Mr. Parnassus led Linus down a long hallway at the top of the stairs. “The children’s rooms,” he said, nodding at the doors on either side of the hall. There were signs hung from each of them with the names of the children: Chauncey and Sal on the right. Phee and Talia on the left. He pointed toward a hatch in the ceiling. The outline of a wyvern had been drawn on it. “Theodore’s nest is up in the turret. He has a small hoard up there, but his favorite place is under the couch.”
“I’ll want to inspect them,” Linus said, making a mental note of the layout.
“I figured you would. We can arrange for that tomorrow, seeing as how the children will be getting ready for bed shortly. Either Ms. Chapelwhite can show you while the children are in their studies, or we can do it before, and then you can join us in the classroom.”
“What about Ms. Chapelwhite?” Linus asked, staring at the etchings of trees into the wood of Phee’s door as they passed it by.
“She was here long before we ever were,” Mr. Parnassus said. “The island is hers. We’re merely borrowing it. She lives deep in the woods on the other side of the island.”
Linus had so many questions. This island. This house. This man. But another was more prominent, given the number of doors he’d counted. Near the end of the hall, four remained. One was marked as a bathroom for the girls. The other was for the boys. A third door had ARTHUR’S OFFICE written in a legend on it. “And Lucy? Where does he stay?”
Mr. Parnassus stopped in front of the office and nodded toward the remaining door. “In my room.”
Linus’s eyes narrowed. “You share a room with a small boy—” “Nothing untoward, I assure you.” He didn’t sound offended by the
implication. “There was a large walk-in closet that I had converted into a room for Lucy when he came to stay with us. It … it’s better for him if I’m near. He used to have such terrible nightmares. He still does, sometimes, though they aren’t as vicious as they used to be. I like to think his time here has helped. He doesn’t like being far away from me, if he can help it, though I am trying to teach him independence. He’s … a work in progress.” Mr. Parnassus opened the office door. It was smaller than Linus expected, and crammed full, almost uncomfortably so. There was a desk set in the middle, surrounded by stacks of books, many of which leaned precariously. There was a single window that looked out over the ocean. It appeared endless in the night. In the distance, Linus saw the flashing wink
of a lonely lighthouse.
Mr. Parnassus shut the door behind them, nodding for Linus to take a seat. He did so, taking out a small notebook that he always carried in his pocket, filled with notes he kept on each of his cases. He’d been lax in his duties here so far, kept off-kilter by the very idea of this place, but that would do no longer. He’d always prided himself on the copious notes he took, and if he was to give weekly reports as Extremely Upper Management requested, he would make sure they were the best he’d ever written.
“Do you mind?” he asked, pointing at a stubby pencil on the desk. “Of course,” Mr. Parnassus said. “What’s mine is yours.”
Something fluttered in Linus’s stomach. He thought it must have been something he ate. He opened his notepad and licked the tip of the pencil, an old habit he’d never been able to break. “Now, if you please. Let’s discuss
—”
“Sal is our newest arrival,” Mr. Parnassus said, as if Linus hadn’t spoken at all. He sat across from Linus in the chair behind the desk, steepling his hands under his chin. “Three months ago.”
“Oh? I suppose I did read that in his file. He seems nervous, though I suppose teenagers often are in the face of authority.”
Mr. Parnassus snorted. “Nervous. That’s one word for it. Did you also read in his file that these three months are the longest he’s ever stayed in one place since he was seven years old?”
“I … no. I don’t suppose I got that far. I was distracted by … well. The enormity of this assignment.”
Mr. Parnassus smiled sympathetically. “They didn’t tell you what you were walking into, did they? Extremely Upper Management. Not until you got here.”
Linus fidgeted in his seat. “No. Only that it was classified.” Also that the children were problematic, but Linus didn’t know if he should say that aloud.
“Surely you can see why.”
“I can,” Linus agreed. “One doesn’t often meet the Antichrist.”
Mr. Parnassus looked at him sharply. “We don’t use that word here. I understand that you have a job to do, Mr. Baker, but I am the master of this house, and you will abide by my rules. Is that clear?”
Linus nodded slowly. He hadn’t expected to be rebuked so severely, especially by someone who exuded calm like the man sitting across from him. He had underestimated Mr. Parnassus. He couldn’t make that mistake again. “I meant no disrespect.”
