Department in Charge of Magical Youth Case Report #2 Marsyas Orphanage Linus Baker, Caseworker BY78941
I solemnly swear the contents of this report are accurate and true. I understand per DICOMY guidelines that any discoverable falsehoods will result in censure and could lead to termination.
My second week at the Marsyas Orphanage has brought new insights into its inhabitants. Where once there seemed to be chaos, I now see a strange yet definitive order. It has nothing to do with hastily brought changes at my arrival (of which I assume there were a few; such things usually occur before a caseworker walks through the door), but more so with me growing accustomed to how things are run.
Ms. Chapelwhite, though she isn’t on any kind of DICOMY payroll, cares for these children as if they were her own. Given that she’s a sprite, it’s a little surprising, as her kind are known for their solitary existences and being extraordinarily protective of the lands that they tend to. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever met a sprite who wasn’t fiercely protective of their privacy. And while Ms. Chapelwhite isn’t exactly forthcoming, she does work in tandem with the master of the house to ensure the children are well provided for. She is often found in the kitchen preparing meals, and even takes to handling study groups for the lessons Mr. Parnassus has
taught. She is well-versed on a variety of subjects, and her tutelage enhances what the children have learned. It appears to be free of any sort of propaganda, though that might be for my benefit.
I’ve now seen Lucy’s room, and sat in on one of his sessions with Mr. Parnassus. If you take away what is known about the boy
—who he is supposed to be—you are left with an inquisitive youth who tends to say things for shock value rather than with any sincerity. He is intelligent, almost frighteningly so, and well-spoken. If DICOMY weren’t sure he was the Antichrist—a word that’s not to be uttered at the Marsyas Orphanage—I would think he was nothing more than a boy capable of conjuring images meant to scare. However, I expect this is what he wants me to think. I would do well to keep my guard up. Just because he appears as a child doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of great calamity.
His room is small, converted from a walk-in closet in Mr. Parnassus’s own room. He was somewhat shy in showing me where he resides, but his love for music allowed me to form a connection with him. I believe—under proper guidance—that he will be capable of becoming a productive member of society. So long, that is, as he doesn’t give in to his true nature. It does beg the question of nature versus nurture, if there is inherent evil in the world that can be overcome by a normalized upbringing. Can he be rehabilitated? Assimilated? That remains to be seen.
I haven’t seen Sal’s room, though I think I am slowly gaining his trust. I have to be careful with him. He reminds me of a skittish foal. That being said, I have heard him speak more in the last day than I have in the entirety of my stay on the island thus far. Granted, he wasn’t speaking to me but around me, but I don’t know that it matters. He’s like a sunflower, I think. He needs to be coaxed with proper care to show his true colors.
Theodore—the wyvern—has a hoard that I haven’t seen yet, though it has to be filled with at least a dozen of my buttons. I may not ever see it, but as of yet, it doesn’t cause me any great concern.
They’re only buttons, after all. I plan on keeping a sharp eye out in case there are hints at anything more nefarious.
The biggest issue I see to date is what appears to be isolation. The children don’t leave the island, large as it is. There is a reason for it, and one I am bothered by. It would have been helpful to know before my arrival that the villagers are paid by the government for their silence. Little details like this are important, and the fact that I was unaware makes me look unprofessional. It does raise the question, too, of the source of these payments. Do they come from the funding that’s earmarked for this specific orphanage? I would expect an auditor would take issue if that’s the case.
The village nearby seems to be somewhat hostile to the inhabitants of the orphanage. I believe DICOMY isn’t doing itself any favors with its campaigns in conjunction with the Department in Charge of Registration. There are signs of SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING in every corner of the village, and it’s reminiscent of those in the city, though they seem more cluttered here. If the children don’t feel welcome in the real world, how can we ever hope to integrate them into society?
I’m thinking of a day trip, perhaps. To test the waters. I’ll need to bring it up to Mr. Parnassus, of course. I think it would do the children good, and hopefully allow the villagers to see their fears are unfounded. If Arthur says no, I suppose I’ll have to abide by it.
Such a strange fellow Arthur is. He cares for the children. That much is clear. While he doesn’t follow RULES AND REGULATIONS to the letter (possibly not at all), I think there is merit to what he does. The children all care about each other immensely, and I believe that is in no small part due to Arthur.
