The Strangers (6 page)

“
H
USH!
”
WHISPERED A
voice.

Footsteps rustled through the dimness. The floating light drew nearer, its ruddy glow sliding along the hallway. When it reached the room where Olive and her friends stood, it tightened into the small, shifting flame of a candle, throwing its beams over the cabinets and countertops of Mrs. Nivens’s deserted kitchen. There, the candle—and whoever was holding it—halted, too far away to be clearly seen.

“They noticed me,” said Walter, shuffling toward the light.

“Oh, Walter,” the distant voice sighed. “Why am I not surprised?” The candle flickered. “Come inside, all of you. And Walter—lock the door.”

Morton stepped farther into the room, and Olive came with him, still holding tight to his sleeve. The cats and Rutherford followed. Behind them, Walter turned the lock, its metal click loud and sharp in the stillness.

“There,” said the voice, coming closer. Olive stared at the candlelit face that came with it. It had high, dramatic cheekbones, arching black eyebrows, and eyes that were a strange shade of silvery gray, as cool and changeable as mirrors.

“This is my aunt Delora,” said Walter, trying to untangle his long arms from his costume’s even longer sleeves. “Mmm—Aunt Delora, this is Olive Dunwoody and Rutherford Dewey and—”

“I know who they are,” the woman interrupted, brushing one pale hand through the air as if she were waving away a trail of smoke. Her mirrory eyes landed on Olive. “I hope all of you feel as at home as I do in the darkness, enclosed in its soft embrace.”

Actually, Olive felt quite the opposite about the darkness, but Walter’s aunt wasn’t waiting for an answer.

“Of course, some of us are more comfortable never being seen . . . in the flesh, as it were,” Delora went on. Her eyes traveled away from Olive, back up into the sooty air. “Those of us who float between the worlds: What need have we for bodies at all?”

Horatio cocked one whiskery eyebrow. “Hands must be rather useful for holding that candle,” he muttered.

Olive gave him a little shove with the toe of her shoe.

Delora didn’t seem to notice. “Please, come into the study,” she said, swishing her pale hand through the air again. “There we can speak more freely.” With a flutter of long black skirts, she trailed ahead of them into the hallway.

Olive glanced at Rutherford. He nodded.

They followed the blotch of candlelight along the narrow hall, the floorboards groaning softly under their feet. Walter, who had finally wormed his way out of the ghoul suit, lurched hurriedly after them.

Delora paused beside a closed door. A ribbon of rosy light slipped through the crack beneath it, widening and brightening as she opened the door and ushered them through.

Inside, Lucinda Nivens’s formal dining room had been transformed into the strangest “study” that Olive had ever seen. In fact, it looked more like a laboratory that had collided with a graveyard while being rained on by a traveling carnival. Lucinda’s spotless white chairs were draped with dark shawls and brocade blankets. Burning candles were wedged into bottles, jars, and the tops of a few yellowish skulls, which Olive hoped were made of plastic. A collection of old botanical diagrams were tacked haphazardly to the walls, and a row of bottles full of tinted liquids was arranged in a metal tray on the sideboard. A giant stuffed raven with red glass eyes stared down at the room from its perch on the curtain rod. Atop the long dining table, two antique oil lamps burned dully. The rest of the table’s dark wooden surface was littered with stones and vials and beakers and loose papers and clumps of dirt and bunches of dried herbs. A gilt-framed hand mirror lay at one end, next to a deck of very strange-looking cards.

In the far corner of the room stood a desk. At the desk sat a bearded man in a worn brown suit. He got to his feet as the others came in. The man was large. His suit was not. As he crossed the room to greet them, Olive felt the urge to duck, in case one of his vest buttons should come shooting off and hit her in the eye.

