On the first Friday Linus Baker spent on the island, he received an invitation. It wasn’t one he expected, and upon hearing it, he wasn’t sure it was one he wanted to accept. He could think of six or seven or quite possibly one hundred things he’d rather do. He had to remind himself he was on Marsyas for a reason, and it was important he see all sides of the orphanage.
The invitation had come from a knock on the door of the guest house where Linus was attempting to finish his first report from his time on Marsyas. The ferry would come tomorrow to take him to the mainland so he could send it via post back to DICOMY. He’d been deep into his writing, careful to only allow one admonition per page regarding Extremely Upper Management’s lack of transparency before sending him to the island. He’d made it a game of sorts, trying to make his responses to their transgressions as subtle as possible. He’d been thankful for the interruption of a knock at the door when the last line he’d written read … and furthermore, the very idea that Extremely Upper Management would employ obfuscation and outright deception with their caseworkers is most uncivilized.
It was probably for the best if he rethought that last sentence.
He was pleasantly surprised to find Mr. Parnassus standing on the porch of the guest house, looking windswept and warm in the afternoon sunlight, something that Linus was finding himself not only getting used to seeing, but rather looking forward to. He told himself it was because Mr. Parnassus was a cheery fellow, and if this were the real world, perhaps they could
have been friends, something that Linus was in short supply of. That was all it was.
It didn’t matter that Mr. Parnassus didn’t appear to own a pair of slacks that actually fit his long legs, given that they were always too short. Today he wore blue socks with clouds on them. Linus refused to be charmed.
He mostly succeeded.
Still, when Mr. Parnassus extended his invitation, Linus felt his throat close, and his tongue become as dry as burnt toast. “Pardon?” he managed to ask.
Mr. Parnassus smiled knowingly. “I said it might be a good idea if you were to sit in on my one-on-one with Lucy, just so you may get the full experience of Marsyas. I expect Extremely Upper Management anticipates your observations of such, don’t you think?”
Linus did. In fact, he was beginning to think that perhaps Extremely Upper Management cared more about Lucy than any other person on the island. Oh, it wasn’t spelled out as such in the files he’d been given, but Linus had been doing this line of work for a long time and was more perceptive than most gave him credit for.
That didn’t mean he’d jump at such an invitation.
He had only made partial headway on his first few days on the island. Sal was still petrified of him, and Phee was dismissive, but Talia only threatened to bury him in her garden once or twice per day, and Chauncey seemed happy about anything and everything (especially when he got to deliver fresh towels or bedsheets to Linus, always managing to cough politely enough to ensure a tip). Theodore, of course, thought the sun rose and set because of Linus, something that shouldn’t have tugged at his heartstrings as much as it did. It was only a button (four now, in fact; Linus had decided one of his dress shirts was ready for retirement, and he would snip a new button each morning), and that they were plastic and not brass didn’t seem to matter to Theodore.
Lucy, on the other hand, was still an enigma. A terrifying enigma, to be sure, given that he was the Antichrist, but an enigma nonetheless. Just the day before, Linus had found himself in the library of the main house, an old room on the first floor filled with books from floor to ceiling. He’d been
perusing the shelves when he’d caught movement in the shadows out of the corner of his eye. He’d whirled around, but there was nothing there.
Until he’d looked up to see Lucy crouched on the top of a bookshelf, staring down at him with bright eyes and a twisted smirk on his face.
Linus gasped, heart racing.
Lucy said, “Hello, Mr. Baker. You would do well to remember that human souls are cheap trinkets to one such as me.” He giggled and leapt from the bookshelf, landing on his feet. He looked up at Linus and whispered, “I love cheap trinkets.” And then he’d run from the library. Linus saw him only an hour later munching on an oatmeal raisin cookie in the kitchen, bopping his head along with The Coasters singing about how they were gonna find her, searchin’ every which-a-way.
So, no, Linus wasn’t necessarily jumping on the invitation. But he had a job to do.
It was why he was here.
