The Second Spy: The Books of Elsewhere: Volume 3 (24 page)

“Olive…?” said Mr. Dunwoody, as though he wasn’t sure that he was using the right name.

“I am so sorry about all of this, Alec and Alice,” Mrs. Dewey jumped in. “Rutherford has recently been prone to occasional bouts of sleepwalking—”

“Yes,” interrupted Rutherford. “And sleep-trespassing. And sleep-cat-bathing.”

“It’s been very upsetting,” said Mrs. Dewey.

“Particularly for the cats,” added Rutherford.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Dunwoody, blinking at the bathtub. Horatio stared back at her through slitted eyes.

“We do apologize for waking all of you,” said Mrs. Dewey, glancing from Olive to her parents, “and we appreciate your understanding.”

“Please don’t apologize,” said Mr. Dunwoody, who looked as though he was just beginning to realize that he wasn’t dreaming. “I’m just glad that he sleepwalked here, someplace where he would be safe.”

Rutherford and Olive exchanged a look.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dewey. “Well, after we clean up this mess, I am going to get him back home and into his own bed. Fetch a towel, Rutherford.”

“No, no,” said Mrs. Dunwoody. “We’ll mop up. You
two go get some rest. This must have been a frightening experience for both of you.”

“I’ll walk them to the door,” Olive announced, before either of her parents could offer.

Olive and the Deweys thumped down the stairs. Mrs. Dewey waited until they were out of Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody’s earshot. Then she whispered, “As far as I could tell, Annabelle was gone before I even reached your door. She must have simply run in and run back out again. I don’t know what she was after, but—”

“We know,” Olive said quietly. “Rutherford can tell you.”

They paused in the foyer, just inside the heavy front door. The moon threw long, stretched streaks of light through the windows, like pale blue arms trying to reach inside.

“I’ll cast the charm again,” Mrs. Dewey murmured. “And Olive, I think it would be a good idea for you to visit my house now and then—shall we say once a week? There are a few things I could teach you.” She opened the front door and paused for a moment, carefully scanning the porch, the steps, and the front lawn. All was quiet. With a last little smile at Olive, she moved her round, flowery body through the door.

Olive and Rutherford hesitated at the threshold. A draft of dewy night air swirled around them. It chilled
Olive’s damp clothes, making her skin prickle, and she realized that all the numbness had gone at last.

She turned to Rutherford. In a whisper that she hoped his grandmother couldn’t catch, she demanded, “How did you know?”

Rutherford blinked. “How did I know what?”

“Everything! How did you know where to find me? How did you know I needed help? How did you know to bring those water pistols? How did you get the cats to help you?
How did you know?
”

“The cat part was simple,” said Rutherford evasively. “Leopold was already looking for a reason to believe in you again, so I just had to explain what had been going on.” He paused. “And I think Harvey just really liked the guns.”

“But how did
you
know what was going on?”

Rutherford looked at Olive for a moment. Beams of moonlight turned his glasses into two smaller, flickering moons. He swayed gently from foot to foot, as though he was deciding which direction to turn. “I’m a reader,” he said at last.

“I know that,” said Olive impatiently. “You’re
always
reading. That’s why you know weird words like
plierssaur
and
spauldrons
.”

“Spaulders,” Rutherford corrected. “I don’t mean books. I mean…” He paused. “I read…I read people’s thoughts.”

Olive held very still while her mind flipped busily backward through all its Rutherford-related memories. The way he had always seemed to guess what was on her mind. The funny, studying expression that would come over his face as he looked at her sometimes. The way he always seemed to pop up out of nowhere just when things were getting interesting. Suddenly, Rutherford’s unbelievable statement seemed very easy to believe.

“I should have known,” Olive breathed.

Rutherford nodded. “It seemed wise to postpone telling you for as long as possible. It’s a much more useful quality when it’s a secret. Now you
and
my grandmother know.” Rutherford glanced toward Mrs. Dewey, who was waiting for him at the edge of the porch. “It’s difficult to be certain of whom to trust,” he added with a little shrug. “Even if you can read people’s thoughts.”

“I guess so.” Olive hesitated. Annabelle’s words, in their swirling cursive, trailed across her mind.
It’s hard to know whom to trust, isn’t it?
“
This
was the big secret Annabelle mentioned in her note, wasn’t it?”

“It seems highly likely,” said Rutherford. “By spying on me and my grandmother, she could easily have figured it out.”

