The House in the Cerulean Sea(116)

“I think we’re done here, Mr. Baker,” Charles said coolly. “I believe we have a clear understanding of where you stand. You were right; your report said it all.”

Linus felt cold, though he was sweating profusely. All the fight seemed to rush out of him, and all that remained was exhaustion. “I—I just—”

“No more,” the woman said. “You’ve … no more. We will consider your recommendation and have a final decision in the coming weeks. Leave, Mr. Baker. Now.”

He picked up his briefcase. He heard the picture frame rattle inside. He glanced back up at Extremely Upper Management before he turned and fled.



* * *



Ms. Bubblegum was waiting for him outside the chambers. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth hung open.

“What?” Linus asked irritably.

“Nothing,” she managed to say. “Absolutely nothing at all. You were very … um. Loud.”

“Yes, well, sometimes volume is needed to get through thick skulls.”

“Wow,” she whispered. “I need to go call—never mind who I need to call. You can find your way out, can’t you?”

She hurried away and disappeared behind the door that led to her booth.

He walked slowly away. As he passed out of the offices of Extremely Upper Management, he heard her talking excitedly, but he couldn’t make out the words.



* * *



He thought about leaving. About just … leaving it all behind.

He didn’t.

He went back down to his desk.

Furious whispers ceased as soon as he walked into the room.

Everyone stared at him.

He ignored them, making his way to Row L, Desk Seven. He didn’t even apologize when his wide hips bumped into things.

He felt the gazes of dozens of people tracking every step he took, but he kept his head held high. After all he’d been through, after everything he’d seen and done, what his colleagues thought of him didn’t matter in the slightest.

When he made it to his desk, he sat down and opened his briefcase. He took out the photograph and propped it up on his desk.

No one said a word.

Ms. Jenkins stood in front of her office, scowling at him. Gunther scribbled furiously on his clipboard. Linus thought he could shove his demerits up his ass.

He took a folder off the top of a pile and got back to work.





NINETEEN


Three weeks later, nothing much had changed.

Oh, yes, he dreamed of the ocean, of an island with white sandy beaches. He dreamed of a garden and a copse of trees that hid a little house. He dreamed of a burnt cellar door, and the day the music died, and of the way Lucy laughed. The way Talia muttered in Gnomish. The way Sal could be so big but felt so little in his arms. The way Chauncey stood in front of his mirror, saying Hello, sir, welcome, welcome, welcome, as he tipped his bellhop cap. The way Phee’s wings sparkled in the sunlight. Of buttons, and wyverns named Theodore. Of Zoe, her hair bouncing in the wind as she tore down sandy roads in her car.

And of Arthur, of course. Always Arthur. Of fire burning, of wings spread in orange and gold. Of a quiet smile, the amused tilt of his head.

Oh, how he dreamed.

Every morning it was getting harder and harder to pull himself out of bed. It was always raining. The sky was always metal gray. He felt like paper. Brittle and thin. He dressed. He rode the bus to work. He sat at his desk, going through one file after another. He ate wilted lettuce for lunch. He went back to work. He rode the bus home. He sat in his chair, listening to Bobby Darin singing about somewhere beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me.

He thought of the life he had. How he could have ever thought it’d be enough.

His thoughts were all cerulean.

Every day he went to work, he took time to touch the photograph on his desk, the photograph that no one dared say anything about. Ms. Jenkins had even kept to herself, and though Linus received demerit after demerit (Gunther gleefully scratching on his clipboard), she didn’t say a word. In fact, he was ignored. Linus was just fine with that. He suspected Ms. Bubblegum had something to do with that, the gossipy thing that she was.

It wasn’t all rain and clouds. He took his time, going back through his old files, reviewing the reports he’d written for all the orphanages he’d visited, making notes, preparing for a shimmery future he wasn’t even sure was in his grasp. He winced at some of what he’d written (most of it, if he was being honest with himself), but he thought it important. Change, he reminded himself, started with the voices of the few. Perhaps it would amount to nothing, but he wouldn’t know unless he tried. At the very least, he could follow up with some of the children he’d met before and find out where they were now. And, if all went as he hoped, he wouldn’t let them be left behind or forgotten.

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

But no one ever did.

He shouldn’t have felt as giddy as he did, breaking the law. It should have caused his stomach to twist, his heart to burn, and perhaps it did, to an extent. But it was no match for his determination. His eyes were open, and the brief moments of exhilaration he felt did much to temper his lawlessness the more the days dragged on.