And the more he learned about Lucy, the better prepared he’d be when reporting to Extremely Upper Management.
(It had nothing to do with the idea of also getting to know Mr. Parnassus a little better. And even if it did, it was because the file on the master told him next to nothing, and he needed to be thorough. It was outlined as such in the RULES AND REGULATIONS, page 138, paragraph six, and he would follow it to the letter.)
“Does he know I’ll be there?” Linus asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Mr. Parnassus chuckled. “It was his idea.” “Oh dear,” Linus said faintly.
“Should I tell him to expect you?”
No. No, he shouldn’t. In fact, he should tell Lucy that Linus had taken ill and would be down for the evening. And then Linus could spend his Friday night in his pajamas listening to the little radio in the living room and pretending he was at home. It wasn’t a record player, but it would do in a pinch. “Yes,” he said. “I will be there.”
Mr. Parnassus smiled widely. Linus felt his skin flush at the sight of it. “Wonderful,” he said. “I think you’ll be surprised. Five o’clock sharp, Mr.
Baker.” He whirled on his heel and headed toward the main house, whistling a jaunty tune.
Linus closed the door and slumped against it. “Well, old boy, you’ve stepped into it now, haven’t you?”
Calliope sat in the windowsill, blinking slowly in the sunlight.
 |
Linus Baker had never been the religious sort. While he didn’t mind if others were, it was never for him. His mother had been … not quite fervent but so close that there was barely a difference. She took him to church on Sundays, and he’d sit in his freshly starched shirt that itched terribly, and would stand when he was supposed to stand, and kneel when he was supposed to kneel. He liked the hymns, though he couldn’t carry a tune if he’d been given a bucket, but that was about it. He thought it preposterous: the idea of fire and brimstone, that sinners went to Hell while everyone else went to Heaven. Sins seemed to be subjective. Oh, murder was bad, and harming others was too, but was that comparable to someone who’d nicked a candy bar from the corner store when they were nine years old? Because if it was, Linus was destined for Hell given the Crunchie bar he’d slipped into his pocket and consumed late at night while hiding under his comforter. When he’d become old enough to understand the power of the word no,
he hadn’t had to go to church after that. No, he’d told Mother, no, I don’t
think I want to go.
She’d been upset, of course. She worried about his soul, telling him that he was going to go on a path from which he wouldn’t be able to return. There would be drugs and booze and girls, and she would be there to pick up the pieces because that’s what a mother did (and, he thought, to tell him I told you so).
But, as it turned out, drugs were never a problem, and while Linus did enjoy a glass of wine with dinner once a month, it never turned into more than that.
And as for girls, his mother needn’t have worried. By then, Linus had already noticed how his skin had tingled when his seventeen-year-old
neighbor, Timmy Wellington, mowed the lawn without his shirt on. No, girls weren’t going to bring about Linus Baker’s downfall.
So no, Linus hadn’t been of the religious sort at all.
Granted, that was before he knew the Antichrist was a six-year-old on Marsyas Island. For the first time in his life, Linus wished he had a crucifix or a Bible or something with which to protect himself should Lucy decide he needed a sacrifice in order to come into his full powers.
It certainly didn’t help when he passed Phee and Talia in the garden, both of them watching every step he took toward the main house. “Dead man walkin’,” Talia intoned in a flat voice. “We got a dead man walkin’ here.”
Phee covered up her laughter with a cough. “Good afternoon,” he said stiffly.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Baker,” Phee and Talia said sweetly, though Linus knew better.
They whispered behind him as he reached the porch to the main house.
He glanced back at them, and they waved cheekily.
Oddly, he found himself struggling against a smile at the sight of them. He scowled instead.
He walked inside the house. He heard Ms. Chapelwhite singing in the kitchen. She’d warmed up to him considerably ever since their trip to the beach. And by that, he meant she acknowledged his presence with a nod that almost seemed cordial rather than perfunctory.