Mr. Parnassus relaxed again. “No. I don’t think you did. And how could you have known? You don’t know him. You don’t know us. You have the files, but they only tell you the basics, I’m sure. Mr. Baker, what’s written in those files are nothing but bones, and we are more than just our bones, are we not?” He paused, considering. “Except for Chauncey, seeing as how he doesn’t actually have any bones. Though my point remains the same.”
“What is he?” Linus asked. Then, “Oh dear, that sounds rude. No offense intended. I’ve never … I’ve never seen something—someone—like him before.”
“I expect not,” Mr. Parnassus said. He turned his head toward a stack of books to the right, eyes darting down the titles. He seemed to find the one he wanted about halfway down. He tapped the spine, forcing the edges out. The stack swayed. He pinched the cover of the book between two fingers and pulled quickly. The book came out. The top half of the stack fell neatly
in its place. He didn’t seem to notice Linus gaping at him as he opened the book on his desk and began to flip through the pages. “We aren’t exactly sure what Chauncey is, or even really where he came from. A mystery, though I believe— Aha! Here we go.” He turned the book toward Linus and tapped on the page.
Linus leaned forward. “Medusozoa? That’s … a jellyfish.”
“Correct!” Mr. Parnassus said brightly. “And I think that’s part of it, at least. He doesn’t sting, nor does he carry any kind of poison. There’s possibly some sea cucumber in there as well, though it doesn’t explain his appendages.”
“It doesn’t explain anything,” Linus said, feeling rather helpless. “Where did he come from?”
Mr. Parnassus pulled the book back as he closed it. “No one knows, Mr. Baker. There are mysteries that may never be solved, no matter how hard we try. And if we spend too long trying to solve them, we may miss what’s right in front of us.”
“That’s not how things work in the real world, Mr. Parnassus,” Linus said. “Everything has an explanation. There is a reason for all things. That’s the opening line of RULES AND REGULATIONS for the Department in Charge of Magical Youth.”
Mr. Parnassus arched an eyebrow. “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. It wasn’t until he came here that he realized he could be something more.”
“So he chose to be a bellhop,” Linus said numbly.
“He did. He saw it in a film we watched some months back. And for whatever reason, he was entranced by the idea.”
“But he’ll never be able to—” Linus stopped himself before the words could come out.
But Mr. Parnassus knew exactly what he was going to say. “He’ll never be able to be a bellhop because what hotel would ever hire one such as him?”
“That’s not…” It wasn’t what, exactly? Fair? Right? Just? None of those things? Linus couldn’t be sure. There were reasons such laws existed, and while Linus had never understood them, not really, there was nothing he could do about that. Linus knew that people often feared (though he felt that word was coded for something else entirely) what they didn’t understand. The Department in Charge of Registration was born from the need to safeguard those who were extraordinary. At the beginning, children had been ripped from their homes and put into schools, though that was something of a misnomer. They were all but prisons, and though there were no bars on the windows, DICOMY had been created as a way to placate the cries of those who protested such treatment. And when it became clear that there were many orphans, the caseworkers had been split into two groups: those who dealt with registered families in conjunction with the Department in Charge of Registration, and those who worked with the orphans in the orphanages.
No, it wasn’t very fair at all.
“It’s not,” Mr. Parnassus said, agreeing with the unspoken words. “But I allow him to dream of such things because he’s a child, and who knows what the future will bring? Change often starts with the smallest of whispers. Like-minded people building it up to a roar. Which brings me back to Sal. Can I be blunt with you, Mr. Baker?”
Linus felt as if he had whiplash. “I would hope for nothing less.” “Good,” Mr. Parnassus said. “You scare him.”
Linus blinked. “Me? I don’t know that I’ve scared anyone in my life.”
“I highly doubt that’s true. You work for DICOMY, after all.” “What does that have to do with—”
“And it’s not necessarily you, as in you specifically. It’s what you represent. You’re a caseworker, Mr. Baker. While most of the children here have a vague understanding of what that entails, Sal has firsthand experience with people exactly like you. This is his twelfth orphanage.”
Linus felt his stomach twist. “Twelfth? That can’t be possible! He would
—”
“He would what?” Mr. Parnassus asked. “Be shuttled off into one of the
Department-run schools that DICOMY seems to be so fond of these days? It’s where the children go after you finish with them, isn’t it?”
Linus started sweating. “I don’t—I don’t suppose I can be sure. I … do what is required of my position, and nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” Mr. Parnassus echoed. “How unfortunate. Have you ever been to one of the schools, Mr. Baker? Ever followed up with any of the children after you’ve dealt with them?”
