The House in the Cerulean Sea(21)

Nothing.

“Right,” he said. “Well. Perhaps we can just stay in here until tomorrow.”

And then he heard the unmistakable giggle of a child.

“Or maybe we should leave,” he said weakly.

Calliope scratched the front of the crate.

“I know, I know. But there appears to be something out there, and I don’t know if either of us wants to be eaten.”

She scratched again.

He sighed. She’d been good for the most part. The trip had been long, and it wasn’t fair of him to leave her cooped up.

“Fine. But you will be quiet while I sit here and think and try to ignore childlike laughter coming from the strange house so very far away from everything I know.”

She didn’t put up a fight when he opened the crate and pulled her into his lap. She sat regally, staring out the window, eyes wide. She didn’t make a sound when he stroked her back.

“All right,” Linus said. “Let’s review, shall we? I can either do what I was sent here to do, or I can sit here and hope a better idea comes to me, preferably where I keep all my bits and bobs as they are.”

Calliope dug her claws into his thighs.

He winced. “Yes, yes. I suppose you’re right. It is cowardly, but it also means we stay alive.”

She licked her paw slowly before brushing it over her face.

“No need to be rude,” he muttered. “Fine. If I must.” He reached for the door handle. “I can do this. I will do this. You stay here, and I’ll—”

He didn’t have time to react. He opened the door, and Calliope leapt from his lap. She hit the ground and took off running toward the garden.

“Of all the— You stupid cat! I will leave you here!”

He would do no such thing, but empty threats were better than no threats at all.

Calliope disappeared beyond a line of perfectly maintained bushes. He thought he saw a flash of her tail, but then she was gone.

Linus Baker was not a fool. He prided himself in that regard. He was well aware of his limitations as a human being. When it was dark, he preferred to be locked safely inside his house, wearing his monogrammed pajamas, a record playing on the Victrola, holding a warm drink in his hands.

That being said, Calliope was essentially his only friend in the entire world.

So when he climbed out of the car, rocks crunching under his feet in the driveway, it was because he understood that sometimes, one had to do unsavory things for those one cared about.

He followed where she’d run off to, hoping she hadn’t gotten far. The sun was almost gone, and while the house itself was still foreboding even though lights appeared to be on inside, the sky above was lit in colors he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before, at least not mixed together as they were. He could hear the waves crashing far down below the cliff, and seagulls screamed overhead.

He reached the line of bushes that Calliope had disappeared behind. There was a small stone path that led into what he thought was the garden, and he hesitated only briefly before entering.

The garden was far bigger than it had first appeared. The gazebo that he’d seen from the road was farther ahead, strung with red and orange paper lanterns that swung in the breeze. Their lights flickered softly, and there came the distant sound of chimes.

The garden itself was blooming wildly. He didn’t see any sunflowers, but there were calla and Asiatic lilies. Dahlias. Celosias. Chrysanthemums, orange gerberas, and Chinese bellflowers. There were even beautyberries, something he hadn’t seen since he was a child. The air was thick and redolent, and it made him slightly dizzy.

“Calliope,” he called softly. “Come now. Don’t make this difficult.”

She didn’t appear.

“Fine, then,” he said irritably. “I can always make a new friend. After all, there are many cats who need to be adopted. A new kitten would fix this problem quite easily. I’ll just leave you here. It’s for the best.”

He would do no such thing, of course. He continued on.

There was an apple tree growing near the house, and Linus blinked when he saw red and green and pinkish apples, all different varieties growing on the same limbs. He followed the trunk down toward the ground and saw—

A little statue.

A garden gnome.

“How quaint,” he murmured as he moved toward the tree.

The statue was bigger than the ones he had seen before, the tip of its pointed cap about waist-high. It had a white beard, and its hands were clasped at its front. The paint job that had been done on the statue was remarkably detailed, almost lifelike in the fading light. The eyes were bright blue, and its cheeks were rosy.

“Strange statue, aren’t you?” he said, hunkering down in front of it.

Had Linus been in his right mind, he would have noticed the eyes. However, he was tired, out of sorts, and worried about his cat.

Therefore, the noise that came out of him wasn’t that surprising when the gnome statute blinked and said rather haughtily, “You can’t just say something like that about a person. It’s rude. Don’t you know anything?”

His scream was strangled as he fell backward, hand digging into the grass underneath him.

The gnome sniffed. “You’re awfully loud. I don’t like it when people are loud in my garden. If you’re loud, you can’t hear the flowers talking.” And she (because she was a she, beard and all), reached up and straightened her cap. “Gardens are quiet spaces.”