He closed the door behind him and heard a chirp coming from the couch in front of the fireplace. He looked down to see a scaly tail sticking out from underneath. “Hello, Theodore,” he said.
The tail disappeared, and Theodore stuck his head out, tongue flicking. He chirped again, this time a question. Linus didn’t need to speak wyvern to understand what he was asking for. “I already gave you one this morning. The more you get, the less you appreciate their worth.” He felt a little silly, given that plastic buttons were worth nothing at all, but it still felt important to impart such a lesson.
Theodore sighed morosely and disappeared back under the couch, grumbling to himself.
He walked up the stairs, the wood creaking ominously under his weight. The sconces on the walls appeared to flicker, and Linus told himself it was just because the house was old, and the wiring probably could use some upkeep. He made a mental note to ask in his report about the status of funding to the Marsyas Orphanage. Mr. Parnassus had seemed dismissive at the idea of funding, but Linus thought he had to be mistaken.
The doors to the bedrooms on the second floor were shut on either side of him, with the exception of Chauncey’s. Linus was about to pass his room when he stopped, hearing Chauncey talking inside. He peeked through the slightly open door to see Chauncey standing in saltwater in front of a full- length mirror near the window, a porter’s cap on his head between the stalks of his eyes. “How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Worthington?” Chauncey asked, one of his tentacles lifting the cap as he bowed low. “Welcome back to the Everland Hotel! May I take your luggage? Oh, why thank you for noticing, Mrs. Worthington! Yes, I did get a new uniform. Only the best for Everland. I do hope you enjoy your stay!”
Linus left him to it.
He wondered if it would be too much to get Chauncey a coat to complete his costume. Perhaps he could see if there was something in the village—
No. That wasn’t what he was here for. He was here to observe and nothing more. He couldn’t influence the orphanage. It wouldn’t be proper. The RULES AND REGULATIONS were specific about such matters.
He thought he heard movement behind Sal’s door, but it was shut tight. Best not to attempt to say hello. He wouldn’t want to frighten the poor boy.
In addition to having never seen inside of Sal’s room, he had yet to go through the last door in the hall. Mr. Parnassus hadn’t invited him before today, though Lucy had on numerous occasions, much to Linus’s chagrin. He knew he’d have to inspect both before he left the island, but he’d been putting it off this first week, something he shouldn’t have done.
He stood in front of the door for a long moment, before taking a deep breath and raising his shaking hand to knock.
Before he could, the door unlatched and opened just a smidge.
Linus took a step back. There didn’t seem to be any light coming from inside.
He cleared his throat. “Hello?” No response.
He steeled his nerves and pushed open the door.
The late afternoon sun had been bright when he’d walked inside the house, the sea air warm. But the interior of the room reminded him of being back in the city, dark and cold and dank. He took a step inside. And then another.
And then another.
The door slammed shut behind him.
He spun around, heart in his throat. He was reaching for the door when candles flared to life around him, spouts of fire reaching up two feet or more.
“Welcome to my domain,” a child’s voice rang out behind him. “You have entered here at my invitation.” The voice cackled. “Bear witness to the true depth of my power! I am Lucifer! I am Beelzebub, the prince of devils! I am—”
“—going to find yourself with a loss of privileges if you should decide to continue,” Linus heard Mr. Parnassus say.
The candles snuffed out. The darkness faded.
Sunlight poured in through the window. Linus blinked against the bright light.
Mr. Parnassus sat in a high-backed chair near the window, legs crossed, hands in his lap, an amused expression on his face. There was an empty chair across from him, undoubtedly for the boy who lay on his back on the thick rug.
“He heard you coming,” Mr. Parnassus said with a shrug. “I cautioned him against it, but since this is his time to do as he wishes, I thought he shouldn’t be stifled.”
Lucy looked up at Linus, who was plastered against the bedroom door. “I am who I am.”
“Quite,” Linus said, his voice a squeak, barely able to peel himself from the door.
