The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows by Jacqueline West Read Free Book Online

“In an old chest of drawers.”
    “Ah,” said Mr. Dunwoody. “Was that the experiment you asked me about? You wanted to try wearing them?”
    “Yes,” said Olive. “That was it. Exactly.”
    “Well, just don’t keep them on for too long,” said Mr. Dunwoody. “You could end up having to wear something like these.” He tapped one lens of his own thick glasses with the edge of his butter knife. The lens made a loud clunk .
    “Would you like any lima beans, dear?” asked Mrs. Dunwoody, holding up the serving dish to her husband.
    “Yes, forty-six of them, please.”
    Mrs. Dunwoody scooped a large spoonful onto Mr. Dunwoody’s plate. “Forty-six lima beans. How many for you, Olive?”
    “I don’t know. A small helping.”
    “Twenty-four for you, then.” Mrs. Dunwoody put down the beans and sat back in her chair. “You kept yourself busy all afternoon, Olive. I didn’t see you anywhere.”
    Olive swallowed a mouthful of beans whole. “I was just exploring. Upstairs.”
    “That sounds like fun,” said her mother. “Did you discover anything interesting?”
    Olive shrugged. “A few things.”
     
    The next morning, both Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody went to campus for a meeting. Olive stood in the quiet of the upstairs hallway, staring first at the painting of the dark forest, and then at the painting of Linden Street. From the outside, in daylight, the paintings seemed much less menacing. They were stuck to the wall, after all—they couldn’t tiptoe into her bedroom while she was sleeping, or tap her on the shoulder when she was all alone in the dark. Then again, Horatio said that they were dangerous. And the shadows streaming after her and Morton hadn’t been in her imagination. She was certain of that.
    Part of Olive kept hoping Horatio would appear around a doorway, or slide through an open window. She had so much more to ask him. Another part of her wondered if she should climb back into the painting of Linden Street and talk to Morton. Maybe if she asked him the right questions . . . But as soon as she put her hand on the frame, she remembered his angry face, his shrug. His I don’t care. Olive had heard those words and seen that face before. Year after year, some well-meaning teacher would nudge Olive to join a group of other kids already in the middle of a game. Can Olive play with you? the teacher would wheedle, while Olive shuffled and looked down at her toes. The kids would put down their blocks, or their dice, or their dolls, and look up. They would shrug. I don’t care , one of them would mumble.
    Olive’s hand slid off the picture frame.
    She shuffled down the stairs. Horatio had said someone was watching her. Someone dangerous. Someone who wanted the house. If that someone was the same bad man Morton was talking about, what was he going to do? What could he do? The only place where anything remotely dangerous had happened to Olive (except for that corner above the bathtub) was inside the painting of the forest. As long as she kept the spectacles safe, and as long as she didn’t spend too much time in any one painting, she would be all right. Wasn’t that what Horatio had said? Olive ran her fingers down the long chain and settled the antique spectacles on her nose. A little thrill of excitement tickled her stomach. If she was careful, everything would be fine.
    So, with the house all to herself, Olive charged freely from room to room wearing the antique spectacles and occasionally bumping into blurry things that might or might not have been furniture.
    In the living room, she examined the painting of the man and woman enjoying lunch at a French street café. Through the spectacles, Olive watched the whole scene come to life. Passersby jostled each other. Fat Parisian pigeons hopped. The woman who seemed to be raising her glass in a toast had in fact been frozen in the moment just before she poured her drink into the man’s lap. Olive watched the woman flounce away while the man dabbed at