clambering back out of the frame, leaving the dripping lady huffing angrily behind them.
“No book there,” whispered Olive. “Let’s check the blue room.”
The blue bedroom was dark and grim, full of things like hat racks and shoe stands and dressers with rows of heavy, creaking drawers. On one wall there hung a painting of a ballroom where people in evening clothes danced to the music of an orchestra. But when Harvey, Olive, and Morton came stumbling through the frame, the people stopped dancing. A few last tweets and blats came from the orchestra as one by one the musicians lost their places and gaped at the intruders.
“Be at your ease,” said Harvey with a generous wave of his paw. “No doubt you are awestruck by the presence of the great Sir Walter Raleigh and the most splendid Queen Elizabeth.” He gestured to Olive, who tugged uncomfortably at her penguin pajamas. Harvey glanced over his shoulder at Olive and Morton, and said out of the corner of his mouth, “These ruffians know not how to bow to their queen. Shall we have them all beheaded, Your Majesty?”
Olive shook her head vehemently. “Um—actually,” she began, while all the painted eyes of the crowd swiveled toward her, “excuse us, but have any of you seen a book in this room?”
The crowd started to murmur.
“I saw one!” shouted one man from the corner, pointing, but the book he’d seen turned out to be only the big book of sheet music on top of the piano.
“I saw one too!” shouted another man, but he turned out to be talking about the same book as the first.
“Okay,” said Olive loudly as more and more people joined in, proclaiming that they too had seen the book of sheet music on top of the piano, “has anyone seen a different book? Not the one on top of the piano?”
There were some confused mumblings, but no one else spoke up.
“All right, then,” said Olive. “Thank you for your help.”
“Jiminy,” whispered Morton as they landed one by one on the blue bedroom’s carpet. “Those people weren’t very bright.”
“You speak the truth, Sir Pillowcase,” Harvey agreed.
“Well, they’re just paintings,” said Olive. “They’ve never been out of that one room. I’m sure they don’t have to do much heavy thinking.”
Morton looked down at his toes and didn’t answer.
“I mean,” Olive hurried on, “they’re not like you, or like the other people Aldous trapped in the paintings, who used to be real, but who aren’t—I mean, you haven’t always been just—I mean—”
But Morton was already stalking across the room toward the polished wooden door of the closet.
“Morton . . .” Olive pleaded.
Morton ignored her. He stepped into the closet and slammed the door behind him.
Olive sucked in a breath through her teeth. Had her parents heard? She and Harvey exchanged glances.
“I shall ensure that no adversarial vessels have entered the straits, Your Majesty,” the cat whispered, dashing out into the hall.
“Morton,” said Olive to the closed closet door. “Come out of there.”
There was no answer. Olive pulled on the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. Morton was obviously holding it tight on the other side. “Come on, Morton,” she said. “We’re wasting time.”
The closet was silent for a moment. It seemed to be thinking. Then a muffled voice from inside said, “Why can’t I just stay out here? If the Old Man is gone, how come we all can’t just come out again?”
“Morton, you’re not alive .” Olive paused. “Anymore.” The closet didn’t argue, so Olive went on. “People would notice that you don’t get any older, and your skin looks funny, and you don’t eat anything. And bright light burns you. You wouldn’t be safe out here.”
“I could live in the closet,” said Morton stubbornly. “Or everybody from the painting could just live in this house with you.”
Olive tried to imagine this. “I don’t think that would work,” she said at last. “My
“No book there,” whispered Olive. “Let’s check the blue room.”
The blue bedroom was dark and grim, full of things like hat racks and shoe stands and dressers with rows of heavy, creaking drawers. On one wall there hung a painting of a ballroom where people in evening clothes danced to the music of an orchestra. But when Harvey, Olive, and Morton came stumbling through the frame, the people stopped dancing. A few last tweets and blats came from the orchestra as one by one the musicians lost their places and gaped at the intruders.
“Be at your ease,” said Harvey with a generous wave of his paw. “No doubt you are awestruck by the presence of the great Sir Walter Raleigh and the most splendid Queen Elizabeth.” He gestured to Olive, who tugged uncomfortably at her penguin pajamas. Harvey glanced over his shoulder at Olive and Morton, and said out of the corner of his mouth, “These ruffians know not how to bow to their queen. Shall we have them all beheaded, Your Majesty?”
Olive shook her head vehemently. “Um—actually,” she began, while all the painted eyes of the crowd swiveled toward her, “excuse us, but have any of you seen a book in this room?”
The crowd started to murmur.
“I saw one!” shouted one man from the corner, pointing, but the book he’d seen turned out to be only the big book of sheet music on top of the piano.
“I saw one too!” shouted another man, but he turned out to be talking about the same book as the first.
“Okay,” said Olive loudly as more and more people joined in, proclaiming that they too had seen the book of sheet music on top of the piano, “has anyone seen a different book? Not the one on top of the piano?”
There were some confused mumblings, but no one else spoke up.
“All right, then,” said Olive. “Thank you for your help.”
“Jiminy,” whispered Morton as they landed one by one on the blue bedroom’s carpet. “Those people weren’t very bright.”
“You speak the truth, Sir Pillowcase,” Harvey agreed.
“Well, they’re just paintings,” said Olive. “They’ve never been out of that one room. I’m sure they don’t have to do much heavy thinking.”
Morton looked down at his toes and didn’t answer.
“I mean,” Olive hurried on, “they’re not like you, or like the other people Aldous trapped in the paintings, who used to be real, but who aren’t—I mean, you haven’t always been just—I mean—”
But Morton was already stalking across the room toward the polished wooden door of the closet.
“Morton . . .” Olive pleaded.
Morton ignored her. He stepped into the closet and slammed the door behind him.
Olive sucked in a breath through her teeth. Had her parents heard? She and Harvey exchanged glances.
“I shall ensure that no adversarial vessels have entered the straits, Your Majesty,” the cat whispered, dashing out into the hall.
“Morton,” said Olive to the closed closet door. “Come out of there.”
There was no answer. Olive pulled on the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. Morton was obviously holding it tight on the other side. “Come on, Morton,” she said. “We’re wasting time.”
The closet was silent for a moment. It seemed to be thinking. Then a muffled voice from inside said, “Why can’t I just stay out here? If the Old Man is gone, how come we all can’t just come out again?”
“Morton, you’re not alive .” Olive paused. “Anymore.” The closet didn’t argue, so Olive went on. “People would notice that you don’t get any older, and your skin looks funny, and you don’t eat anything. And bright light burns you. You wouldn’t be safe out here.”
“I could live in the closet,” said Morton stubbornly. “Or everybody from the painting could just live in this house with you.”
Olive tried to imagine this. “I don’t think that would work,” she said at last. “My
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