The room itself was large and spacious. There was a four-poster bed set against the far wall, made of dark wood, ornate vines and leaves carved into the posts. There was a desk, far older than the others in the house, covered in reams of paper and stacks of books. An unlit fireplace sat opposite the bed. If Linus hadn’t just been frightened half out of his mind, he would have thought it would be perfect for cold winter nights.
“Would you like to show Mr. Baker your room?” Mr. Parnassus asked Lucy. “He’d probably like to see it very much. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Baker?”
No. No, he wouldn’t. Not very much at all. “Ye-es,” Linus said. “That certainly seems … doable.”
Lucy turned over on his stomach, propping his chin in his hands. “Are you sure, Mr. Baker? You don’t sound so sure.”
“I’m sure,” Linus said firmly.
Lucy picked himself up off the ground. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Mr. Parnassus sighed. “Lucy, you’re going to give Mr. Baker the wrong idea.”
“And what idea would that be?” “You know what.”
Lucy threw his hands up. “I’m just trying to build anticipation. Expect the unexpected! You told me that life is meant to surprise you. I’m trying to surprise him.”
“I think you’re setting yourself up for nothing but disappointment.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “And whose fault is that? If you’d have listened to my decorating ideas, there would be no room for disappointment. There would only be joy.” He glanced at Linus. “Well, for me.”
Mr. Parnassus spread his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t think having severed human heads is conducive to a good night’s sleep or the health and sanity of Mr. Baker, even if they were to be made of papier- mâché.”
“Severed heads?” Linus asked in a strangled voice.
Lucy sighed. “Just representations of my enemies. The Pope. Evangelicals who attend megachurches. You know, like normal people have.”
Linus didn’t think Lucy quite had the grasp of what was normal, but he managed to keep that to himself. “So, no heads?”
“None,” Lucy said with a scowl. “Not even the skull of an animal from the woods that I didn’t kill and just found.” He shot a glare at Mr. Parnassus.
“What did I say about animals?” Mr. Parnassus said.
Lucy stomped toward a closed door near the chairs. “I’m not supposed to kill them because only serial killers do that, and if they’re already dead, I can’t play with the remains because I’ll smell bad.”
“And?”
“And it’s wrong.”
“Let’s lead with that next time,” Mr. Parnassus said. “It might sound more humane.”
“Stifling my creativity,” Lucy muttered. He put his hand on the doorknob and looked over at Linus. His disgruntled expression disappeared, and that syrupy-sweet smile returned that caused chills to run down Linus’s spine. “Are you coming, Mr. Baker?”
Linus tried to make his feet move, but they remained firmly rooted near the bedroom door. “Is Mr. Parnassus joining us?” he asked.
Mr. Parnassus shook his head. “I’ll let him give you the tour, as the other children did.” He paused. Then, “I’m still working on Sal.”
“Great,” Linus said weakly. “That’s … that’s fine.”
“Why are you sweating?” Lucy asked, smile widening. “Something wrong, Mr. Baker?”
“No, no,” Linus said. “Just … a little overwarm, is all. Temperate climate, you know. Not used to it back in the city.”
“Oh, of course,” Lucy said. “That must be it. Come here, Mr. Baker. I have something to show you.”
Linus swallowed thickly. He told himself he was being foolish, that Mr. Parnassus was right there, and Lucy wouldn’t dare do anything untoward in his presence.
The problem with that was Linus’s brain chose that exact moment to wonder if there had ever been another caseworker to visit the island before, and what became of them. There had to have been, right? He can’t have been the first. Why, the idea was preposterous.
And if there had been others before him, what had become of them? Had they too entered Lucy’s room, only to never be seen again? Would Linus follow Lucy through the door to find the carcasses of his predecessors nailed to the ceiling above the bed? Linus certainly could be firm when he needed to be, but he did have a weak constitution, and the sight of blood tended to cause him to feel woozy. He didn’t know what would happen if he had to see intestines strewn about like wet decorative garlands.
He glanced at Mr. Parnassus, who nodded encouragingly. It did not soothe Linus in the slightest. For all he knew, Mr. Parnassus was just as evil as Lucy, brightly colored socks and wonderful smile be damned.
