The House in the Cerulean Sea

by TJ Klune

  Linus’s mouth felt dry. He licked his lips. “You’re … welcome?”

  The woman leaned forward. “Your personnel file says you’ve been employed in the Department for seventeen years.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And in all that time, you’ve maintained your current position.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why is that?”

  Because he had no prospects for anything else and no desire for Supervision. “I enjoy the work I do.”

  “Do you?” she asked, cocking her head.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a caseworker,” he said, fingers slipping slightly on his briefcase. “I don’t know that there is a more important position.” His eyes widened. “Other than what you do, of course. I wouldn’t presume to think—”

  The bespectacled man shuffled through papers in front of him. “I have here your last six reports, Mr. Baker. Do you want to know what I see?”

  No, Linus didn’t. “Please.”

  “I see someone who is very thorough. No nonsense. Clinical to a startling degree.”

  Linus wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. It certainly didn’t sound like one. “A caseworker must maintain a degree of separation,” he recited dutifully.

  Jowls sniffled. “Is that so? Where is that from? It sounds familiar.”

  “It’s from RULES AND REGULATIONS,” Handsome said. “And I should hope you recognize it. You wrote most of it.”

  Jowls blew his nose into his kerchief. “Indeed. I knew that.”

  “Why is it important to maintain a degree of separation?” the woman asked, still staring down at him.

  “Because it wouldn’t do to get attached to the children I work with,” Linus said. “I’m there to make sure the orphanages I inspect are kept in tip-top shape, and nothing more. Their welfare is important, but as a whole. Individual interaction is frowned upon. It could color my perception.”

  “But you do interview the children,” Handsome said.

  “Yes,” Linus agreed. “I do. But one can be professional while dealing with magical youth.”

  “Have you ever recommended the closing of an orphanage in your seventeen years, Mr. Baker?” the bespectacled man asked.

  They had to already know the answer. “Yes. Five times.”

  “Why?”

  “The environments weren’t safe.”

  “So, you do care.”

  Linus was getting flustered. “I never said I didn’t. I merely do what is required of me. There’s a difference between forming attachments and being empathetic. These children … They have no one else. It’s the reason they’re in the orphanages to begin with. They shouldn’t have to lay their heads down at night with an empty stomach, or worry about being worked to the bone. Just because these orphans must be kept separate from normal children doesn’t mean they should be treated any differently. All children, no matter their … disposition or what they’re capable of, must be protected regardless of the cost.”

  Jowls coughed wetly. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what became of the children in the orphanages you closed?”

  Linus blinked. “That’s a matter for Supervision. I make my recommendation, and the Supervisor handles what comes next. Most likely they’re placed in the schools that DICOMY runs.”

  Handsome sat back in his chair. He looked at the others around him. “He’s perfect.”

  “I agree,” Jowls said. “There’s really no other choice for something so … sensitive.”

  The bespectacled man stared down at Linus. “Do you understand discretion, Mr. Baker?”

  Linus felt insulted. “I work with classified youth on a daily basis,” he retorted, more sharply than he intended. “I’m a vault. Nothing gets out.”

  “And it appears nothing gets in,” the woman said. “He’ll do.”

  “Forgive me, but might I ask what exactly you’re talking about? I’ll do for what?”

  Handsome rubbed a hand over his face. “What is said next doesn’t leave this room, Mr. Baker. Do you understand? This is classified level four.”

  Linus took in a stuttering breath. Classified level four was the highest classification. He’d known it existed in theory, but was unaware that it was actually in use. He’d only had a classified level three case once before, and it been most troubling. There’d been a girl in an orphanage who had turned out to be a banshee, a herald of death. DICOMY had been summoned once she started telling all of the other children they were going to die. The problem turned out to be, of course, that she’d been right. The master of the orphanage had decided to use the children as part of a pagan sacrifice. Linus had barely escaped with the children and his life. He’d been given a two-day vacation after that one, the most time off he’d had in years.

  “Why me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  “Because there’s really no one else we can trust,” the woman said simply.

  That should have filled Linus with a sense of pride. Instead, he felt nothing but dread curling in his stomach.

  “Think of this as more of a checkup,” the bespectacled man said. “We haven’t received word of any wrongdoing, but the orphanage you’ll be going to is … It’s special, Mr. Baker. The orphanage is nontraditional, and the six children who live there are different than anything else you’ve seen before, some more than others. They’re … problematic.”

  “Problematic? What’s that supposed to—”

  “Your job will be to make sure everything is on the up-and-up,” Handsome said, a small smile on his face. “It’s important, you see. The master of this specific orphanage, one Arthur Parnassus, is certainly qualified, but we have … concerns. The six children are of the more extreme variety, and we must make sure that Mr. Parnassus continues to be capable of managing them. One would be a handful, but six of them?”

