front of the painting, he offered her his tail, and together they clambered through the frame into the misty field below Linden Street.
They found Morton sitting on the lawn of the house next door to his own, which in Olive’s world belonged to Mrs. Dewey. He was yanking up a row of white tulips and flinging them into the air, where they spun end over end like floppy batons. Then they zoomed back toward the ground, bulbs first, and planted themselves neatly in their waiting holes.
“Morton, what are you doing?” asked Olive as she and Harvey stopped in front of him.
Morton gave her a look that said this question didn’t really deserve an answer. He pulled up the next tulip.
“Where are your friends?”
Morton shrugged. “Somewhere. Maybe they’re at home. With their families.” He threw the tulip into the air. It flipped over twice and dove back toward the ground like a lawn dart.
Olive wanted to say, “Are their families invisible too?” but looking down at Morton’s face, she decided not to. Instead, she crouched down on the dewy grass. “Hey, Morton,” she began. “Do you remember that book I asked you about?”
Morton pulled up another tulip and didn’t answer.
“I think if I could find that book, I might learn how to help you get back home.”
Morton looked at her out of the corner of one eye. “ Real home?”
“ Real home,” Olive repeated. “If the McMartins had a book of magic spells, they probably kept it in a magical place. I think that book is hidden in a painting somewhere inside this house.”
Morton’s round face turned skeptical. “Maybe.”
“So . . .” said Olive, trying to sound as though she really didn’t care, “will you help me look for it?”
“Oh,” said Morton, trying to sound as though he really didn’t care either, “. . . I suppose I could.”
“Excellent!” boomed Harvey. “An agreement has been reached between Good Queen Bess and the noble Sir Pillowcase. Now, onward, to explore the colonies!” And he charged off down the misty street, with Olive and Morton struggling to keep up.
Once they had all wriggled through the frame, they stood uncertainly in the hallway, glancing around at the dark, open doorways. “Where should we start?” Morton whispered at last.
Olive closed her eyes. She thought about the book. She imagined its cover, black or brown or red or green. She imagined the feeling of its pages. Maybe they would be heavy and soft, almost like cloth, or maybe they would be fine and delicate and nearly transparent, crinkling one over another like sheaves of tissue paper. And, very faintly, very gradually, something in the house began to guide her. It leaked out of the walls and rippled up through the floorboards into the soles of Olive’s bare feet. She could feel it turning her in the right direction, like the spinning arrow in a board game.
“I don’t think it’s downstairs,” she whispered back. “Let’s start up here.”
They threaded their way along the hall, Harvey trying to stay in the lead, even though he didn’t know where they were going, and Olive and Morton walking behind, tiptoeing on each other’s shadows.
They began their search in the guest bathroom, which had only one small painting. With Olive holding on to Harvey’s tail, and Morton holding on to Olive, they tugged each other through the frame. The woman in the painting, who was perpetually posing with one toe in the water of an old-fashioned bathtub, let out a little shriek when a splotchy cat and two pajama-clad children dropped through the frame onto her slippery tile floor. She plunked down into the water, towel and all.
“Pardon us, good lady,” said Harvey grandly, “but we must explore your bathroom, for the glory of England.”
“What!?” bubbled the woman.
Olive crouched down to look under the bathtub while Morton checked the corners. The room inside the painting was quite small and bare, and in just a few seconds, the three explorers were
They found Morton sitting on the lawn of the house next door to his own, which in Olive’s world belonged to Mrs. Dewey. He was yanking up a row of white tulips and flinging them into the air, where they spun end over end like floppy batons. Then they zoomed back toward the ground, bulbs first, and planted themselves neatly in their waiting holes.
“Morton, what are you doing?” asked Olive as she and Harvey stopped in front of him.
Morton gave her a look that said this question didn’t really deserve an answer. He pulled up the next tulip.
“Where are your friends?”
Morton shrugged. “Somewhere. Maybe they’re at home. With their families.” He threw the tulip into the air. It flipped over twice and dove back toward the ground like a lawn dart.
Olive wanted to say, “Are their families invisible too?” but looking down at Morton’s face, she decided not to. Instead, she crouched down on the dewy grass. “Hey, Morton,” she began. “Do you remember that book I asked you about?”
Morton pulled up another tulip and didn’t answer.
“I think if I could find that book, I might learn how to help you get back home.”
Morton looked at her out of the corner of one eye. “ Real home?”
“ Real home,” Olive repeated. “If the McMartins had a book of magic spells, they probably kept it in a magical place. I think that book is hidden in a painting somewhere inside this house.”
Morton’s round face turned skeptical. “Maybe.”
“So . . .” said Olive, trying to sound as though she really didn’t care, “will you help me look for it?”
“Oh,” said Morton, trying to sound as though he really didn’t care either, “. . . I suppose I could.”
“Excellent!” boomed Harvey. “An agreement has been reached between Good Queen Bess and the noble Sir Pillowcase. Now, onward, to explore the colonies!” And he charged off down the misty street, with Olive and Morton struggling to keep up.
Once they had all wriggled through the frame, they stood uncertainly in the hallway, glancing around at the dark, open doorways. “Where should we start?” Morton whispered at last.
Olive closed her eyes. She thought about the book. She imagined its cover, black or brown or red or green. She imagined the feeling of its pages. Maybe they would be heavy and soft, almost like cloth, or maybe they would be fine and delicate and nearly transparent, crinkling one over another like sheaves of tissue paper. And, very faintly, very gradually, something in the house began to guide her. It leaked out of the walls and rippled up through the floorboards into the soles of Olive’s bare feet. She could feel it turning her in the right direction, like the spinning arrow in a board game.
“I don’t think it’s downstairs,” she whispered back. “Let’s start up here.”
They threaded their way along the hall, Harvey trying to stay in the lead, even though he didn’t know where they were going, and Olive and Morton walking behind, tiptoeing on each other’s shadows.
They began their search in the guest bathroom, which had only one small painting. With Olive holding on to Harvey’s tail, and Morton holding on to Olive, they tugged each other through the frame. The woman in the painting, who was perpetually posing with one toe in the water of an old-fashioned bathtub, let out a little shriek when a splotchy cat and two pajama-clad children dropped through the frame onto her slippery tile floor. She plunked down into the water, towel and all.
“Pardon us, good lady,” said Harvey grandly, “but we must explore your bathroom, for the glory of England.”
“What!?” bubbled the woman.
Olive crouched down to look under the bathtub while Morton checked the corners. The room inside the painting was quite small and bare, and in just a few seconds, the three explorers were
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