He nearly tripped at wonderful smile.
He pushed it away. He could do this.
He could do this.
It was just a child.
He fixed a pleasant look on his face (barely above a grimace) and said, “I would be delighted to see your room, Lucy. I do hope it’s tidy. A disheveled room is the sign of a disheveled mind. It’s best to keep things clean when possible.”
Lucy’s eyes danced. “Is that right, Mr. Baker? Well, let’s see what my mind is like, then.”
Linus was sure this was one of the stressors his physician had warned him of. There was nothing he could do about that now.
He stopped next to Lucy. He looked down at him.
Lucy grinned. Linus thought he had more teeth than was humanly possible.
He turned the doorknob. He pushed open the door.
It creaked on its hinges and—
Revealed a small space with a twin bed against one wall, the comforter plaid, the pillowcase white. There was room enough for a bureau, but not much else. Atop the bureau sat a collection of shiny rocks shot with veins of quartz.
On the walls were vinyl records, each hung on a pushpin through the hole in its middle. There was Little Richard, the Big Bopper, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, Ritchie Valens, and Buddy Holly. In fact, there were more Buddy Holly records than any other.
Linus was startled at the sight of them. He recognized most of the records, because he had them back in the city at his own home. Many nights had been spent listening to “Peggy Sue” and “That’ll Be the Day” and “Chantilly Lace.”
But aside from Little Richard and Frankie Lymon, they all had something else in common. It was slightly morbid, when he thought about it. But it made sense.
He hadn’t even noticed Lucy had closed the door behind them. “The day the music died,” Lucy said.
Linus spun around, heart tripping all over itself. Lucy stood at the door, back pressed against it. “What?”
He waved a hand toward the records. “Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper.”
“A plane crash,” Linus said quietly.
Lucy nodded and pushed himself off the door. “Ritchie and Bopper weren’t even supposed to be on the plane, did you know that?”
He did. He said, “I think so.”
“Bopper was sick and took someone else’s seat.” Waylon Jennings, though Linus kept that to himself.
“And Ritchie won his seat in a coin toss. Buddy didn’t want to be stuck in a bus because it was cold, and they had to go to Montana.” Lucy reached up and touched “Chantilly Lace.” He looked almost reverent. “The pilot wasn’t given the correct weather information, and the plane didn’t have the proper instruments needed to fly. Weird, right?” He smiled at Linus. “I like music that makes me happy. And I like death. It’s strange how people can
mix the two. They all died by chance, and then people sang about them after. I like those songs, but not as much as the ones sung by dead people.”
Linus coughed roughly. “I—I like music too. I have some of these records at my house.”
Lucy perked up at that. “Dead people music?”
He shrugged. “I … guess? The older the music, the more likely the singer is dead.”
“Yeah,” Lucy breathed. His eyes begin to tinge with red. “That’s true.
Death is wonderful to music. It makes the singers sound like ghosts.”
Linus thought it was probably a good time to change the subject to something less morbid. “I like your room.”
Lucy looked around, the light fading from his eyes. “It’s the best. I like having my own room. Arthur says that it’s important to have independence.” He glanced at Linus before looking away, and Linus could have sworn he looked almost nervous. “Just as long as he doesn’t go too far away.” His eyes widened. “But I’m not a baby! I can be fine by myself! In fact, I’m by myself all the time!”
Linus arched an eyebrow. “All the time? Oh, no. No, no, no. That won’t do. I’ll need to have a word with Mr. Parnassus, if that’s the case. A child of your age should never be by himself all the time—”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Lucy cried. “What I meant was is that I’m never by myself! Ever! Everywhere I go, he’s there! He’s like a shadow. It’s so annoying.”
“Well, if you say so.”
