The House in the Cerulean Sea(53)

“Fine,” Zoe muttered, glaring at the butcher. “Just dickering.”

“No dickering,” the butcher said in a thick accent that Linus couldn’t place. “No dickering. All price go up!”

Zoe’s eyes narrowed. “For everyone?”

“Yes!” the butcher insisted. “For everyone!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I take meat back, then.”

Zoe reached out and snatched it from the countertop. “No. It’s fine. But I’ll remember this, Marcel. Don’t you think I won’t.”

He flinched but didn’t say another word.

She dropped the meat in the cart and began to push it away. Linus followed.

“What’s all that about?”

She gave him a tight smile. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Get your report sent off?”

“I did.”

“And I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what was in it.”

He gaped at her. “Of course not! That is a privileged communication meant for—”

She waved him off. “Might as well try.”

“—and furthermore, as outlined in RULES AND REGULATIONS, page 519, paragraph twelve, subparagraph—”

She sighed. “I have no one to blame but myself.”

He thought about telling Zoe (odd, that, calling her by her first name; most unusual) what the man at the post office had said, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because he felt it wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before. And besides, he told himself, the sun was shining. It was such a lovely day. There was no need to put a damper on it with the words of a bigot.



* * *



There was a damper put on the day almost immediately after their return to the island.

Really. He should have expected it.

Merle hadn’t said much beyond muttering how they took longer than expected, but they ignored him. As they were ferried back to the island, Linus watched a seagull following them overhead, and he remembered his mouse pad at DICOMY, the picture of the beach asking if he wished he was here.

He was. He was here.

And that was dangerous thinking. Because this was not a holiday, a trip well deserved after all his hard work. He was still working, and regardless of where he was, he couldn’t forget that. He had already gone far beyond what he was used to—this Zoe and Arthur business certainly wasn’t professional—but it would only be for three weeks more. His house waited for him, as did his sunflowers. Calliope certainly wanted to go home, no matter how often she could be found lying out in the sunlight in the garden for hours without moving. And so what if she had meowed at him for the first time when he’d traced a finger between her ears, wondering if he was about to lose a hand? It meant nothing.

Linus had a life.

A life which, unfortunately, seemed to be bent on stretching the boundaries of his sanity.

He stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom of the guest house and stared at his reflection. “Oh dear.”

Zoe had shoved a bag into his hand, telling him she’d gotten him an outfit for the adventure that afternoon. She had ignored his protests as she’d hoisted every single grocery bag out of the back of the car as if they weighed nothing. She’d left him standing in the driveway.

He planned on leaving the bag unopened in the guest house.

If he pretended it wasn’t there, then he wouldn’t need to look inside.

To distract himself, he put away the clothes that had been cleaned and laid out on his bed. There was a note placed on top of them that read: Your weekly washing service is complete! Thank you for staying at Marsyas Island! Your bellhop, Chauncey. The fact that Chauncey seemed to have washed all his clothes, including his underthings, definitely wouldn’t do. Linus would have to speak to him about boundaries. No doubt he’d angle for a tip.

It was while he was straightening out his ties that he realized only three minutes had passed, and he was still thinking about the bag.

“Just a peek,” he muttered to himself.

He peeked.

“What in the world?” he asked no one in particular. “Surely not. This is most inappropriate. Why, I never. Who does she think she is? Sprites. Useless, the lot of them.”

He closed the bag and tossed it back on the floor in the corner.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Perhaps he could open his copy of RULES AND REGULATIONS to give himself a refresher. He obviously needed it. He was getting too … familiar with the people here. A caseworker needed to retain a degree of separation. It allowed them to be objective and not let their opinions be colored or swayed. It could be to the detriment of a child. He had to be professional.

He stood, meaning to do just that. Perhaps he could sit on the porch in the sun while he read. That sounded perfect.

He was surprised when instead of picking up the heavy tome, he lifted the bag from the floor again. He opened it, looking in. The contents hadn’t changed.

“Probably wouldn’t even fit,” he muttered to himself. “She can’t just eyeball me and figure out my size. She shouldn’t be eyeballing me anyway. It’s rude.”

And with that, of course, he felt the need to prove her wrong. That way, when he saw Zoe again (later, and certainly not after going on some kind of frivolous adventure), he could tell her that she should avoid a career as a personal shopper, seeing how bad she was at it.