The House in the Cerulean Sea(68)

Linus smiled. “I understand. There’s something magical about the clack of the keys that a computer can’t emulate. I should know. Most days, I sit in front of one at work. It can hurt my eyes too, after a time, though I believe your vision is a little sharper than mine.”

“I don’t want to talk about what I write,” Sal said quickly.

“Of course,” Linus said easily. “It’s private. I would never ask you to share something you aren’t ready to.”

That seemed to appease Sal slightly. “It’s just—it doesn’t make sense, sometimes. My thoughts. And I try to write them all down to find an order, but—” He looked as if he were struggling to find the right words.

“It’s personal,” Linus said. “And you’ll find the order when you’re ready. If it’s anything like what you read previously, I’m sure it’s going to be quite moving. How long have you been writing?”

“Two months. Maybe a little less.”

So only since he’d been at Marsyas. “Not before?”

Sal shook his head. “I never—no one let me before. Until I came here.”

“Arthur?”

Sal scuffed a shoe against the rug. “He asked me what I wanted more than anything. For the first month, he asked me once a week, telling me when I was ready to answer, he’d do whatever he could within reason.”

“And you said a typewriter?”

“No.” He looked down at Calliope. “I told him I didn’t want to have to move again. That I wanted to stay here.”

Linus blinked against the sudden and unexpected burn in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “And what did he say?”

“That he’d do whatever he could to make sure that happened. And then I asked for a typewriter. Zoe brought it the next day. And the others found the desk in the attic and cleaned it up. Talia said she polished it until she thought her beard was going to fall out from all the chemicals. And then they surprised me with it.” His lips curved up. “It was a good day. Almost like it was my birthday.”

Linus crossed his arms to keep his hands from shaking. “And you put it in the closet? I should think it would look nice in front of the window.”

Sal shrugged. “It—the closet helped me feel small. I wasn’t ready to be bigger yet.”

“I wonder if you’re ready now,” Linus mused aloud. “Your room is a little bigger than the closet, but not so big that it feels like all the walls have fallen away. It’s like the village at night. You can see them, but they can’t see you, though there is all that space between you. A little perspective, I think.”

Sal looked down. “I never—I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Just an idea. The desk is perfect where it is, if that’s what you want. It doesn’t need to be moved until you’re ready, or even at all. For all I know, the window might prove to be a distraction.”

“Do you have a window where you work?”

Linus shook his head. He thought this was dangerously personal, but did it really hurt anyone? “I don’t. DICOMY isn’t … well. They’re not fond of windows, I think.”

“DICOMY,” Sal spat, and Linus cursed inwardly. “They—they’re—I don’t—”

“It is where I work,” Linus said. “But you knew that. And you said yourself that I wasn’t like the others.”

Sal’s hands were curled into fists again. “You could be.”

“Perhaps,” Linus admitted. “And I can see why you’d think that with all that you’ve been through. But I want you to remember that you have nothing to prove to me. I have to prove myself to you, that I have your best interests in mind.”

“Arthur is good,” Sal said. “He doesn’t—he’s not like the others were. The masters. He’s not—he’s not mean.”

“I know that.”

“But you said you were investigating him.”

Linus frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that aside from a private conversation. How did you—”

“I’m a dog,” Sal snapped at him. “My hearing is better. I could hear you. You said it wasn’t a visit. It was an investigation. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to listen in, but that’s what the others said too. That they were investigating. It’s why I never get to put things up in my room like Talia or Lucy. Because it’s always temporary. Anytime I’ve ever thought I was going to finally have a place to stay, it was taken from me.”

He cursed inwardly. “That wasn’t for you to hear.” Sal began to shrink away from him like Linus had raised a hand to him. “No,” Linus said quickly. “That’s not—what I meant was, I should have been more aware of what I said. I should have been more careful with my words.”

“So you’re not investigating Arthur?”

Linus started to shake his head but stopped. He sighed. “It’s not Arthur, Sal. Or, at least it’s not just Arthur. It’s the orphanage as a whole. I know you’ve had … less than desirable experiences in the past, but I swear to you this is different.” He didn’t know if he believed his own words or not.

Sal eyed him warily. “And what happens if you decide to make us leave? Won’t you be the same, then?”