Lucy nodded furiously. “I do. That’s exactly what I said. So, no need to talk to Arthur about it or put it in reports and say bad things about me.” His smile was positively angelic. “I swear I’m a good person.” The smile faded. “And you don’t need to worry about looking under my bed. And if you do, the bird skeleton under it isn’t mine, and I don’t know who put it there, but they should be punished because that’s wrong.” He smiled again.
Linus stared at him.
“Okay!” he said, stepping forward and grabbing Linus by the hand. “That’s it! That’s my room! No need to see anything else!” He pulled Linus toward the door and flung it open. “Arthur! He saw my room and said
everything looks good and there’s nothing bad in it at all and that I’m a good person. And he likes the same music as me! Dead people music.”
Mr. Parnassus looked up from the book in his lap. “Is that right? Dead people music?”
Lucy lifted his head up to look at Linus, still holding his hand tightly. “We like dead things, don’t we, Mr. Baker?”
Linus sputtered.
Lucy let him go and collapsed on the floor at Mr. Parnassus’s feet where he’d been when Linus had arrived. He folded his hands on his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. “My brain is filled with spiders burrowing their eggs in the gray matter. Soon they’ll hatch and consume me.”
Linus had no idea what to do with that.
Thankfully, it appeared Mr. Parnassus did. He closed the book in his lap and set it on the small table next to the chairs. He tapped one of his wing tip shoes against Lucy’s shoulder. “How descriptive. We’ll discuss that more in detail in just a moment. First, Mr. Baker would like to observe. Would that be all right with you?”
Lucy glanced at Linus before looking back toward the ceiling. “That’s fine. He likes dead things almost as much as I do.”
That wasn’t even remotely true.
“Indeed,” Mr. Parnassus said, motioning for Linus to sit in the vacant chair. “How fortuitous. Where did we leave off before Mr. Baker arrived?”
Linus sat. He pulled his notepad out, along with his pencil. He didn’t know why his fingers were shaking.
“Categorical Imperative,” Lucy said. “Kant.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Mr. Parnassus said. “Thank you for reminding me.” Linus got the idea that he didn’t need to be reminded at all. “And what did Kant say about the Categorical Imperative?”
Lucy sighed. “That it’s the supreme principle of morality. It’s an objective. A rationally necessary and unconditional principle that we must always follow despite any natural desires or inclinations to the contrary.”
“And was Kant right?”
“That to be immoral is to be irrational?” “Yes.”
Lucy scrunched up his face. “No?” “And why not?”
“Because people aren’t black and white. No matter how hard you try, you can’t stay on one path without diversions. And that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”
Mr. Parnassus nodded. “Even if you have spiders in your brain?”
Lucy shrugged. “Maybe. But Kant was talking about normal people.
I’m not normal.” “Why is that?”
He tapped his stomach. “Because of where I came from.” “Where did you come from?”
“A vagina after it was penetrated by a penis.” “Lucy,” Mr. Parnassus admonished, as Linus choked.
Lucy rolled his eyes. He shifted as if he were uncomfortable. “I came from a place where things weren’t so good.”
“Are they better now?” “Mostly.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Lucy squinted up at Linus before turning his head toward Mr. Parnassus. “Because I have my own room here. And my records. And you and the others, even though Theodore won’t let me see his hoard.”
“And the spiders?” “Still there.” “But?”
“But I can have spiders in my head as long as I don’t let them consume me and then destroy the world as we know it.”
Linus could barely breathe.
Mr. Parnassus didn’t seem to have that problem. He was smiling. “Exactly. To err is to be human, irrational or not. And while some mistakes are bigger than others, if we learn from them, we become better people. Even if we have spiders in our brains.”
“I’m unholy.”
“So some people say.”
Lucy’s face scrunched up as if he was thinking hard. “Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“Did you know your name is a mountain?”
Mr. Parnassus blinked, as if he’d been caught off guard. “I did. How did you know that?”
Lucy shrugged. “I know a lot of things, but I don’t always know how I know them. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of.”
“Mount Parnassus was sacred to Apollo.” “I know.”
“And do you know Linus of Thrace?”