“Welcome,” said the man, taking Olive’s hand between his large, damp palms. “Welcome.
Welcome.
” He shook Rutherford’s and Morton’s hands too, brushing at his hair and his jacket with compulsive little swipes in between. “Rutherford Dewey,” he boomed, shaking Rutherford’s hand for the second time. “I’ve heard all about you from your grandmother. The magical community expects great things. And
this,
” he added, turning back to the hooded ghost, “must be Morton Nivens, the century-old child. I’ve been fascinated by your family’s story for quite some time.”

Olive felt a zing of hope. “You have?” she broke in. “Do you know where Mary and Harold Nivens are?”

“Regrettably, no,” said the bearded man. His eyes traveled back to Morton. “I don’t suppose that you would remove that costume, so that I might—”

Morton grabbed his hood with both hands and pulled it tighter over his head. He hopped backward, out of the man’s reach. The cats clustered protectively around him.

“And these are the McMartin familiars, of course,” the man went on, smiling down at the glaring trio.

“We are no longer in the McMartins’ service,” said Horatio stiffly.

“No, of course not.” The bearded man wheeled back to Olive. “And Olive Dunwoody—the ordinary little girl who is brave enough to live in a witches’ den.”

Olive wasn’t sure that she liked this description of herself. The more she thought about it, the less sure she was.

“And who are
you?
” she asked as the man shook her hand for the third time, and the sleeve encasing his arm began to look dangerously strained.

“Do pardon my rudeness. I am Byron Widdecombe, expert on magical history, semi-expert on magical genealogy—dark magicians in particular.”

Rutherford looked as though someone had lit a wick inside his head.

“
The
Byron Widdecombe?” he repeated, eyes wide. “Author of
A Dauntingly Dry Description of the Medieval Magician’s Herbarium
?”

“The very same.” The bearded man gave Rutherford a bow, and Olive was sure she could hear threads popping.

“I’ve been studying that book!” said Rutherford, beginning to jiggle from foot to foot. “I would like to discuss the various purposes you theorize that Witchnail might serve to—”

“Rutherford, wait,” said Olive, grabbing him by the tweed sleeve. “Mr. Widdecombe, you said you’re an expert on
dark
magicians? So you’re a—”

“Oh, dear me, no
,
” the man interrupted. He waved his meaty hands. “I am a
scholar
of dark craft, not a practitioner. My own magic is of the standard academic variety.”

“Standard academic variety” didn’t sound too threatening to Olive, whatever it meant. Still, she gave Rutherford a pointed look.

Rutherford blinked back at her. “He’s telling the truth, Olive.”

“Our only intention is to help you, Olive,” said Delora, who had settled herself beside the funny-looking cards. Her silvery eyes fixed on Olive’s face—or, rather, just above Olive’s face, as though she were looking at something much more interesting that was floating over Olive’s head.

Olive glanced up at the empty air.

“That is why my husband and I are here: To help you.” Delora raised her graceful hands, gesturing around the room. Her eyes coasted over Walter, who was seated awkwardly on the edge of the table. “And Walter too, of course,” she added, as an afterthought. “Walter is not a naturally talented witch, but he can at least keep watch over you and your home.” Her eyes flicked up to the spot above Olive’s head again, and Olive fought the urge to reach up and swat at the air. “I remain patient with him, in hopes that one day he will do
something
right.”

Olive glanced at Walter. He perched on the very edge of the table, gazing straight down, with his bony legs reaching all the way to the floor. His narrow shoulders squirmed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked like a long-legged water bird trying to swallow a too-large fish.

Olive felt a sudden impulse to pat him on the head.

“If you would not object, Olive,” the bearded man took over, “perhaps we could visit the house tomorrow. It might prove very helpful to our cause. Even as a historical artifact, it is of great scholarly interest.”

“Oh . . . I don’t know,” said Olive. “My parents don’t know the truth about the McMartins, and I’m not sure I should . . .”

“Say no more.” The man waved his hands. “We shall wait for a more convenient time.”

“When it is meant to happen, it will happen,” Delora added, as though she were announcing a wise and important truth.

“Mr. Widdecombe,” said Rutherford, who had been jiggling impatiently all this time.

“It’s
Doctor
Widdecombe, actually,” said
Doctor
Widdecombe.