  Linus wracked his brain. He was sure he’d heard of all of the masters in the region, but—“I’ve never heard of Mr. Parnassus.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you have,” the woman said. “But that’s why it’s classified level four. If you had, it would mean we had a leak. We don’t do well with leaks, Mr. Baker. Is that understood? Leaks need to be plugged. Swiftly.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said hastily. “Of course. I would never—”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Jowls said. “It’s part of the reason why you were chosen. One month, Mr. Baker. You will spend one month on the island where the orphanage is located. We will expect weekly reports. Anything that raises alarms must be reported immediately.”

  Linus felt his eyes bulge. “A month? I can’t leave for a month. I have duties!”

  “Your current caseload will be reassigned,” the bespectacled man said. “In fact, it’s already being done.” He flipped to another paper. “And it says here you are quite alone. No spouse. No children. No one to miss you if you had to leave for any extended length of time.”

  That stung more than it should have. He was aware of such things, of course, but to have them so blatantly laid bare caused his heart to stutter. But still—“I have a cat!”

  Handsome snorted. “Cats are solitary creatures, Mr. Baker. I’m sure it won’t even know you’re gone.”

  “Your reports will be directed to Extremely Upper Management,” the woman said. “They will be overseen by Mr. Werner, though we will all be involved.” She nodded toward Handsome. “And we expect them to be as thorough as the ones you’ve done in the past. In fact, we insist upon it. More so, if you deem necessary.”

  “Ms. Jenkins—”

  “Will be informed of your special assignment,” Handsome—Mr. Werner—assured him. “Though the details will be kept at a minimum. Think of this as a promotion, Mr. Baker. One that I believe is a long time in coming.”

  “Don’t I have a say in this?”

  “Think of this as a mandatory promotion,” Mr. Werner corrected. “We expect big thing
s from you. And who knows where this could lead for you if it all goes well? Please don’t let us down. Now, feel free to take the rest of the day to get your affairs in order. Your train leaves tomorrow, bright and early. Do you have any questions?”

  Dozens. He had dozens of questions. “Yes! What about—”

  “Excellent,” Mr. Werner said, clapping his hands. “I knew we could count on you, Mr. Baker. We look forward to hearing from you about the state of affairs on the island. It should be interesting, to say the least. Now, all this blathering on has left my throat parched. I do think it’s time for tea. Our secretary will show you out. It was lovely to meet you.”

  Extremely Upper Management stood as one, bowed down at him, and then all the lights went out.

  Linus squeaked. Before he could begin to fumble in the dark, a light switched back on at the top of the wall. He blinked up at it. Mr. Werner stared down at him, a curious expression on his face. The others were already gone.

  “Something else?” Linus asked nervously.

  Mr. Werner said, “Beware, Mr. Baker.”

  That was certainly ominous. “Beware?”

  Mr. Werner nodded. “You must prepare yourself. I cannot stress enough how important this assignment is. Leave no detail out, no matter how small or inconsequential it may seem.”

  Linus bristled. It was one thing to question his readiness, but it was something else entirely to question the thoroughness of his reports. “I always—”

  “Let’s just say I have a vested interest in what you find,” Mr. Werner said, ignoring Linus’s spluttering indignation. “It goes beyond mere inquisitiveness.” He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t like being disappointed, Mr. Baker. Please don’t disappoint me.”

  “Why this place?” he asked rather helplessly. “What brought this orphanage to your attention and requires the oversight of a caseworker? Has the master done something to—”

  “It’s rather what he hasn’t done,” Mr. Werner said. “His monthly reports are … lacking, especially in the face of who his charges are. We need to know more, Mr. Baker. Order only works if there is complete transparency. If we can’t have that, then we run the risk of chaos. Is there anything else?”

  “What? Yes. I’ve—”

  “Good,” Mr. Werner said. “I wish you luck. I think you’ll need it.”

  And with that, the light went out yet again.

  “Oh dear,” Linus said.

  The golden lights on the floor lit up once more.

  “Are you quite finished?” a voice said near his ear.

  He absolutely did not scream, no matter the evidence to the contrary.

  Ms. Bubblegum stood behind him, gum snapping. “This way, Mr. Baker.” She spun around, dress flaring at her knees, and marched toward the exit.

  Linus followed her quickly, only glancing over his shoulder once into the darkness.

  * * *

  She waited for him just outside the chambers, tapping her foot with impatience. Linus was quite out of breath by the time he passed through the open door. He couldn’t be sure what had just happened was anything more than a fever dream. He certainly felt feverish. It was possible Ms. Bubblegum was a hallucination conjured up by a previously undiagnosed illness.

  A very pushy hallucination, to be sure, as she thrust a thick folder into his hands, causing him to fumble and almost drop his briefcase. “Train ticket is inside,” she said. “In addition, you’ll find a sealed envelope with the files you’ll be needing. I don’t know what it’s about, and I don’t care. I’m paid not to snoop, if you can believe that. You’re not to open the envelope until you’ve stepped off the train at your final destination.”

  “I think I need to sit down,” Linus said weakly.

  She squinted at him. “Of course you can sit down. Just make sure you do it far away from here. Your train leaves at seven tomorrow morning. Don’t be late. Extremely Upper Management will be most displeased if you’re late.”

