he collapsed dramatically in the middle of the rug.
7
T HAT NIGHT, HORATIO curled up in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. Harvey, still smelling strongly of cat shampoo, headed down the hallway to the pink bedroom, to guard the entrance to the attic. Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody both peeped in to wish Olive sweet dreams. Then the hallway lights clicked off and the house settled down into sleepy darkness.
With her head on the pillow and Hershel tucked under her chin, Olive listened to the low creaks and groans of the old stone house, and to the twigs tapping softly on the window glass. All of this was familiar now. Inside her own bedroom, Olive felt almost safe, even in the darkest part of the night. But she sensed that while she and her parents went to sleep, the house never did. It was always awake. Watching. Olive wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing—if the house was watching out for her, or if it was watching her.
She lay very still, waiting, repeating the words to catchy songs over and over in her head to stay awake. After she had gone through “I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am,” about twenty-five times (she lost count somewhere around thirteen), she sat up very slowly and blinked out into the darkness over Hershel’s fuzzy head. She had a plan: a plan to make Morton her friend again, and if her hunch was correct, to find the spellbook too.
The room was silent. Horatio was a motionless lump of fur. Even the distant white glow of the streetlamps had faded above the sleeping street.
Olive slid her legs to the edge of the mattress, careful not to bump Horatio. The big orange cat didn’t stir. The floor felt cold against the soles of her feet, but, as usual, none of her six pairs of slippers were waiting by the bed where they belonged. She slunk across the room and slipped out the door into the hall.
The floorboards creaked as Olive tiptoed past the paintings of the bowl of strange fruit and of the church on the craggy hill. She hurried by the dark, open doorways of the bathroom and the guest rooms, trying not to imagine anyone jumping out at her, any voices whispering her name from the shadows inside. But it was hard not to.
By the time she reached the front of the house, she was nearly running. She darted through the doorway into the pink room.
Harvey was asleep on a chair before the painting of the old stone archway that was the entrance to the attic. His head hung limply over the edge of the seat.
As gently as she could, Olive tapped the cat’s front paw.
Harvey sat bolt upright. “The royal fleet awaits your command, Majesty!” he declared.
“Shh!” Olive hissed. “Harvey, I need your help. I know where something I’ve been looking for might be hidden.” She stared into the cat’s wide green eyes. “Will you help me?”
“I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else, Your Majesty,” said Harvey, straightening himself on the cushioned seat before taking a regal bow. “Perhaps you do not recognize me after my long months spent at sea. It is I, Raleigh, Sir Walter Raleigh. And I am at your service.”
“Okay, Sir . . . who did you say?”
“Sir Walter Raleigh. Explorer, writer, soldier, and all-around Renaissance man.”
“Okay, Sir Walter Raleigh,” said Olive. “But we have to be very, very quiet. No one else can know about this mission. You’re the only one I can trust.”
The cat gave a delighted nod.
“All right,” Olive breathed. “Now, we’re going to go out into the hallway, into the painting of Linden Street, and we’re going to find Morton.”
“Ah yes, the good Sir Pillowcase!” said Harvey with growing excitement. “We will navigate the straits and join our comrade!”
“Sure,” whispered Olive. “You navigate. I’ll be right behind you.”
Sweeping an imaginary cape over his shoulders, Harvey leaped from the chair and flounced toward the door. Olive tiptoed after him.
She followed Harvey’s fuzzy silhouette back down the hallway. In
7
T HAT NIGHT, HORATIO curled up in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. Harvey, still smelling strongly of cat shampoo, headed down the hallway to the pink bedroom, to guard the entrance to the attic. Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody both peeped in to wish Olive sweet dreams. Then the hallway lights clicked off and the house settled down into sleepy darkness.
With her head on the pillow and Hershel tucked under her chin, Olive listened to the low creaks and groans of the old stone house, and to the twigs tapping softly on the window glass. All of this was familiar now. Inside her own bedroom, Olive felt almost safe, even in the darkest part of the night. But she sensed that while she and her parents went to sleep, the house never did. It was always awake. Watching. Olive wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing—if the house was watching out for her, or if it was watching her.
She lay very still, waiting, repeating the words to catchy songs over and over in her head to stay awake. After she had gone through “I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am,” about twenty-five times (she lost count somewhere around thirteen), she sat up very slowly and blinked out into the darkness over Hershel’s fuzzy head. She had a plan: a plan to make Morton her friend again, and if her hunch was correct, to find the spellbook too.
The room was silent. Horatio was a motionless lump of fur. Even the distant white glow of the streetlamps had faded above the sleeping street.
Olive slid her legs to the edge of the mattress, careful not to bump Horatio. The big orange cat didn’t stir. The floor felt cold against the soles of her feet, but, as usual, none of her six pairs of slippers were waiting by the bed where they belonged. She slunk across the room and slipped out the door into the hall.
The floorboards creaked as Olive tiptoed past the paintings of the bowl of strange fruit and of the church on the craggy hill. She hurried by the dark, open doorways of the bathroom and the guest rooms, trying not to imagine anyone jumping out at her, any voices whispering her name from the shadows inside. But it was hard not to.
By the time she reached the front of the house, she was nearly running. She darted through the doorway into the pink room.
Harvey was asleep on a chair before the painting of the old stone archway that was the entrance to the attic. His head hung limply over the edge of the seat.
As gently as she could, Olive tapped the cat’s front paw.
Harvey sat bolt upright. “The royal fleet awaits your command, Majesty!” he declared.
“Shh!” Olive hissed. “Harvey, I need your help. I know where something I’ve been looking for might be hidden.” She stared into the cat’s wide green eyes. “Will you help me?”
“I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else, Your Majesty,” said Harvey, straightening himself on the cushioned seat before taking a regal bow. “Perhaps you do not recognize me after my long months spent at sea. It is I, Raleigh, Sir Walter Raleigh. And I am at your service.”
“Okay, Sir . . . who did you say?”
“Sir Walter Raleigh. Explorer, writer, soldier, and all-around Renaissance man.”
“Okay, Sir Walter Raleigh,” said Olive. “But we have to be very, very quiet. No one else can know about this mission. You’re the only one I can trust.”
The cat gave a delighted nod.
“All right,” Olive breathed. “Now, we’re going to go out into the hallway, into the painting of Linden Street, and we’re going to find Morton.”
“Ah yes, the good Sir Pillowcase!” said Harvey with growing excitement. “We will navigate the straits and join our comrade!”
“Sure,” whispered Olive. “You navigate. I’ll be right behind you.”
Sweeping an imaginary cape over his shoulders, Harvey leaped from the chair and flounced toward the door. Olive tiptoed after him.
She followed Harvey’s fuzzy silhouette back down the hallway. In
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