“It’s—that’s the job of upper levels. The Supervisors. I’m merely a caseworker.”
“I highly doubt you’re merely anything. Why are you a caseworker?
Why have you never gone beyond this job?”
“Because it’s what I know,” Linus said, a line of sweat dripping down his neck. He didn’t know how the tables had gotten turned so neatly that he hadn’t even noticed. He had to regain control.
“Aren’t you curious?”
Linus shook his head. “I can’t be curious.”
Mr. Parnassus looked surprised. “Why is that?”
“It does me no good. Facts, Mr. Parnassus. I deal in facts. Curiosities lead to flights of fancy, and I can’t afford to be distracted.”
“I can’t imagine a life lived in such a way,” Mr. Parnassus said quietly. “It sounds like no life lived at all.”
“It’s good then that I don’t need your opinion on the matter,” Linus snapped.
“I meant no offense—”
“I’m here to ensure that this place is up to code. To review your procedures to see if the Marsyas Orphanage is following guidelines set by DICOMY to ensure the funding provided to you is being used properly—”
Mr. Parnassus snorted. “Funding? I didn’t expect you to have a sense of humor. How delightful.”
Linus struggled to keep in control of the conversation. “Just because you house children of a more … unusual variety, doesn’t mean I’ll get distracted from the reason I’m here. It’s about the children, Mr. Parnassus. And nothing more.”
He nodded. “I can respect that. While we may be unconventional, I expect you’ll see that I will do anything to keep them safe. As I said previously, the world is a weird and wonderful place, but that doesn’t mean it’s not without its teeth. And it will bite you when you least expect it.”
Linus didn’t know what to do with that. “You don’t leave the island. Or, at least, the children don’t.”
“How do you figure?”
“The van out front. The tires are overgrown with weeds and flowers.” Mr. Parnassus sat back in his chair again, that strange smile on his face.
“Very observant. Of course, it could be Phee or Talia. They do love growing things. But I suspect you wouldn’t believe that.”
“No. I wouldn’t. Why does it look as if it hadn’t been moved in some time?”
“Surely you traveled through the village.”
“I—yes. With Ms. Chapelwhite.” He hesitated. What had she told him as they drove through Marsyas?
The people of Marsyas don’t appreciate our kind. Sprites?
All magical creatures, Mr. Baker.
Mr. Parnassus nodded, as if he could read Linus’s thoughts. “I can’t say that we’re unwelcome, but it’s intimated that it’s best for everyone if we stay where we are. Rumors tend to run rampant, and trying to get in front of them is like trying to beat back a wall of fire upon a dry field of grass. Though, I expect it helps that the government pays the people of the village for their silence as to the existence of this place. It also doesn’t hurt that
with this stipend comes thinly veiled threats of prosecution. It’s easier for everyone if we stay where we are. Fortunately, the island is bigger than it looks and provides what the children need. Ms. Chapelwhite travels into the village for supplies every week or so. They know her, as well as she can be known.”
Linus’s head was swirling. He hadn’t known that people were paid to keep their mouths shut, though he supposed it made a twisted sort of sense. “You don’t leave?”
Mr. Parnassus shrugged. “I’m happy where I am because they’re happy where they are. I suppose we could look about traveling beyond Marsyas and the village, but it hasn’t come up. At least not yet. I expect we’ll have to deal with it one day.”
Linus shook his head as he picked up the notepad and pencil. “Sal. He shifts into a dog.”
“A Pomeranian, if we’re being specific.”
“And you say this has been the longest he’s been in one place?” “Indeed.”
“There are children who aren’t classified who aren’t that different from him. I met a child who could shift into a deer. Why is he here?”
Mr. Parnassus eyed him warily. “Because he can pass on his shift with a bite.”
Linus felt the air whoosh out of his lungs. “Truly?”
He nodded. “Yes. 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 thought the room was spinning. “I’ve never … I didn’t know that was possible. I thought it was genetic.”
“I think you’ll find the impossible is more accessible here than you were led to believe.”
“And Talia?”
“One of my first. Her family was killed rather tragically when their garden burned. Some thought it was set ablaze on purpose, though no one seemed to care much about that.”
Linus winced. He remembered the signs hanging from the buses telling everyone to SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING. “You speak Gnomish.”
“I speak many languages, Mr. Baker. I like learning new things. And it helps bring me closer to my charges.”
