Part 10 (1/2)

”Why is it changing now?” Olive asked, holding her still-p.r.i.c.kling hand against her side.

”Imagine a reservoir,” said Doctor Widdecombe, shaping his meaty hands into a bowl. ”Over time, the pool fills with rain, rising higher and higher. But no one uses the water inside. At last the water grows so high, its ma.s.s so huge, that it overflows-or it seeps through the walls around it, weakening and rotting everything that it can reach.” Slowly, Doctor Widdecombe spread his fingers. The bowl disintegrated.

Horatio's words-The McMartins are seeking someone to train. Someone to take on this house-floated back through Olive's mind. ”The house is looking for an heir,” she said softly. ”It needs someone to use its power.”

Doctor Widdecombe gave an admiring nod. ”Precisely,” he said. ”And it is growing stronger with each pa.s.sing moment.”

Delora lunged across the room. ”Olive, you must get out of here!” she cried, grabbing Olive by both shoulders. ”That it hasn't corrupted you already is astonis.h.i.+ng! The McMartins will never leave you in peace,” she breathed, her silvery eyes staring straight into Olive's. ”Not as long as you remain in this house!”

Once more, Olive glanced over her shoulder. The green eyes stared steadily from their corner.

The cats needed her. She couldn't leave them to face the McMartins alone, not when the danger was Olive's own fault. And Morton, and all of the people inside Elsewhere . . .

”But I can't leave,” she told everyone. ”I can't.”

Doctor Widdecombe stepped forward. ”Olive, your safety is at greater risk with every second you stay here.”

”But I don't-”

”You must get away from this place!” Delora shrieked, her hands tightening around Olive's arms until Olive winced. ”Get away! Leave this house!”

A black streak shot through the gloom and planted itself before Olive's feet.

”I will ask you to remove your hands from Miss Olive, madam,” Leopold boomed, making himself so rigid that the tips of his ears reached well above Olive's knees.

Delora blinked as if she'd just woken from a daydream. Her grip slid weakly from Olive's arms.

Leopold remained in place, glaring up at Delora.

”Leopold,” Olive asked, ”didn't you notice that the gravestones were changing?”

Leopold's eyes flicked warily around the room. ”That is cla.s.sified information, miss.” His voice dropped to a whisper. ”And I suspect that we are not alone.”

”It's all right,” said Olive. ”Please tell us.”

Leopold's chest inflated still further. He raised his chin. ”Very well, miss. It is correct that the stones have altered. Observation, rather than action, has been our chosen course.”

”Why didn't you tell me?”

”Why would we tell you?” Leopold asked, looking surprised. ”There is nothing to be done. The stones have changed many times over the years. They've altered very frequently over the course of the past few months, as Annabelle, and Aldous . . . and you,” Leopold added, under his breath, ”have used the house's powers.”

”What about lately? Have they gotten better?”

”Yes. Better,” Leopold said. ”And then worse again. And then . . .”

”And then what?”

Leopold blinked. ”Even worse.”

”And so the guard on the wall watches the water rise and does nothing,” said Doctor Widdecombe. ”It rises so very slowly, after all-until, very slowly, it rises over the wall, and floods the entire town.”

Leopold's chest rose until it b.u.mped into his chin. ”I don't believe you are a member of this brigade, sir,” he said tightly.

Doctor Widdecombe turned to Olive. ”Under these circ.u.mstances, it would be neither wise nor kind of us to allow you to remain here until the danger is removed.”

”Removed?” Rutherford piped up. ”Are you suggesting extricating the gravestones from the foundation? Because I think that might seriously damage the house's structural-”

”No,” Delora cut him off. Her mirror-like eyes traveled up to Doctor Widdecombe's face, then glided through the darkness to land on Mrs. Dewey. ”But there are ways.”

”What ways?” asked Olive.

Delora's mouth opened, but it was Mrs. Dewey's voice that spoke next.

”Absolutely not.” Her tone was sharp enough to slice bread. She stepped into the center of the chilly room, folding her arms across her chest. ”We will not do anything so risky or reprehensible. It goes against everything we stand for.”

Delora raised her hands warningly. ”You ignore my warning at your own peril, Lydia.”

”I think I'll take my chances, Debbie.”

Delora jerked back as though Mrs. Dewey had yanked a hair out of her nose.

”That's right,” Mrs. Dewey went on. ”I remember when you were still just Deborah Schepkey from Cleveland.”

”Cleveland?” Doctor Widdecombe's eyebrows rose. ”You told me that you were raised in the Northeast by a band of traveling fortune-tellers.”

”If you-any of you-feel so terribly threatened by what might be contained in this house,” Mrs. Dewey resumed, before Delora could get her gaping mouth to work, ”then why don't you leave it?”

”But-” Olive interrupted. ”What about what Delora said? Why-”

”Lydia is right, my black dove,” said Doctor Widdecombe, putting his hand gently on Delora's arm. He didn't seem to hear Olive at all. ”It would behoove us all to calm ourselves and collect our thoughts. This sort of arguing is unworthy of us. We shall depart.” He ushered his wife toward the staircase. ”Walter?”

”I think-I think I'll stay here,” said Walter. His deep voice echoed against the stones. ”For a little while.”

Doctor Widdecombe shook his head. ”To each his own,” he said, as though Walter had just ordered oatmeal at an ice cream parlor. He and Delora creaked up the steps into the daylight.

”May I go with them, Grandma?” Rutherford asked, darting after. ”Not because I'm afraid of this house,” he added, ”but because I'd like to ask Doctor Widdecombe some questions about protective charms.”

”You may,” said Mrs. Dewey.

Rutherford scampered up the stairs.

Mrs. Dewey let out a breath. She looked from Walter to Olive, her mouth forming a tiny smile. ”Now,” she said, ”why don't you two join me for a little lunch?”

In the kitchen of the old stone house, grayish daylight wound its way through the vine-covered windows. Patches of light gleamed on the worn wooden table and glittered in the cups of Mrs. Dewey's steaming tea. Olive stirred several sugar cubes into hers. Walter sipped his tentatively, his long, k.n.o.bby fingers forming a complete loop around the cup.