“So—can you tell what Annabelle is thinking right now?” Olive asked with a little shiver, looking out at the empty sweep of Linden Street.

Rutherford shook his head. “She’s not a person. Only a portrait. It doesn’t work the same way. It’s the same with the cats; I can’t read their thoughts at all. It’s unfortunate, really. I’d love to be able to know what Harvey is thinking.”

Olive smiled. “Me too.”

“I generally need to look directly into a person’s eyes while I read them,” Rutherford went on. “However, I can read the people to whom I’m closest even from a distance—at least, that’s what I’ve theorized. I used to believe it only worked with my own family members, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. Because the only people I can read from far away are my parents, my grandmother…and you,” Rutherford finished. “That’s how I knew you needed help tonight.”

Olive glanced past Rutherford at Mrs. Dewey, who was still waiting at the edge of the porch, pretending not to be eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” she asked.

“You were hiding things from me,” Rutherford said simply. “The spellbook, and what you’d done with it. The paints—that you’d managed to concoct and use them. It was clear that you didn’t really trust
me,
so it was rather difficult for me to trust
you.
”

Olive looked down at the floorboards, tinted blue by the moonlight.

“In the interest of full disclosure,” Rutherford went on, “I’ve made a decision. If you will
let
me help you, and if you won’t hide any more big secrets from me, I think I would prefer to stay here.”

Olive looked up. “You mean—you wouldn’t go to that school in Sweden?”

Rutherford shook his head. “After what happened tonight, I feel fairly certain that you will accept my assistance. The truth is…” He paused, readjusting his smudgy glasses. “The truth is, I would rather stay here anyway. This is the first school I’ve attended where someone has willingly sat with me at lunch for multiple consecutive days.”

Olive smiled. “Good. Then…yes. I’d
like
your help.”

Rutherford smiled back. Then he raised one hand, turning out the palm in oath-taking position. “I, Rutherford Dewey, do hereby swear upon the honor of my family name that I—”

“No oaths,” Olive interrupted. “We’ll just tell the truth.”

Rutherford bowed. Then he strode across the porch to join his grandmother.

“Good night, Olive,” said Mrs. Dewey, guiding her grandson down the porch steps.

“Good night,” Olive answered. Then she stepped inside, closed the heavy front door, and locked it firmly behind her.

Upstairs, in the bathroom, Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody had finished sopping up the flooded floor. Olive caught the sound of their voices as she climbed the steps.

“If you sneak up behind him, dear, he’ll have a very narrow angle of escape in this direction,” Mr. Dunwoody was saying as Olive rounded the corner. There was a hiss, the squeal of wet feet on tile, and Horatio bounded through the door smack into Olive’s shins.

Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody, both holding large towels, peered through the doorway.

“Don’t worry about the cat,” said Olive as Horatio blockaded himself behind her legs. “I’ll dry him off.”

Mr. Dunwoody gave a relieved sigh. Mrs. Dunwoody sneezed.

“After that, will you get straight to bed?” prompted Mr. Dunwoody.

Olive nodded.

Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody both gave her quick kisses on top of her head. Then they drifted drowsily back down the hall to their bedroom. The door clicked shut behind them.

Olive and Horatio darted back into the bathroom. Harvey and Leopold, who had been hiding behind the open door, edged back out onto the tiles. A voice behind the bathtub squeaked, “Can I come out now?” A moment later, Morton’s tufty white head appeared above the tub’s lip.

“We’ll escort Morton home, miss,” said Leopold.

“Morton,” said Olive as Morton clambered out from behind the tub and straightened his nightshirt. “You saved the day.”

“I know,” said Morton, with a shrug of muffled pride. “I just thought, ‘What cleans up paint?’ and then I thought, ‘Well, I might as well try everything at once.’ And it worked.”

“Yes.” Olive looked down into the tub. A few orange-tinted bubbles still clung to the drain. “I was sure you would run away,” she said. “You had the perfect chance.”

Morton’s round, pale face went from pleased to cagey. “You’ve still got two and a half months,” he said.

Olive let out a deep breath. “Good.” She sat down on the edge of the bathtub and popped one orange bubble with her fingertip. “But if nothing ever changes in Elsewhere, how do you know how much time has gone by?”

