The House in the Cerulean Sea(3)

“Actually, I do have another—”

“Submit it in writing,” Linus called, already through the door. “I look forward to it.” He shut it behind him, the latch clicking in place. He took a deep breath before exhaling slowly. “Now you’ve gone and done it, old boy. She’ll send you hundreds of questions.”

“I can still hear you,” the master said through the door.

Linus startled before hurrying down the hall.



* * *



He was about to leave through the front door when he paused at a bright burst of laughter coming from the kitchen. Against his better judgment, he tiptoed toward the sound. He passed by posters nailed to the walls, the same messages that hung in all the DICOMY-sanctioned orphanages he’d been to. They showed smiling children below such legends as WE’RE HAPPIEST WHEN WE LISTEN TO THOSE IN CHARGE and A QUIET CHILD IS A HEALTHY CHILD and WHO NEEDS MAGIC WHEN YOU HAVE YOUR IMAGINATION?

He stuck his head in the kitchen doorway.

There, sitting at a large wooden table, was a group of children.

There was a boy with blue feathers growing from his arms.

There was a girl who cackled like a witch; it was fitting seeing as how that’s what her file said she was.

There was an older girl who could sing so seductively, it brought ships crashing onto the shore. Linus had balked when he’d read that in her report.

There was a selkie, a young boy with a fur pelt resting on his shoulders.

And Daisy and Marcus, of course. Sitting side by side, Daisy exclaiming over his tail cast through a mouthful of biscuit. Marcus grinned at her, his face a field of rusty freckles, tail resting on the table. Linus watched as he asked her if she would draw him another picture on his cast with one of her colored pencils. She agreed immediately. “A flower,” she said. “Or a bug with sharp teeth and stinger.”

“Ooh,” Marcus breathed. “The bug. You have to do the bug.”

Linus left them be, satisfied with what he’d seen.

He made his way to the door once more. He sighed when he realized he’d forgotten his umbrella once again. “Of all the—”

He opened the door and stepped out into the rain to begin the long journey home.





TWO


“Mr. Baker!”

Linus groaned to himself. Today had been going so well. Somewhat. He’d gotten a spot of orange dressing on his white dress shirt from the soggy salad he’d purchased from the commissary, a persistent stain that only smudged when he’d tried to rub it away. And rain was thundering on the roof overhead, with no signs of letting up anytime soon. He’d forgotten his umbrella at home yet again.

But other than that, his day had been going well.

Mostly.

The sounds of clacking computer keys stopped around him as Ms. Jenkins approached. She was a stern woman, hair pulled back so severely that it brought her unibrow up to the middle of her forehead. He wondered every now and then if she had ever smiled in her life. He thought not. Ms. Jenkins was a dour woman with the disposition of an ornery snake.

She was also his supervisor, and Linus Baker didn’t dare cross her.

He nervously pulled on the collar of his shirt as Ms. Jenkins approached, weaving her way between the desks, her heels snapping against the cold, stone floor. Her assistant, a despicable toad of a man named Gunther, followed close behind her, carrying a clipboard and an obscenely long pencil he used to keep tally of those who appeared to be slacking on the job. The list would be totaled at the end of the day, and demerits would be added to an ongoing weekly tally. At the end of the week, those with five or more demerits would have them added to their personal files. Nobody wanted that.

Those whom Ms. Jenkins and Gunther passed by kept their heads down, pretending to work, but Linus knew better; they were listening as best they could to find out what he’d done wrong, and what his punishment would be. Possibly he’d be forced to leave early and have his pay docked. Or perhaps he’d have to stay later than normal and still have his pay docked. At worst, he’d be fired, his professional life would be over, and he wouldn’t have any pay to get docked ever again.

He couldn’t believe it was only Wednesday.

And it was made worse when he realized it was actually Tuesday.

He couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done out of order, unless he’d gotten back a minute late from his allotted fifteen-minute lunch, or his last report had been unsatisfactory. His mind raced. Had he spent too long trying to get the dressing stain off? Or had there been a typo in his report? Surely not. It’d been pristine, unlike his shirt.

But Ms. Jenkins had a twisted look on her face, one that didn’t bode well for Linus. For a room he always thought was frigid, it was now uncomfortably warm. Even though it was drafty—the miserable weather only making things worse—it did nothing to stop the sweat from trickling down the back of his neck. The green glow from the screen of his computer felt over-bright, and he struggled to keep his breathing slow and even. His doctor had told him his blood pressure was too high at his last physical, and that he needed to cut the stressors from his life.

Ms. Jenkins was a stressor.

He kept that thought to himself.

His small wooden desk was almost at the center of the room: Row L, Desk Seven in a room comprising twenty-six rows with fourteen desks in each row. There was barely any space between the desks. A skinny person would have no trouble getting by, but one who carried a few extra pounds around the middle (few being the operative word, of course)? If they’d been allowed to have personal knickknacks on their desks, it’d probably end in disaster for someone like Linus. But seeing as how that was against the rules, he mostly ended up bumping into them with his wide hips and apologizing hastily at the glares he received. It was one of the reasons he usually waited until the room was mostly empty before he left for the day. That and the fact he’d recently turned forty, and all he had to show for it was a tiny house, a crusty cat that would probably outlive everyone, and an ever-expanding waistline his doctor had poked and prodded with a strange amount of glee while bloviating about the wonders of dieting.