Mr. Parnassus shifted in his seat. “I … don’t think so.”
“Oh! Well, Apollo killed Linus with his arrows because of a musical contest. Are you going to kill Mr. Baker?” Lucy turned his head slowly to look at Linus. “If you do, can you make sure to use arrows? I don’t want him to be un-holey too.”
He began to cackle.
Mr. Parnassus sighed as Linus’s chest hitched. “Did you just tell that entire story to be able to make a joke?”
“Yes,” Lucy said, wiping his eyes. “Because you told me once that if we can’t laugh at ourselves, we’re doing it wrong.” He frowned. “Am I doing it wrong? Nobody seems to be laughing.”
“Humor is subjective, I’m afraid,” Mr. Parnassus said.
“That’s unfortunate,” Lucy said, staring back up at the ceiling. “Humanity is so weird. If we’re not laughing, we’re crying or running for our lives because monsters are trying to eat us. And they don’t even have to be real monsters. They could be the ones we make up in our heads. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“I suppose. But I’d rather be that way than the alternative.” “Which is?”
“Not feeling anything at all.” Linus looked away.
|
Lucy was delighted when Mr. Parnassus ended the session early at a quarter after six. He was told he could head to the kitchen to see if Ms. Chapelwhite needed his help. He jumped up and spun in a little circle as he stomped his feet before heading toward the door, bellowing over his shoulder that he hoped Linus found their time together illuminating.
Linus wasn’t sure illuminating was the right word.
They sat in silence as Lucy descended the stairs, making far too much noise for a boy his size. It sounded as if he bounced off every surface he could find on his way to the first floor.
Linus knew Mr. Parnassus was waiting on him, and he took the opportunity to gather his thoughts as best he could. His notepad was distressingly blank. He’d forgotten to take down a single observation. That wasn’t good for someone in his position, but he thought he was owed a little leeway with all he’d seen and heard since arriving on the island.
“He’s not what I expected,” Linus finally said, staring off into nothing. “No?”
He shook his head. “There’s … connotations behind the name. Antichrist.” He looked apologetically at Mr. Parnassus. “If I’m being honest.”
“Is there?” Mr. Parnassus asked dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.” “I’m not sorry for that.”
“And I don’t expect you to be.” Mr. Parnassus looked down at his hands. “Can I tell you a secret?”
That startled Linus. He’d gathered that the master of Marsyas didn’t dispense his secrets often. It was infuriating, but understandable. “Yes? Of course.”
“I worried too, when I heard he was being sent to the island.” Linus stared at him. “You worried?”
Mr. Parnassus arched an eyebrow. Linus found that he had to remind himself that according to his file, this man was five years older than he. He looked oddly young. Linus didn’t know why, but he sat a little straighter, and if he sucked in his stomach slightly, it was no one’s business but his own. “Why do you sound so offended?”
“I worry when the bus is late. I worry when I sleep through my alarm. I worry when I go to the store on the weekends, and avocados are so expensive. Those are worries, Mr. Parnassus.”
“Those are mundane,” he corrected gently. “The trappings of a normal life. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I say worried because it’s the best way I know how to express my feelings. I worried because he was alone, but I feel that way with all these children. I worried how he would fit in with the others who were already here. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to provide him what he needed.”
“And him being what he is?” Linus asked. “Did you worry about that too? It seems to me that should have been at the forefront of all your worries.”
He shrugged. “Of course, but it didn’t outweigh anything else. I understood the severity of the situation, Mr. Baker. But I couldn’t let that become the focus. That’s all he’s ever known, people worrying about what he is, what he’s capable of. Because their worry was only a thin cover for fear and revulsion. And children are far more observant than we give them credit for. If he saw the same thing in me as everyone else, what hope would there be?”
“Hope?” Linus said stupidly.
“Hope,” Mr. Parnassus repeated. “Because that is what we must give him, what we must give all of them. Hope and guidance and a place to call their own, a home where they can be who they are without fear of repercussion.”
