The House in the Cerulean Sea

“Daisy? Do you have control over it?”

She nodded slowly. “I think so? I haven’t hurt anyone since I was brought here.” Her mouth twisted down. “Not until Marcus. I don’t like hurting people.”

He could almost believe that. “No one said you did. But sometimes, we can’t always control the…gifts we’re given. And it’s not necessarily the fault of those with said gifts.”

If one were to ask if Linus Baker was lonely, he would have scrunched up his face in surprise. The thought would be foreign, almost shocking. And though the smallest of lies hurt his head and made his stomach twist, there was a chance he would still say no, even though he was, and almost desperately so.

And maybe part of him would believe it. He’d accepted long ago that some people, no matter how good was their heart was or how much love they had to give, would always be alone. It was their lot in life, and Linus had figured out, at the age of twenty-seven, that it seemed to be that way for him.

Linus was getting flustered. “I never said I didn’t [care]. I merely do what is required of me. There’s a difference between forming attachments and being empathetic. These children…They have no one else. It’s the reason they’re in the orphanages to begin with. They shouldn’t have to lay their heads down at night with an empty stomach, or worry about being worked to the bone. Just because these orphans must be kept separate from normal children doesn’t mean they should be treated any differently. All children, no matter their…disposition or what they’re capable of, must be protected regardless of the cost.”

Jowls coughed wetly. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes.”

“And what became of the children in the orphanages you closed?”

Linus blinked. “That’s a matter for Supervision. I make my recommendation, and the Supervisor handles what comes next.”

“Why are you here?”

“To ensure the safety of the children,” he said as if it were second nature. “To see that they are being provided for. Cared for. And that they aren’t in danger, either from themselves or others.”

“And that goes for all children, correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. It doesn’t matter where he came from. Or what he is. He is a child, and your job, as much as it is mine or Arthur’s, is to protect him. And all the others.”

“The world is a weird and wonderful place. Why must we try and explain it all away? For our personal satisfaction?”

“Because knowledge is power.”

Mr. Parnassus snorted. “Ah. Power. Spoken like a true representative of DICOMY. Why am I not surprised you have the rule book memorized? You should know there’s a chance that you’ll find Chauncey under your bed at one point or another.”

That startled Linus. “What? Why?”

“Because for the longest time, before he came here, he was called a monster, even by people who should have known better. He was told the stories of monsters hiding under beds whose calling in life was to frighten others. He thought that was who he was supposed to be. That it was his job to scare people, because it’d been ingrained in his…head that was all he was capable of.”

He said, “I am but paper. Brittle and thin. I am held up to the sun, and it shines right through me. I get written on, and I can never be used again. These scratches are a history. They’re a story. They tell things for others to read, but they only see the words, and not what the words are written upon. I am but paper, and though there are many like me, none are exactly the same. I am parched parchment. I have lines. I have holes. Get me wet, and I melt. Light me on fire, and I burn. Take me in hardened hands, and I crumple. I tear. I am but paper. Brittle and thin.”

“You’ve always wanted to see the ocean.”

“Dreams are merely that—dreams. They’re meant to be flights of fancy. They’re not necessarily supposed to come true.”

“And yet, here you are by the sea, far from your chair and your home.” She stopped and turned her face toward the sky. “There’s music everywhere, Mr. Baker. You just have to learn to listen for it.”

Talia is a rather grumpy child, but I have attributed that to her being a gnome. At least initially, given that’s what I was taught about her species. I find our perception is colored by what we’re taught. Even as children, we’re told the world is a certain way, and these are the rules. This is the way things are, and one of those things is that gnomes are bad-tempered and will brain you upside the head with a shovel as much as look at you. And while this might describe Talia on a surface level, one could argue that would be the case with most preteen girls. It’s not a species trait. It’s hormones.

“So not cool, man,” J-Bone scolded the unconscious Marty. “Like, for real. Music is for everyone.”

“Of course they listen,” Linus said, exasperated. “They listen to every single thing you say. They look to you because you are their family. You are their—” He stopped, breathing heavily. He shouldn’t say it. It wasn’t right. None of this was. It wasn’t—“You are their father, Arthur. You said you love them more than life itself. You have to know they feel the same about you. Of course they do. How can they not? Look at you. Look at what you’ve made here. You are a fire, and they need to know how you burn. Not only because of who you are, but because of what they have made you into.”

“Did he tell you?”

“No. I don’t think he’s allowed. But we know. We all know. Just like we know what you both did when you left the other day. He’s one of us. Just like you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have magic.”

“You do, Mr. Baker. Arthur told me that there can be magic in the ordinary.”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

She shook her head. “Good. Because I don’t.”

“I can’t just stay here. There are rules to follow. Regulations that must be—”

To hell with your rules and regulations!”

He gaped at her. Then, he said the only thing he could, “Life, it—it doesn’t work that way.”

“Why doesn’t it?” she snapped. “Why can’t life work whatever way we want it to? What’s the point of living if you only do it how others want you to?”

“It’s the best we can do.”

She scoffed. “And this is your best? This?”

“And what happens when he grows up?” Charles asked. “What happens when he becomes a man? What if he decides this world isn’t what he wants it to be? You know who his father is.”

“I do,” Linus said. “His father is Arthur Parnassus. And he’s the best damn father Lucy has, and as far as I’m concerned, the only one.”

“Also, speaking of euphemisms, for the love of all that is holy, stop calling them orphanages. That implies something that has never been the case. These are homes. They have always been homes. And some of them haven’t been good, which is why I recommended they be closed. But not this one. Never this one. These children don’t need a home, because they already have one, whether you like it or not.”

Change, he reminded himself, started with the voices of the few. Perhaps it would amount to nothing, but he wouldn’t know unless he tried. At the very least, he could follow up with some of the children he’d met before and find out where they were now. And, if all went as he hoped, he wouldn’t let them be left behind or forgotten.

Which was why he began to smuggle out the reports. Every day, he would take a few more. He was a sweaty mess each time he put another in his briefcase, sure that at any moment, someone would shout his name, demanding to know what he was doing, especially when he started after the files belonging to other caseworkers.

But no one ever did.

“I think he’s alone. He’s shy, and scared, and doesn’t talk much. Reminds me a little of Sal, in fact. Or, rather, how he used to be. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that boy talk as much as he has in the last few months.”

“Regular chatterbox,” Linus said faintly. “What’s his name?”

“And that’s how I know this could be the place for him,” Helen said, her smile growing. Because you didn’t ask me what he was, just who he was. I don’t know that anyone has ever done that for him.”