Still, he is an enigma. For all that I’ve learned about this place, I feel as if I know him the least. I will need to rectify that, I think.
For the children, of course.
Talia showed me more of her garden today. Gnomes are quite proficient in horticulture, but she seems to outshine even the very best and …
 |
It was a Tuesday in Linus’s second week at on Marsyas when Calliope decided she needed to be chased, after committing theft.
It certainly wasn’t something Linus wanted to do; it was after lunch and he was sitting on the porch in the sun, dozing quite peacefully. He still had a few moments before he needed to return to the main house to sit in on the children’s studies, and he was using that time wisely.
And then there was the idea of chasing a cat at all. Linus, for all that he was capable of, didn’t like to chase anything. Chasing implied running, and Linus had decided long ago that running wasn’t something he liked very much. He never understood those who woke up even before the sun had risen, donned their fancy expensive sneakers, and went running on purpose. It was most unusual.
But then Calliope burst out of the guest house, hackles raised and eyes wide, as felines sometimes did for mysterious reasons. She looked at him wildly, tail up in a rigid line, claws digging into the floorboards.
And she had one of his ties in her mouth. Linus frowned. “What are you—”
Calliope bolted off the porch toward the garden.
Linus almost toppled over as he stood from his chair, managing to stay upright by the grace of God. He watched as Calliope ran, the black tie trailing behind her. “Hey!” he shouted. “Damn cat, what are you doing? Stop this instant!”
She didn’t stop. She disappeared behind a hedge.
For a moment, Linus thought about letting her go. It was just a tie, after all. He actually hadn’t worn a tie this week. It was much too warm, and Phee had asked why he always wore one. When he told her it was proper for someone in his position to wear a tie, she’d stared at him before walking away, shaking her head.
But it absolutely wasn’t because of Phee that he’d forgone his tie on Sunday for the first time. And then when Monday had come around again, he’d decided it certainly wasn’t necessary, at least for the time being. Once he returned to the city, he’d have to wear one, of course, but now?
It wasn’t like he was being supervised.
Who would know?
(Phee did, apparently, if her smirk was any indication.)
But still. That tie had cost him more than he cared to think about, and just because he wasn’t wearing it now didn’t give Calliope the right to take it from him. He’d need it when he went back home.
And so he chased after his cat.
He was sweating by the time he made it to the garden. A man of his size and shape meeting with wind resistance made running that much more difficult. And sure, maybe he wasn’t running exactly, but jogging was just as bad.
He entered the garden, calling after Calliope, demanding that she show herself. She didn’t, of course, because she was a cat and therefore didn’t listen to anything anyone told her. He looked under hedges and in flowerbeds, sure he’d find her crouching, tail twitching as she gnawed on his tie.
“I don’t know why island life has made you this way,” he said loudly as he pushed himself up from the ground, “but I promise you things will change when we get back home. This is unacceptable.”
He made his way farther into the garden, reaching a part he hadn’t yet seen before. It wrapped around the side of the house and was much denser than what Talia had shown him so far. Here, the flowers looked wilder, their blooms bright, almost shocking. The sun was on the other side of the house, and the shadows were plentiful. There were many places for a cat to hide.
He stepped around an old tree, the limbs gnarled, the leaves folded and saw—
“There you are,” he said with a sigh. “What on earth has gotten into you?”
Calliope sat on her haunches, tie lying on the ground at her feet. She looked up at him with knowing eyes. She meowed again, a sound he still wasn’t used to.
“I don’t care,” he replied. “You can’t steal my things. It’s impolite, and I don’t like having to chase … after … you…”
He blinked.
There, behind Calliope, was what appeared to be a cellar door at the base of the house. The foundation was made of stone, and the doors were thick and wooden. He stepped forward with a frown, seeing what appeared to be scorch marks upon the doors, as if there had been a fire behind them once upon a time. He thought for a moment, trying to remember if he’d ever been told there was a basement to the house. He didn’t think he had, and aside from Sal’s room, he’d seen what he thought was almost every inch of the house. If this was a basement, there was no entrance to it inside.
