Part 16 (1/2)

One of Rutherford's eyebrows went up. ”I find that rather difficult to believe,” he said, like a parent answering a toddler who insists that there's an eight-headed monster hiding under the bed. ”Doctor Widdecombe is a world-renowned expert on magic in nearly all its forms.”

”He's also a scaredy-cat,” said Olive. ”And so is Delora.”

Rutherford tilted his head doubtfully.

”Just because he's some famous expert-”

”A world-renowned expert,” Rutherford corrected.

”That doesn't mean he knows everything,” said Olive, folding her arms across her chest. ”I mean, when you read his thoughts, you must notice that they're not always perfect.”

Rutherford tilted his head to the other side. ”Olive, I have never read anything in his thoughts that didn't confirm what I already know: Namely, that he is an expert on magical history who has nothing but the best intentions when it comes to . . .” Rutherford's words slowed. His eyes grew distant. ”. . . The Fibonacci sequence.”

”The what sequence?” asked Olive.

”What?” said Rutherford.

”Why did you start talking about a sequence?”

Rutherford blinked. ”I didn't. You did.”

”I only said what you said,” Olive argued. ”I don't even know what the fettuccini sequence is!”

”The Fibonacci sequence,” Rutherford corrected. ”It's named after a medieval mathematician, and it's a series of numbers in which the next number is always the sum of the two preceding numbers. It frequently appears in nature: in ferns, in seash.e.l.ls, in pinecones-”

”All right,” Olive interrupted. ”But I didn't say it.” She paused, staring through the dimness into Rutherford's brown eyes. ”If it's a math term, do you think it could have been coming from someone else? Like . . . maybe . . . from my parents?”

Rutherford gave her a thoughtful frown. ”I don't see how that would be possible. I can only read thoughts from a distance when I know the thinker extremely well-like you, or my grandmother, or my own parents. I generally need to look directly into someone's face in order to read them.”

”But Delora said they were nearby, didn't she?” Olive's eyes raked the yard. Leaves covered the garden with thick, grave-like mounds. Shadows pooled around the porch steps. ”What if we just missed them somehow? Or what if they've been hidden in more than one place, and now they've been moved to a spot that we haven't checked again?” Olive's heart jumped a little higher with each question. ”You search the yard, and I'll look through the nearest rooms! Let's go!”

As Rutherford hurried away, Olive lunged into the kitchen, yanking open each cupboard and drawer. She checked the downstairs bathroom, avoiding the grasping shade that rippled behind the door, and looked under all the furniture in the dining room and parlor.

Rutherford was waiting for her on the back porch when she returned.

”I searched the shed, the lawn, and the crawl s.p.a.ce underneath the porch,” he announced, peeling an old spiderweb from one sleeve. ”I found nothing.”

”Me too.” Olive gave an exasperated sigh. ”Do you think we're getting close? Are you reading anything else?”

Rutherford shook his head. ”Nothing but you running through a checklist of searched spots.”

”I don't get it.” Olive flopped against the doorframe, the hope that had lightened her leaking away. She gazed out over the withered lawn, and felt the cold, and the darkness, and the hugeness of the night looming all around her. ”If they're so close, then where could they be?”

Rutherford adjusted his smudgy gla.s.ses. ”There is one positive factor to keep in mind,” he said, shuffling nearer to Olive. ”If it is your parents that I'm reading, it means that they're still alive.”

”I suppose,” said Olive, not feeling very comforted.

Rutherford tensed. ”My grandmother just woke up,” he whispered. ”She fell asleep on the couch with a book, and I was supposed to be in bed an hour ago.”

”Remember,” said Olive as Rutherford darted toward the hedge, ”don't tell her about the-the congregation and exception-”

”The conjuration and expulsion.”

”That. Not yet. She would probably blame Delora and Doctor Widdecombe for trying it, but it was really my fault, because . . .” Olive's mind traveled back to the painting of Linden Street, where memories of the Calling Candle and Leopold and Annabelle were waiting. ”. . . Because I did some stupid things today.”

