The House in the Cerulean Sea(35)

“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?”