There was a rusted padlock on the door. Whatever was down there—if anything at all—would remain hidden. For a moment, Linus thought about getting one of Talia’s shovels and using it to pry open the door, but dismissed it immediately. It was locked for a reason. Most likely to keep the children out. If there had once been a fire down there, it was unsafe. Arthur had probably put the padlock there himself. It didn’t look as if anyone had been here in ages; the path to the cellar door was overgrown with weeds, which seemed at odds with the rest of Talia’s garden.
“Most likely a coal cellar,” Linus muttered. “Would explain the scorching. And since coal isn’t used as much anymore, better to be safe than sorry.”
He bent over and scooped up his tie. Calliope watched him with bright eyes.
“This is mine,” he told her. “Stealing is wrong.” She licked her paw and rubbed it over her face. “Yes, well, regardless.”
He glanced once more at the cellar door before turning back the way he’d come.
He would have to remember to ask Arthur about the cellar door when they had a moment alone.
 |
Which, much to his growing consternation, didn’t happen. Why he would feel any sort of consternation over such a thing was beyond him, but there it was. Linus was learning that whatever feelings Arthur Parnassus evoked in him were temporary and the result of proximity. Linus didn’t have many
friends (perhaps, if he was being honest with himself, none at all), and considering Arthur Parnassus a friend was a nice idea, however impractical it might be. They couldn’t be friends. Linus was here as a caseworker for DICOMY. Arthur was a master of an orphanage. This was an investigation, and getting too familiar with one of the subjects of said investigation wasn’t proper. The RULES AND REGULATIONS were clear on that: A caseworker, it read, must remain objective. Objectivity is of the utmost importance for the health and well-being of the magical youth. They cannot look to depend upon a caseworker, as the caseworker is NOT THEIR FRIEND.
Linus had a job to do, which meant he couldn’t sit around hoping to speak to Arthur without little ears around. And while Linus believed the sessions between Arthur and Lucy were fascinating, his time couldn’t be spent with just them. There were five other children to consider, and he needed to make sure it didn’t look as if he were playing any favorites.
He went with Talia to her garden, listening as she extolled the virtues (the many, many virtues) of working in the dirt.
He followed Phee and Zoe into the woods, while Zoe talked about the importance of listening to the earth around them, to the trees and the grass and the birds.
He listened as Chauncey regaled him with tales of famous bellhops (most of whom Linus believed were fictional) who opened doors and carried luggage and solved crimes such as jewelry theft or brought up trays for room service. He brought out a thick tome (almost the length of the RULES AND REGULATIONS) from underneath his bed, wrapped in plastic to keep it from getting wet. He grunted as he lifted it above his head to show Linus the title, the plastic crinkling: The History of Bellhops Through the Ages.
“I’ve read it four and a half times,” he announced proudly. “Have you?” Linus asked.
“Oh yes. I have to make sure I know what I’m doing.” “Why?”
Chauncey blinked slowly, first his right eye, and then the left. “Why what?”
“Why do you wish to become a bellhop?”
Chauncey grinned. “Because they get to help people.” “And that’s what you want to do?”
His smile faded slightly. “More than anything. I know I’m…” He clacked his black teeth. “Different.”
Linus startled. “No, that’s not what I—there’s not a single thing wrong with you.”
“I know,” Chauncey said. “Different doesn’t mean bad. Arthur says being different is sometimes better than being the same as everyone else.” He looked at the book clutched in his tentacles. “When people come to hotels, they’re usually tired. They want someone to help them carry their bags. And I’m really good at it. Talia asks me to lift heavy things for her all the time so I can practice.” He frowned, looking down at the book. “Just because I look the way I do doesn’t mean I can’t help people. I know some people think I’m scary, but I promise I’m really not.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Linus said quietly. He nodded toward the book. “Go on, then. Let’s hear about these bellhops throughout the ages. I believe it will be positively riveting.”
Chauncey’s eyes bounced excitedly. “Oh, it is. Did you know that the first use of the word bellhop was in 1897? They’re also called porters or bellmen. Isn’t that amazing?”
“It is,” Linus said. “Perhaps the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”
He sat with Theodore near his nest (never in, because he didn’t want to be bitten), listening to the wyvern chirp as he showed Linus each of his little treasures: a button, a silver coin, another button, a folded up piece of paper with what looked like Sal’s handwriting on it (what it said, Linus couldn’t tell), yet another button.
And he asked them, each of them, if they were happy. If they had any concerns. If anything scared them here on the island.