Morton’s eyebrows went up. “I watch you,” he said simply. “When it’s nighttime, you go into your bedroom, and your mother or father goes in to say good night.” Morton’s voice grew softer. “Sometimes they stay a little bit longer, and I know they’re probably tucking you in. Then you come out again, and it turns light, and it’s another day. I’ve been counting the days in my head,” he said with a faint smile. “That’s how I
know time is going by. That, and you look different already.”

“I do?” said Olive, feeling strangely pleased. “How do I look now?”

Morton looked at Olive for a long, quiet moment. “Different,” he said.

“We should be going, miss,” Leopold interjected. “Duty calls.”

“Surveillance will resume once Agent M is returned to his base of operations,” added Harvey.

“Right.” Olive got up from the edge of the tub. The last of the orange bubbles had disappeared down the drain. “Thanks, Leopold. Thanks, Agent 1-800.” The cats gave satisfied nods before heading toward the door. “And thank you, Morton.”

Morton smiled back. Then he followed Harvey and Leopold away into the darkness of the hall. Horatio bumped the door shut behind them.

Olive knelt on the floor and unfolded the biggest, fluffiest towel, holding it out enticingly. Horatio sighed. Then, with considerable foot-dragging and huffing, he moved closer to let Olive rub him dry.

“Does your cut hurt?” Olive asked.

“Yes,” said a muffled voice from inside the towel. “But I believe it has been thoroughly sterilized.”

Through the cloth, Olive rubbed his head very gently.

“It appears that Annabelle got what she came for,” said the muffled voice.

A feeling of dread crushed Olive’s happy mood like a cannonball dropped onto a birthday cake. “Yeah,” she mumbled.

Inside of the towel, Horatio was quiet for a moment. “She might have the portrait,” he said at last, “but she can’t get Aldous out of it. Not without the spectacles. Or one of us.”

“So…we’re safe for now?”

“Not quite,” said Horatio, stepping out of the towel and giving his fur a quick shake. “I would say that we are in danger, but the danger is not immediate.”

In watchful silence, Olive, slightly damp, and Horatio, almost dry, slipped down the hall to Olive’s bedroom. Hershel waited on the pillows. Olive wriggled under the covers beside him. Horatio stood just inside the doorway, watching over her until Olive settled down beneath the blankets.

“We will be patrolling the house,” he said softly. “Try to get some sleep.” He stepped through the door.

“Horatio,” Olive called.

The cat paused. A beam of moonlight falling through the door silvered the edges of his fur.

“I hope you”—Olive struggled—“I mean, I hope—I hope you don’t feel like you have no purpose. Like the other Horatio said. Because…I really need you.”

“Yes,” said Horatio with a little sigh. “Whatever would you do without me to clean up your messes, Olive?”

“No, I mean—well, yes, I’ve needed you to fix things I’ve messed up, but also—what I said before.” Olive took a deep breath. “We love you. Morton, and Harvey, and Leopold…and me. We do.”

Horatio stood still. Even the tips of his ears and the ends of his whiskers, illuminated with moonlight, didn’t move. “Yes. Well,” he said at last. “That’s enough of a purpose for anyone.”

Then he slipped through the doorway and disappeared.

28

“S
O,” SAID MS. Teedlebaum, “after I found out that it wasn’t a tumor, just an ingrown toenail, my life changed dramatically once again. I mean, you learn not to take things for granted—toenails especially. You should all take off your shoes and socks and just
study
your feet sometime. It really puts things in perspective.”

Ms. Teedlebaum glanced around at her students, who had been listening to a twenty-two-minute history of her health issues (Olive knew this because she was watching the clock and drawing little squiggles in her notebook for each minute that went by), and heaved a satisfied sigh.

“All right,” she began. “I suppose we should get focused. Now, where did I put my calendar?” Ms.
Teedlebaum stared down at the cluttered tabletop in front of her as though she had never seen it before. She flipped through several leaning towers of folders, knocked over a shoebox full of plastic lids, and looked underneath a blobby object that was probably supposed to be a papier-mâché person but that looked more like a papier-mâché zucchini. “Never mind,” she announced, raising her arms. “I remember what we were doing. You were displaying your family portraits. On Monday, we’ll start a new unit. Without my calendar, I can’t say for certain what you will need, but please come prepared. Why don’t you—” Ms. Teedlebaum broke off, grabbed the little notebook that hung around her neck, and scribbled something down. “Chopped broccoli. That was it.” She glanced up again. “Get your materials and display your work. Once I’ve checked you off my list, you can take your portraits home to keep.”