Free The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows by Jacqueline West Page A

you.”
    “Fine. I’ll prove it,” said Olive. “Let’s do some jumping jacks. When you exercise hard, you can feel your heart beating, right? So let’s try it.”
    Olive and Morton spread themselves apart on the dewy grass. “Ready? Go!” said Olive.
    They did jumping jacks for a long, long time. Olive counted out loud while the spectacles on their chain bounced against her stomach. Her breath got louder and faster. Soon she felt very warm, even in the cool, damp air of the painting.
    “Ninety-one, ninety-two . . .”
    “You skipped the eighties,” piped Morton.
    Olive ignored him.
    “One hundred!”
    They stopped. Olive flopped down onto the grass. Morton stayed on his feet, staring at her.
    “So,” Olive panted. “Can you hear your heart? Do you feel it?”
    Morton held very still. Then he turned to look up at the sky, where there were no stars, and where the clouds never changed. He didn’t answer.
    “Do you even feel tired after all of that?” Olive asked. “Do you ever feel thirsty? Or hungry?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Morton, do you ever even have to go to the bathroom ?”
    Morton’s pale, round face swiveled slowly back to Olive. New thoughts spread across it like a cracked egg. “I think you’re lying,” he choked. “I used to be hungry. . . .”
    He sat down very suddenly on the grass. After a moment, he rolled himself up into a ball. Soft sounds of crying came from somewhere in the ball’s middle.
    Olive crawled over and put her hand gently on what she thought was Morton’s back. He shrugged it away.
    And suddenly, she remembered Horatio’s warning. How long had she been in the painting? She had no idea. Nothing changed here, so she couldn’t gauge how much time had gone by. Maybe it was already too late. Maybe by the time she got back to the frame, it wouldn’t let her through. Maybe she wouldn’t find the frame at all!
    “Morton—I hate to leave right now, but I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.” The white ball snuffled, but it didn’t answer. “I’ll come back again. And I’ll try to find out how to help you. Maybe there’s a way.”
    The ball made a soft snorking sound.
    “Bye, Morton,” Olive said. Then she ran as fast as she could down the street, across the misty field, clutching the spectacles tightly in her hand.
    There—thank goodness—was the frame, hanging just where she had left it, a square of the hallway glowing inside. Still running, Olive unfolded the spectacles, poked herself in the eye, tried again, and managed to get them on. She threw herself through the frame so hard that if it hadn’t been for the sturdy banister along the stairs, she would have fallen over into the downstairs hall.
    She lay there on the floor for a while, thinking. Olive was afraid that if she moved, the thoughts that had just gotten strung together in her mind might all fall back apart, like a broken string of beads.
    Every time she tried to grasp an idea and turn it over for a closer look, she saw Morton, his round face turned toward that dark, unchanging sky. She remembered the feeling of his warm nightshirt against her face while she had listened for a heartbeat that wasn’t there. She clutched at the thought before it could slip away. Warm. His nightshirt was warm .
    Olive frowned. Annabelle’s hands had been cold. They had felt like the porcelain tea set on Annabelle’s table, smooth and empty and chilly. They felt like something that had never ever been alive. The girls who pushed Olive through their picture frame had cold hands too. But Morton’s hands were warm.
    Her mind whirling, Olive stared up at the chandelier above the landing. One of her missing slippers was wedged between its branches.

12
     
    O LIVE SAT ON her bed, still thinking about Morton.
    Her reflection sat in the vanity mirror across from her, also thinking. Wondering if reflections worked the same way the paintings did, Olive put on the spectacles and walked into the vanity mirror. All she