He’d asked similar questions before at other orphanages, and he could always tell when the children had been coached to say what they thought he needed to hear. There was always a note of artifice to their bright words of happiness and joy and No, Mr. Baker, absolutely nothing is wrong, and I am filled with joy.
It wasn’t like that here. Here, Talia would stare at him suspiciously and demand to know why he was asking and did she need to get her shovel? Here, Phee would laugh and tell him she didn’t want to be anywhere else, because these were her trees and her people. Here, Lucy grinned at him and said, Oh yes, Mr. Baker, I would like to go somewhere else, one day, but only if all the others came with him and agreed on his ideas of world domination. Here, Chauncey’s eyes would bounce and he’d say he loved the island, but that he did wish there was a hotel here so he could carry luggage. Here, Theodore would stumble over his wings in his excitement at seeing Arthur, even if Arthur had only been gone for a few minutes.
And it was here, on the Thursday near the end of the second week, that Sal appeared at a quarter past five on the porch of the guest house, gnawing on his bottom lip.
Linus opened the door after hearing a knock, surprised to find Sal by himself. He leaned out, sure that one of the other children would be there hiding, but no.
It was just Sal.
Linus quickly schooled his face, not wanting to scare the boy. “Hello, Sal.”
Sal’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. He glanced over his shoulder, and even though Linus couldn’t see him, he was sure Arthur was watching from somewhere. He didn’t know how he knew, but Linus was under the impression that not much happened on the island without Arthur knowing.
Sal turned back toward Linus and lowered his gaze to the floor. His hands were in fists at his sides, and he was breathing heavily. Linus was getting worried that something was wrong, but then Calliope walked through Linus’s legs and began to rub against Sal. She meowed loudly at him, arching her back, ears twitching.
Sal smiled softly down at her and seemed to relax.
“She’s a good cat,” Linus said quietly. “Gives me a bit of trouble every now and then, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“I like cats,” Sal said, voice barely above a whisper. “Most times, they don’t like me. Because of the dog thing.”
“Calliope’s a little different. She likes you.” Sal looked up at him. “Really?”
Linus shrugged. “Do you hear the way she’s talking to you?” Sal nodded.
“I’ve never heard her do that before. Oh, she purrs like a normal cat, but she never meows. At least not until we got here. And not until she met you.”
Sal looked shocked. “Wow,” he said, looking back down at her. “I wonder why.”
“I like to think it’s because she’s a good judge of character. That perhaps she senses something in you that allows her to speak. Cats are very smart that way. If they sense someone isn’t a good person, they tend to avoid them, or even attack them.”
“She’s never attacked me,” Sal said. “I know. She likes you.”
Sal scratched the back of his neck. “I like her too.”
“Good,” Linus said. “Because as much as cats can tell about people, you can always judge a person by how they treat animals. If there is cruelty, then that person should be avoided at all costs. If there is kindness, I like to think it’s the mark of a good soul.”
“I’m kind to animals,” Sal said, sounding more animated than Linus had ever heard him. “And they always seem to like me.”
“How about that,” Linus said, amused. “I’m so very pleased to hear it.”
Sal flushed and looked away. When he spoke again, he mumbled something Linus couldn’t quite make out.
“Say that again, please? I didn’t hear it.”
Sal took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I was wondering if I could show you my room.”
Linus kept his voice even, though he was more thrilled than he expected to be. “I would like that.” He hesitated. “Did anyone put you up to this? Because I don’t want you doing something you’re not ready for.”
Sal shrugged awkwardly. “Arthur said before you got here that you’d want to see it, but he’s never brought it up again.”
Linus was relieved. “And none of the other children—”
He shook his head. “No. I mean, I know you’ve already seen their rooms, but … they didn’t say anything.”
Linus wanted to ask why now, but decided to keep that to himself. He didn’t need to put more pressure on the boy. “Then I would be delighted.”
“Can Calliope come too?” Sal asked in a rush. “If that’s okay. I don’t want to cause trouble for anyone—”
Linus held up a hand. “Absolutely. Though, we’ll leave that up to her. If she follows, which I expect she will, then so be it.”
“Okay.” “Shall we?”