“Forgive me, but I think to equate Lucy to the others is a bit shortsighted. He’s not like anyone else.”
“Neither is Talia,” Mr. Parnassus snapped. “Or Theodore. Or Phee or Sal or Chauncey. They’re here because they aren’t like everyone else. But that doesn’t mean that’s the way it needs to stay.”
“You sound naïve.”
“I’m frustrated,” Mr. Parnassus said. “These children are faced with nothing but preconceived notions about who they are. And they grow up to be adults who know only the same. You said it yourself: Lucy wasn’t who you expected him to be, which means you already had decided in your head
what he was. How can we fight prejudice if we do nothing to change it? If we allow it to fester, what’s the point?”
“And yet you stay here on the island,” Linus said defensively. “You don’t leave. You don’t let them leave.”
“I am protecting them from a world that doesn’t understand. One day at a time, Mr. Baker. If I can instill confidence in them, a sense of self, then hopefully it will give them the tools they need to face the real world, especially since it will be just as hard for them. It doesn’t help when DICOMY sends someone like you to interfere.”
“Someone like me?” Linus asked. “What’s that supposed—”
Mr. Parnassus huffed out a breath. “I apologize. That was unfair. I know you’re only doing your job.” His smile was brittle. “Regardless of your employer, I think you are capable of seeing beyond a file or a particular nomenclature.”
Linus wasn’t sure if he’d been insulted or complimented. “Have there been others? Before me? Caseworkers.”
Mr. Parnassus nodded slowly. “Once. I only had Talia and Phee then, although Zoe—Ms. Chapelwhite—had already offered her assistance. There were rumors of the others, nothing concrete. But I made this house a home for those I had, and in preparation in case more came. Your predecessor, he … changed. He was lovely, and I thought he was going to stay. But then he changed.”
Linus heard all the things that weren’t being said. He understood now why Ms. Chapelwhite had laughed at him when he’d awkwardly asked if she and Mr. Parnassus were involved. And though it was surely none of his business, he asked, “What happened to him?”
“He was promoted,” Mr. Parnassus said quietly. “First to Supervision. And then, last I heard, to Extremely Upper Management. Just like he always wanted. I learned a very harsh lesson then: Sometimes wishes should never be spoken aloud as they won’t come true.”
Linus blinked. Surely he couldn’t mean— “Not the man with jowls.” Mr. Parnassus chuckled. “No.”
“Or the bespectacled man.”
“No, Mr. Baker. Not the bespectacled man.”
That left the handsome man with wavy hair. Mr. Werner. The one who had told Linus there were concerns about the capabilities of Arthur Parnassus. Linus was scandalized, though he couldn’t quite be sure why. “But he is so … so…”
“So?” Mr. Parnassus asked.
Linus latched onto the only thing he could think of. “He serves dried- out ham at the holiday parties! It’s terrible.”
Mr. Parnassus stared at him for a moment before he burst out laughing. Linus was startled by how warm and crackly the sound was, like waves crashing over smooth rocks. “Oh, my dear Mr. Baker. I do truly marvel at you.”
Linus felt oddly proud. “I try.”
“So you do,” he said, wiping his eyes.
They sat in silence again, and it was the most comfortable Linus had felt since arriving on the island. He didn’t dare examine it much, for fear it would show him things he wasn’t ready to see, but he knew it was there. But, like all things, it was temporary. His time here, much like his time in this world, was finite. It wouldn’t do to think otherwise.
Then, without even thinking, he said, “Kant, Arthur? Seriously? Of all the things.”
Mr. Parnassus’s eyes sparkled in the failing sunlight. “He had his fallacies.”
“Oh, that’s an understatement if I ever heard one. Schopenhauer said—” “Schopenhauer? I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you,
Linus. You are banished from the island. Leave immediately.”
“He had some very pointed critiques! And he did so only to further validate Kant’s work!”
Mr. Parnassus scoffed. “Validation wasn’t something Kant—” “My good man, that’s where you are surely wrong.”
And on and on it went.
