he was about as much fun as having a burr caught in your hair.
What if she did go inside the painting of Linden Street? What was the worst thing that could happen? Well, the worst thing would be getting trapped inside and being stuck forever. Olive nibbled nervously on the ends of her hair. Imagine being trapped with Morton for eternity! Still, as long as she kept the spectacles safe and didn’t stay too long, she would be fine. Horatio had said so himself.
Horatio. Even the thought of the giant orange cat had begun to make Olive’s blood simmer. Giving her little slivers of information, telling her what to do, refusing to answer a simple question, and then disappearing for days! Well, if Horatio wasn’t going to help her, she would have to find the answers on her own. Besides, Annabelle had said that there was nothing to be afraid of.
Olive dropped the hank of soggy hair. If she were Morton, what would she want? She would want to get out of the painting, of course. And she would want to know that she hadn’t been
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