Sal gnawed on his lip again before nodding tightly. Linus closed the door to the guest house behind him.
|
Calliope came with them, as Linus thought she would. She continued to walk up to Sal, only going a few feet ahead before turning and coming back to him. Linus almost felt put out by her obvious show of affection, but since he was a forty-year-old man and not a sullen teenager, he didn’t say a word. Besides, he told himself, she was obviously helping, and Linus wasn’t going to say no to that.
In the garden they passed Talia, who only waved before turning back to her flowers. Chauncey was next to her, exclaiming loudly that the flowers were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and that if she were so inclined, he’d like to eat a few of them. Phee and Zoe were in the woods. Lucy was with Arthur in his room. Before they reached the stairs, Theodore chirped. Linus looked up to see the wyvern hanging from an exposed beam above them as if he thought he were a bat. He made another sound, and Sal said, “It’s okay, Theodore. I asked him to come.” Theodore chirped again before closing his eyes as Linus followed Sal up the stairs.
They paused in front of the door to Sal’s room. Sal, who never stopped looking nervous most days, put a shaking hand on the doorknob.
Linus said, “If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready. I won’t push you on this, Sal. Please don’t do this on my account.”
Sal frowned as he glanced back at Linus. “But this is on your account.”
Linus was flummoxed. “Well … yes, I suppose it is. But we have all the time in the world.” They didn’t, of course. Linus was almost halfway through his stay on Marsyas. The realization startled him.
Sal shook his head. “I—I would rather we do this now.”
“If you wish. I won’t touch anything of yours, if that makes you feel better. And if there’s anything you want to show me, I will gladly look at it. I’m not here to judge you, Sal. Not at all.”
“Then why are you here if not to judge?”
Linus balked. “I—well. I’m here to make sure this home is exactly that.
A home. One that I can trust to keep all of you safe and sound.”
Sal dropped his hand from the doorknob. He turned fully toward Linus. Calliope sat near his feet, looking up at him. This was as close as Linus had ever been to Sal. He was as tall as Linus was, and though Linus was thicker, Sal had a heft to him, a strength that belied how small he tried to make himself seem at times.
“Are you going to make me leave?” Sal asked, that frown deepening.
Linus hesitated. He had never lied to any child in his life. If the truth needed to be stretched, he would rather say nothing at all. “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to,” Linus said slowly. “And I don’t think anyone should.”
Sal studied him carefully. “You’re not like the others.” “Others?”
“Caseworkers.”
“Oh. I suppose not. I’m Linus Baker. You’ve never met a Linus Baker before.”
Sal stared at him for a moment longer before turning back to the door. He pushed it open and then stepped back. He began to gnaw on his lip again, and Linus wanted to tell him he was going to hurt himself, but he asked, “May I?”
Sal nodded jerkily.
The room was nothing fancy. In fact, it seemed to be devoid of almost anything that Linus would associate with Sal. The other children had made their spaces their own, for better or worse. Here, the walls were blank. The
bed was neatly made. There was a rug on the wooden floor, but it was muted and gray. There was a door to a closet and … that was it.
Mostly.
In one corner, there was a pile of books that reminded Linus of Arthur’s office. He looked at a few of the titles and saw they were fictional classics
—Shakespeare and Poe, Dumas and Sartre. That last caused Linus to arch an eyebrow. He had never quite understood existentialism.
But other than that, the room was a blank canvas, as if waiting for an artist to bring it to life. It saddened Linus, because he suspected he knew the reason why it was the way it was.
“It’s lovely,” he said, making a production of looking around. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sal peeking through the doorway, tracking his every movement. “Quite spacious. And just look out the window! Why, I think I can almost see the village from here. A wonderful view.”
“You can see the lights from the village at night,” Sal said from the doorway. “They sparkle. I like to pretend they’re ships at sea.”
“A pretty thought,” Linus said. He stepped away from the window and went to the closet. “Is it all right if I look in here?”
There was a brief hesitation. Then, “Okay.”
The closet was bigger than Linus expected. And there, next to a chest of drawers, was a small desk with a rolling chair tucked in underneath. Atop the desk sat a typewriter, an old Underwood. There was a blank sheet of paper already threaded through. “What’s this, then?” Linus asked lightly.
He didn’t hear a response. He looked back over his shoulder to see Sal standing next to the bed, looking like a lost little boy. Calliope hopped up onto the bed and rubbed against his hand. He spread his fingers into the hair on her back.