”I am aware of that,” said Rutherford. ”I should be able to make up an excuse to keep her away for a while. Besides, she and Doctor Widdecombe and Delora are casting some Seeking Spells tomorrow, so they will all be occupied.” Rutherford gave Olive a last sharp look. ”If you need me, let me know,” he added. With a courtly bow, he shoved his way through the barren lilac hedge and hustled away into the dark.

Locking the heavy back door behind her, Olive shuffled down the hall. She glanced into the library, the only downstairs room that she'd left unlit. A black shape-a shape like a horse, but with an alligator's long, pointed teeth filling its jaws-galloped out of the shadows straight toward her. Olive flicked on the library's chandelier. The horse vanished, leaving the smoky outline of a gaunt man with thick sideburns. He glowered at Olive, backing toward the wall until he seeped into its stones.

The clock in the entryway played its soft song. Eleven o'clock: well past Olive's bedtime. Olive paused on the staircase, listening to the last chime ring away through the lifeless rooms. And then even the echoes died away.

Having Walter lurking around the house had been uncomfortable, but at least she hadn't been alone overnight. Olive's chest started to ache. Now the house was one huge, empty reminder of everything that wasn't there. She missed the sound of her father's toothbrush tapping the sink-always an even number of times. She missed her mother peeping through her bedroom door to wish her good night. She missed the soft sound of her parents talking, lulling her to sleep from the other end of the hall.

But her parents were gone. The neighbors had fled. Leopold was in the hands of her enemy.

”Horatio?” Olive called, hating the way her voice sounded in this huge, hollow house, too loud and too small at the same time. ”Harvey?”

There was no answer.

Maybe the other cats had left her as well. Maybe they had never come back inside the house after Walter had drawn them out of it. Or maybe they were hiding somewhere, frightened and furious. Maybe they were hiding from her.

Olive hurried along the upstairs hall, switching on more lights as she went. Shades hissed and whispered in the corners. In her own bedroom, even with all the lights on, the s.p.a.ce under her bed was dark. A pair of shadowy hands reached out from beneath the dust ruffle. Olive spotted the tip of a scaly tail under her closet door. Even if she knew that the shades couldn't hurt her, there was no way that she could sleep here tonight.

How could she ever sleep again?

Olive stared at Hershel, the worn brown bear lying limply on her pillows, and felt her throat clench.

It was time to give up. Everything she had done to solve her problems-releasing the shades, using the Calling Candle, even taking Morton out for Halloween-had only made the problems worse. Her arms were filled with cement. Her legs were like lead. She was tired, and hopeless, and it was time to set the weight of this big stone house down.

Olive took a heavy breath. She could still go Elsewhere. She could climb into the painting of Linden Street, and curl up on Morton's quiet front porch, and go to sleep. By the time she woke up, it would all be over. She wouldn't have won the fight . . . but at least the fight would be done.

With a little good-bye wave to Hershel, Olive stepped back into the hall. She arranged the spectacles carefully on her nose. I keep trusting the wrong people, she thought, dragging her body over the bottom of the thick gold frame. Trusting herself had been one more mistake. She had scared away the neighbors, lost Leopold, and failed her parents. It was time for her to get out of the way, before anyone else got hurt.

”Olive!” shouted a distant voice.

But Olive had already fallen through the frame.

18.

OLIVE!” THE VOICE shouted again. ”Olive!”

It wasn't until the third shout that Olive realized the voice came from inside the frame. And the voice was growing louder, or closer, or both. She blinked up from the misty gra.s.s into a pair of bright green eyes.

”Olive,” gasped Horatio. ”Are you all right?”

”Horatio!” Olive sat up. ”I'm so glad to see you!” She threw both arms around the huge orange cat and gave him a pa.s.sionate squeeze. ”You weren't trying to hide from me?”