“Doctor Widdecombe, may I ask what you are working on at the moment?”

“Besides keeping watch for the McMartins and protecting their familial home—my own spells are currently guarding the house from evil intentions, as it happens—and caring for my beloved Delora, whose gift makes her exceedingly sensitive to troubles of all kinds . . .” He turned toward Delora, who placed one hand over her forehead and closed her eyes. “. . . I am preparing a study on the speed at which various herbal extractions lose their potency.”

“Fascinating,” said Rutherford.

It sounded anything
but
fascinating to Olive. As Rutherford and Doctor Widdecombe discussed the row of glass bottles, and Delora rearranged her cards, and Walter rocked uneasily back and forth on the table, Olive let her eyes wander around the rest of the room. On the shelves that lined one wall, knickknacks that must have belonged to Lucinda Nivens—or to Mary and Harold Nivens before her—had been pushed aside to make room for other, stranger objects. China cups and porcelain bud vases had been wedged into the corners, giving way to heavy leather books and bumpy brass binoculars and stoppered bottles. Also wedged into a corner, his arms folded, glowering out at all of them, was Morton. He had pushed his robes back at last, revealing his round and furious face.

Olive edged toward him. “Morton?” she asked, under her breath. “What’s wrong?”

Morton’s lips pressed each other into a flat, angry line. “They’re in
my house,
” he whispered.

“Well—sort of,” Olive whispered back. “It used to be yours, and then it was Lucinda’s for a while, and now it’s sort of . . . no one’s.”

“It’s
mine,
” said Morton. “It’s ours
.
It belongs to me and my parents.” His voice grew louder with each word. “And we’re going to need it
back.
”

Rutherford and Doctor Widdecombe stopped speaking. Delora and Walter rose to their feet.

“These people are just using the house for a little while, Morton,” said Olive, feeling a bit embarrassed. “They’re helping to keep us safe.”

“But
I
didn’t say they could stay here. My mama and papa didn’t say they could stay here, and move their stuff, and change everything, and push all the furniture around. And we’re going to need this table, when—” Morton broke off.

When
what?
Olive wondered, watching him. Why would Morton and his long-lost, no-longer-living parents need a dining room table, here, in the real world?

Morton seemed to be wondering the same thing. The anger on his face trickled away like melting frost. He stared down at the rug.

Leopold leaned supportively against Morton’s knees.

“Do you want to go home, Morton?” Olive asked, after one long, quiet moment. “To Elsewhere,
I mean?”

Morton nodded. Still looking at the floor, he pulled his hood back over his face.

“I suppose Rutherford ought to be heading home as well,” said Doctor Widdecombe, trying to sound jovial. “Mrs. Dewey will worry if he’s too late. Tomorrow is Sunday, which I assume means no school for any of you. If you are free to visit us, Olive, please do. For now, a good Hallows’ Eve to you all.”

Walter guided them to the back door. He opened it wordlessly, waiting for them to step out. Olive glanced up into his face as she stepped over the threshold, but she couldn’t tell whether the expression on it was anger, or humiliation, or something else entirely. The lock clicked behind them.

“It looks like your parents are waiting for you,” said Rutherford, nodding toward the old stone house. Lights glowed from its downstairs windows, making the muffled darkness of the Nivens house seem even darker and lonelier by comparison. Rutherford gave them all a courtly bow. “Good night.”

“Good night, Featherbird!” Harvey called after him, in Quasimodo’s mumbly voice.

“Were you talking about Doctor Widdecombe and Delora when you said we wouldn’t have to fight alone?” Olive asked Horatio as she followed his bushy tail through the lilac hedge. “Did you know they were here all along?”

“I was aware of their presence,” Horatio answered, “and of their protective spells enclosing the house, of course. But secrecy was required.”

“Hmmph,” said Morton.

“How did you know?” Olive asked, pushing the lilac branches apart for Morton to wriggle through. “How come you can sense things that I don’t even
notice
?”