“And why is she classified?”
“Have you ever met a female gnome, Mr. Baker?”
No. He hadn’t. Which was odd, seeing as how he’d never even thought about it before. Linus scribbled on his notepad quickly. “And then there’s Phee.”
Mr. Parnassus chuckled. “Fiercely independent, she is. She’s here because there has never been a sprite so young with so much power. When they tried to rescue her from a most … dire situation, she managed to turn three men into trees. Another, much older sprite was able to turn them back. Eventually. Fortunately for me, Ms. Chapelwhite assists her in ways I cannot. She’s taken her under her wing, both figuratively and literally. She’s blossomed quite beautifully under Ms. Chapelwhite’s tutelage. We’re very lucky she offered to assist us.”
“And why did she?” Linus asked. “This is her island. Sprites are fiercely territorial. Why did she allow you here at all?”
Mr. Parnassus shrugged again. “The greater good, I suppose.”
He spoke just like a sprite, in vague little circles. Linus didn’t appreciate it. “And what would that be?”
“To see children who aren’t wanted by anyone be allowed to prosper. You know as well as I do that the term orphanage is a misnomer, Mr. Baker. No one comes here looking to adopt.”
No, he supposed they didn’t, seeing as how the Marsyas Orphanage was hidden from most everyone. But did that really matter? Had he known any of the children in an orphanage such as this to be adopted? He couldn’t think of a single instance. How had he never noticed that before? “Theodore?”
“Isn’t this all in your files, Mr. Baker?”
No. It wasn’t. In fact, Linus thought Mr. Parnassus had been correct when he’d said they were nothing but bones. “It’s best I hear it directly
from the source. Nuances can be missed when they are merely words on paper.”
“He’s not just an animal,” Mr. Parnassus said. “I never said he was.”
He sighed. “No, I don’t suppose you did. Forgive me. I’ve dealt with people like you before. I forget that you’re not all the same, even though I don’t know quite what to make of you yet.”
Linus felt strangely bare. “What you see is what you get with me. This is all I am.”
“Oh, I doubt that immensely,” he said. “Theodore is … special. I know you know just how rare someone like him is.”
“Yes.”
“He’s still a juvenile, though his precise age is unknown. He … thinks differently than the rest of us, and though we understand each other, it’s more in abstract thought rather than specifics. Does that make sense?”
“Not in the slightest,” Linus admitted.
“You’ll see,” Mr. Parnassus said. “You’re here for an entire month, after all. And I believe that leaves one child left, though I think you did that on purpose. Ms. Chapelwhite says she found you fainted dead away at the mere thought.”
Linus flushed as he cleared his throat. “It was … unexpected.” “That’s a good word to use to describe Lucy, I’m sure.”
“Is he…” Linus hesitated. Then, “Is it true? Is he the actual Anti—I mean, the son of the Devil?”
“I believe he is,” Mr. Parnassus said, and Linus’s breath caught in his throat. “Though the notion of what someone like him is supposed to be is more fiction than fact.”
“If that’s true, then he’s supposed to bring about the End of Days!” Linus exclaimed.
“He’s six years old.”
“He proclaimed himself to be hellfire and darkness when he threatened me!”
Mr. Parnassus chuckled. “It was his way of saying hello. He’s got a morbid sense of humor for one so young. It’s endearing once you get used
to it.”
Linus gaped at him.
Mr. Parnassus sighed as he leaned forward. “Look, Mr. Baker. I know it’s—a lot to swallow, but I’ve had Lucy for a year. There were plans to … well. Let’s just say this was a last resort. Regardless of his parentage, he is a child. And I refuse to believe that a person’s path is set in stone. A person is more than where they come from.”
“Than the sum of their parts.”
Mr. Parnassus nodded. “Yes. Exactly. Lucy might cause fear in the majority of the world, but he doesn’t cause it in me. I’ve seen what he is capable of. Behind the eyes and the demon in his soul, he is charming and witty and terribly smart. I will fight for him as I would for any of my children.”
That didn’t sit right with Linus. “But they’re not yours. You’re the master of the house, not their father. They are your charges.”
Mr. Parnassus smiled tightly. “Of course. A slip of the tongue. It’s been a long day, and I expect tomorrow will bring much of the same. It’s worth it, though.”
“Is it?”
“Of course. I couldn’t see myself doing anything different. Can you?” “We’re not here to talk about me, Mr. Parnassus,” Linus pointed out.