“Sal?”
“It’s where I write,” Sal blurted, eyes wide. “I—like to write. I’m not— it’s not very good, and I probably shouldn’t—”
“Ah. I seem to remember something about that. Last week in your class, you read something for everyone. You wrote it?”
Sal nodded.
“It was very good. Far better than I could ever write, I’m afraid. If you need a report filled out, I’m your man. But that’s as far as my creativity extends with the written word. No computer?”
“The light hurts my eyes. And I like the sound of the typewriter better.”
Linus smiled. “I understand. There’s something magical about the clack of the keys that a computer can’t emulate. I should know. Most days, I sit in front of one at work. It can hurt my eyes too, after a time, though I believe your vision is a little sharper than mine.”
“I don’t want to talk about what I write,” Sal said quickly.
“Of course,” Linus said easily. “It’s private. I would never ask you to share something you aren’t ready to.”
That seemed to appease Sal slightly. “It’s just—it doesn’t make sense, sometimes. My thoughts. And I try to write them all down to find an order, but—” He looked as if he were struggling to find the right words.
“It’s personal,” Linus said. “And you’ll find the order when you’re ready. If it’s anything like what you read previously, I’m sure it’s going to be quite moving. How long have you been writing?”
“Two months. Maybe a little less.”
So only since he’d been at Marsyas. “Not before?”
Sal shook his head. “I never—no one let me before. Until I came here.” “Arthur?”
Sal scuffed a shoe against the rug. “He asked me what I wanted more than anything. For the first month, he asked me once a week, telling me when I was ready to answer, he’d do whatever he could within reason.”
“And you said a typewriter?”
“No.” He looked down at Calliope. “I told him I didn’t want to have to move again. That I wanted to stay here.”
Linus blinked against the sudden and unexpected burn in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “And what did he say?”
“That he’d do whatever he could to make sure that happened. And then I asked for a typewriter. Zoe brought it the next day. And the others found the desk in the attic and cleaned it up. Talia said she polished it until she thought her beard was going to fall out from all the chemicals. And then
they surprised me with it.” His lips curved up. “It was a good day. Almost like it was my birthday.”
Linus crossed his arms to keep his hands from shaking. “And you put it in the closet? I should think it would look nice in front of the window.”
Sal shrugged. “It—the closet helped me feel small. I wasn’t ready to be bigger yet.”
“I wonder if you’re ready now,” Linus mused aloud. “Your room is a little bigger than the closet, but not so big that it feels like all the walls have fallen away. It’s like the village at night. You can see them, but they can’t see you, though there is all that space between you. A little perspective, I think.”
Sal looked down. “I never—I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Just an idea. The desk is perfect where it is, if that’s what you want. It doesn’t need to be moved until you’re ready, or even at all. For all I know, the window might prove to be a distraction.”
“Do you have a window where you work?”
Linus shook his head. He thought this was dangerously personal, but did it really hurt anyone? “I don’t. DICOMY isn’t … well. They’re not fond of windows, I think.”
“DICOMY,” Sal spat, and Linus cursed inwardly. “They—they’re—I don’t—”
“It is where I work,” Linus said. “But you knew that. And you said yourself that I wasn’t like the others.”
Sal’s hands were curled into fists again. “You could be.”
“Perhaps,” Linus admitted. “And I can see why you’d think that with all that you’ve been through. But I want you to remember that you have nothing to prove to me. I have to prove myself to you, that I have your best interests in mind.”
“Arthur is good,” Sal said. “He doesn’t—he’s not like the others were.
The masters. He’s not—he’s not mean.” “I know that.”
“But you said you were investigating him.”
Linus frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that aside from a private conversation. How did you—”
“I’m a dog,” Sal snapped at him. “My hearing is better. I could hear you. You said it wasn’t a visit. It was an investigation. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to listen in, but that’s what the others said too. That they were investigating. It’s why I never get to put things up in my room like Talia or Lucy. Because it’s always temporary. Anytime I’ve ever thought I was going to finally have a place to stay, it was taken from me.”
He cursed inwardly. “That wasn’t for you to hear.” Sal began to shrink away from him like Linus had raised a hand to him. “No,” Linus said quickly. “That’s not—what I meant was, I should have been more aware of what I said. I should have been more careful with my words.”
