The House in the Cerulean Sea(65)

There was a rusted padlock on the door. Whatever was down there—if anything at all—would remain hidden. For a moment, Linus thought about getting one of Talia’s shovels and using it to pry open the door, but dismissed it immediately. It was locked for a reason. Most likely to keep the children out. If there had once been a fire down there, it was unsafe. Arthur had probably put the padlock there himself. It didn’t look as if anyone had been here in ages; the path to the cellar door was overgrown with weeds, which seemed at odds with the rest of Talia’s garden.

“Most likely a coal cellar,” Linus muttered. “Would explain the scorching. And since coal isn’t used as much anymore, better to be safe than sorry.”

He bent over and scooped up his tie.

Calliope watched him with bright eyes.

“This is mine,” he told her. “Stealing is wrong.”

She licked her paw and rubbed it over her face.

“Yes, well, regardless.”

He glanced once more at the cellar door before turning back the way he’d come.

He would have to remember to ask Arthur about the cellar door when they had a moment alone.



* * *



Which, much to his growing consternation, didn’t happen. Why he would feel any sort of consternation over such a thing was beyond him, but there it was. Linus was learning that whatever feelings Arthur Parnassus evoked in him were temporary and the result of proximity. Linus didn’t have many friends (perhaps, if he was being honest with himself, none at all), and considering Arthur Parnassus a friend was a nice idea, however impractical it might be. They couldn’t be friends. Linus was here as a caseworker for DICOMY. Arthur was a master of an orphanage. This was an investigation, and getting too familiar with one of the subjects of said investigation wasn’t proper. The RULES AND REGULATIONS were clear on that: A caseworker, it read, must remain objective. Objectivity is of the utmost importance for the health and well-being of the magical youth. They cannot look to depend upon a caseworker, as the caseworker is NOT THEIR FRIEND.

Linus had a job to do, which meant he couldn’t sit around hoping to speak to Arthur without little ears around. And while Linus believed the sessions between Arthur and Lucy were fascinating, his time couldn’t be spent with just them. There were five other children to consider, and he needed to make sure it didn’t look as if he were playing any favorites.

He went with Talia to her garden, listening as she extolled the virtues (the many, many virtues) of working in the dirt.

He followed Phee and Zoe into the woods, while Zoe talked about the importance of listening to the earth around them, to the trees and the grass and the birds.

He listened as Chauncey regaled him with tales of famous bellhops (most of whom Linus believed were fictional) who opened doors and carried luggage and solved crimes such as jewelry theft or brought up trays for room service. He brought out a thick tome (almost the length of the RULES AND REGULATIONS) from underneath his bed, wrapped in plastic to keep it from getting wet. He grunted as he lifted it above his head to show Linus the title, the plastic crinkling: The History of Bellhops Through the Ages.

“I’ve read it four and a half times,” he announced proudly.

“Have you?” Linus asked.

“Oh yes. I have to make sure I know what I’m doing.”

“Why?”

Chauncey blinked slowly, first his right eye, and then the left. “Why what?”

“Why do you wish to become a bellhop?”

Chauncey grinned. “Because they get to help people.”

“And that’s what you want to do?”

His smile faded slightly. “More than anything. I know I’m…” He clacked his black teeth. “Different.”

Linus startled. “No, that’s not what I—there’s not a single thing wrong with you.”

“I know,” Chauncey said. “Different doesn’t mean bad. Arthur says being different is sometimes better than being the same as everyone else.” He looked at the book clutched in his tentacles. “When people come to hotels, they’re usually tired. They want someone to help them carry their bags. And I’m really good at it. Talia asks me to lift heavy things for her all the time so I can practice.” He frowned, looking down at the book. “Just because I look the way I do doesn’t mean I can’t help people. I know some people think I’m scary, but I promise I’m really not.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Linus said quietly. He nodded toward the book. “Go on, then. Let’s hear about these bellhops throughout the ages. I believe it will be positively riveting.”

Chauncey’s eyes bounced excitedly. “Oh, it is. Did you know that the first use of the word bellhop was in 1897? They’re also called porters or bellmen. Isn’t that amazing?”

“It is,” Linus said. “Perhaps the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”

He sat with Theodore near his nest (never in, because he didn’t want to be bitten), listening to the wyvern chirp as he showed Linus each of his little treasures: a button, a silver coin, another button, a folded up piece of paper with what looked like Sal’s handwriting on it (what it said, Linus couldn’t tell), yet another button.

And he asked them, each of them, if they were happy. If they had any concerns. If anything scared them here on the island.