He spread his hands. “And why is that? You seem to know everything about us. And anything you don’t know can be read in what I’m sure is a meticulous file.”
“Not everything,” Linus said, closing his notebook. “For example, there doesn’t seem to be much information about you. In fact, your file was rather thin. Why is that?”
Mr. Parnassus looked amused again, and Linus wondered what he was missing. “Shouldn’t that be a question for Extremely Upper Management? They’re the ones who sent you here.”
He was right, of course. It was disconcerting how little information there was. Mr. Arthur Parnassus’s file told him nothing more than his age and education. There’d been an odd statement at the end: Mr. Parnassus will be exemplary for the more problematic of children given his
capabilities. Linus hadn’t known what to make of that, and now, seeing him face to face only left him with more questions. “I have a feeling they won’t tell me much more than they already have.”
“In that, I suspect you’d be right.”
Linus stood. “I expect full transparency and your cooperation in this investigation.”
Mr. Parnassus laughed. “What happened to this being a visit?”
“That was your word, sir, not mine. We both know what this is. The only reason DICOMY would have sent me here was if there was cause for concern. And I can see why. You have a powder keg under your roof, one more powerful than should ever exist.”
“And he should be found at fault for existing? What choice did he have in the matter?”
That felt like a discussion for when Linus had his wits about him. Or possibly never. The implications alone made him feel faint again. “I am here to see if further action should be taken.”
“Further action,” Mr. Parnassus said, frustration slipping into his voice for the first time. “They have no one, Mr. Baker. No one but me. Do you really think DICOMY would allow someone like Lucy into one of their schools? Think hard before you answer.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Linus said stiffly.
Mr. Parnassus looked toward the ceiling. “Of course it’s not. Because that’s what happens after you’re done, and that’s none of your concern.” He shook his head. “If you only knew.”
“If there isn’t anything amiss, then you have nothing to worry about,” Linus said. “You may think me callous, Mr. Parnassus, but I assure you I do care. I wouldn’t be in this position if I didn’t.”
“I believe that you believe that.” He looked at Linus again. “My apologies, Mr. Baker. Yes, you will do your job, one way or another. But I think if you open your eyes, you’ll see what’s right in front of you rather than what’s listed in a file.”
Linus’s skin felt like it was crawling. He needed to get out of this office. It seemed as if the walls were closing in. “Thank you for your hospitality,
even if you didn’t have a choice. I’m going to retire for the night. It’s been a rather eventful day, and I expect more of the same tomorrow.”
He turned and opened the door. Before he shut it behind him, he heard, “Good night, Mr. Baker.”
 |
Calliope was waiting inside the door when he arrived back at the guest house. He hadn’t come across anyone else since leaving the office, though he heard voices echoing around him behind closed doors. He’d forced himself not to run out the front door.
Calliope spared him a glance before walking through the open door to do her business. The air was cold, and while he waited, he stared up at the main house. Lights shone through the second-floor windows, and he thought he saw movement behind closed curtains. If he remembered the layout of the upper floor correctly, it would be Sal’s room he was seeing.
“Twelve different orphanages,” he muttered to himself. “Something like that should have been in his file. Why on earth would he not have been enrolled in a school?”
Calliope came back inside, purring as she rubbed against his legs. He closed the door and locked it for good measure, though he figured if someone wanted to get in, they could.
Back in the bedroom, he remembered the warning from Mr. Parnassus about how Chauncey liked to hide under beds to scare people. He couldn’t quite see the dark space underneath as it was hidden by the quilt that hung nearly to the floor.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m overthinking things. Of course he’s not there. That’s ridiculous.”
He turned to go to the bathroom to perform his nightly routine.
He was in the middle of brushing his teeth, toothpaste in a glob on his generous chin, when he turned and marched back to the room. He fell to his knees, lifted up the quilt, and peered under the bed.
No monsters (children or otherwise) were hidden underneath. “There,” he said through a mouthful of toothpaste. “See? It’s fine.” He almost believed it.
By the time he’d donned his pajamas and crawled into bed, he was sure he was going to toss and turn for the remainder of the night. He didn’t sleep well in strange places, and learning everything he had today wouldn’t help. He tried to read RULES AND REGULATIONS (because no matter what Mr. Parnassus said, he absolutely did not have it memorized), but he found himself thinking of dark eyes above a quiet smile, and then there was nothing but white.