“So you’re not investigating Arthur?”
Linus started to shake his head but stopped. He sighed. “It’s not Arthur, Sal. Or, at least it’s not just Arthur. It’s the orphanage as a whole. I know you’ve had … less than desirable experiences in the past, but I swear to you this is different.” He didn’t know if he believed his own words or not.
Sal eyed him warily. “And what happens if you decide to make us leave? Won’t you be the same, then?”
“I don’t know,” Linus said quietly. “I hope if there is a reason for such an action, you would be aware it.”
Sal was quiet.
Linus thought he had overstayed his welcome. He stepped away from the closet door. Calliope glared at him. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t think this had gone as well as he’d hoped. And while he’d told Sal earlier that they had all the time in the world, that wasn’t true. Time, as always, moved more quickly than expected. In two weeks, he’d have to make his recommendation as he left the island behind.
He gave Sal a wide berth (or as wide a berth as the room allowed for two large people). He smiled at him and was about to walk through the doorway when Sal said, “Could you help me?”
“Yes,” Linus said immediately. Then, “With what?”
Sal looked down at Calliope, who wasn’t quite done receiving attention, purring as he scratched her ears. His lips twitched again. He glanced up at Linus. “Moving my desk. I could probably do it on my own, but I don’t want to scratch the walls or floor in my room.”
Linus kept a neutral expression on his face. “If that’s what you want.”
Sal shrugged as if indifferent, but Linus was good at what he did. He saw through the facade.
Linus unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt, rolling them up to his elbows. “I assume it fits through the closet doorway since you got it in there in the first place.”
Sal nodded. “Barely. We just have to be careful. Chauncey got too excited and chipped the corner of the desk. He felt really bad about it, but I told him it was okay. Sometimes, things get chipped and broken, but there’s still good in them.”
“Adds character, I think,” Linus said. “And allows for a reminder of a memory. Ready?”
Sal was. He walked into the closet first, pulling out the chair and setting the typewriter carefully on the seat. He pushed it back near the chest of drawers. He stood on one end of the desk and waited for Linus to reach the other. The desk was small, but old. Linus expected it to be heavier than it looked.
After they bent over and Sal counted to three, he was proven right. It was heavy, and Linus remembered his mother saying, Lift with your knees, Linus, honestly! The small twinge in his back reminded him he wasn’t getting any younger, and he almost grinned ruefully at how little effort Sal appeared to exert. He probably could have moved it out by himself.
They were careful as they carried the desk through the closet doorway. Linus could see the chip on the far corner of the desk courtesy of Chauncey, and he shuffled back slowly. The desk fit through the doorway with an inch to spare on either side.
“There,” Linus huffed and puffed. “Right there. In front of the window.” They set it down carefully, avoiding pinching fingers. Linus groaned rather theatrically as he stood upright, hands going to the small of his back.
He heard Sal chuckle, but he didn’t acknowledge it outwardly. He wanted to hear such a sound again.
Linus stepped back, eyeing their work critically. He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head. “It’s missing something.”
Sal frowned. “It is?”
“Yes.” He went back to the closet and pushed the chair out. He lifted the typewriter and set it in the middle of the desk in front of the window. He tucked the chair back underneath the desk. “There. Now it’s finished. Well? What do you think?”
Sal reached out and traced a finger along the keys almost lovingly. “It’s perfect.”
“I think so too. I expect your creativity to flourish even more with the muse through the window. Though, if it proves to be a distraction, we can always move it back to where it was. There’s nothing wrong with that, so long as you remember that there is a big, wide world out there.”
Sal looked at him. “Do you know about the woman? In the kitchen?”
There was an … incident. At one of his previous orphanages. He was struck by a woman who worked in the kitchens for trying to take an apple. He retaliated in the only way he knew how. She underwent the change the following week.
Linus trod carefully. “Yes.”
Sal nodded and stared back down at the typewriter. “I didn’t mean to.” “I know.”
“I didn’t … I didn’t know that would happen.” “I know that too.”
Sal’s chest hitched. “I haven’t done it since. And I won’t do it again. I promise.”
Linus put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, much like he’d seen Arthur do. He shouldn’t have done it, but for once, he didn’t care what the RULES AND REGULATIONS said. “I believe you.”
And though it trembled, Sal’s smile was warm and bright.