  “I need to go back down to my desk, and—”

  “Absolutely not, Mr. Baker. I have been instructed to tell you that you are to exit the premises without delay. Speak to no one. I don’t think that should be a problem for you, but it had to be said.”

  “I have no idea what’s going on,” he said. “I’m not even sure if I’m here.”

  “Yes,” Ms. Bubblegum said sympathetically. “Sounds like quite the existential crisis. Perhaps consider having it somewhere else.”

  They were standing in front of the elevators. He hadn’t even known they were moving. The doors slid open in front of him. Ms. Bubblegum shoved him in, and reached in to hit the button for the first floor. She stepped out of the elevator. “Thank you for visiting the offices of Extremely Upper Management,” she said cheerfully. “Have a fantastical day.”

  The doors slid shut before he could speak another word.

  * * *

  It was still raining. He barely even noticed.

  One moment, he was standing in front of the Department in Charge of Magical Youth, and the next, he was on the stone path that led to his porch.

  He didn’t know how he’d gotten there, but that seemed to be the least of his worries.

  He was startled out of his daze when Mrs. Klapper called over to him. “You’re home early, Mr. Baker. Did you get sacked? Or perhaps you received terrible medical news and need time to reconcile with your bleak future?” Smoke curled up around her bouffant from her pipe. “I’m so sorry to hear that. You’ll be missed terribly.”

  “Not dying,” he managed to say.

  “Oh. More’s the pity, I suppose. So that only leaves getting sacked. You poor dear. How will you go on? Especially in this economy. I suppose you’ll have to sell your house and find a dismal apartment somewhere in the city.” She shook her head. “You’ll probably end up murdered. Crime is on the rise, you know.”

  “I didn’t get sacked!”

  She snorted. “I don’t believe you.”

  Linus sputtered.

  She sat forward on her rocker. “You know, my grandson is looking for a personal secretary at his accounting firm. This could be your in, Mr. Baker. I do believe I’ve read stories that started exactly like that. Think about it. Your life is at its lowest this very moment, and you need to start fresh, which leads you to finding your true love. It practically writes itself!”

  “Good day, Mrs. Klapper!” Linus cried as he stumbled up his steps.

  “Think about it!” she shouted after him. “If all goes well, we could be family—”

  He slammed the door shut behind him.

  Calliope sat in her usual spot, tail twitching, seemingly unsurprised at his early return.

  Linus slumped against the door. His legs gave out, and he slid to the carpet.

  “You know,” he told her, “I don’t know if I had a very good day. No, I don’t think I had a good day at all.”

  Calliope, as was her wont, only purred.

  They stayed that way for a long time.

  FOUR

  The train car emptied as it went into the country. People getting on and off stared with open curiosity at the somewhat schlumpy man sitting in seat 6A, a large plastic crate on the empty seat next to him. Inside, a large cat glared balefully out at anyone who bent over to coo at it. One child nearly lost a finger when he tried to stick it in between the slats of the crate.

  The man, one Linus Baker of 86 Hermes Way, barely noticed.

  He hadn’t slept well the night before, tossing and turning in his bed before finally giving up and deciding his time was better spent pacing back and forth in the sitting room. His luggage, an old, scuffed bag with a broken wheel, sat near the door, mocking him. He’d packed it before attempting to sleep, sure he wouldn’t have time in the morning.

  As it turned out, he had all the time in the world, seeing as how sleep remained elusive.

  By the time he boarded the train at half past six, he was in a daze, the bags under his eyes pronounced, his mouth curled
down. He stared straight ahead, one hand resting atop the crate where Calliope fumed. She’d never done well with travel, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He’d considered asking Mrs. Klapper to take care of her in his absence, but the squirrel debacle had most likely soured any chance of Calliope making it through the month unharmed.

  He hoped none of the children were allergic.

  Rain sluiced down the windows as the train chugged along through empty fields and forests with great, old trees. He’d been on the train for almost eight hours when he realized it was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  He looked up from the RULES AND REGULATIONS he’d brought from home.

  He was the only one left in the train car.

  He hadn’t noticed when the last person had left.

  “Huh,” he said to himself. “Wouldn’t that just beat all if I missed my stop? I wonder how far the train goes. Maybe it goes on and on, never reaching the end.”

  Calliope had no opinion of it one way or another.

  He was about to start worrying that he had in fact missed his stop (Linus was nothing if not a consummate worrier), when an attendant in a snappy uniform slid open a door at the end of the car. He was humming to himself quietly, but it was cut off when he noticed Linus. “Hello,” he said amiably. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be here! Must be going a long way on this fine Saturday.”

  “I have my ticket,” Linus said. “If you need to see it.”

  “If you please. Where are you headed?”

  For a moment, Linus couldn’t think. He reached into his coat for his ticket, the large tome in his lap almost falling to the floor. The ticket was slightly crumpled, and he attempted to smooth it out before handing it over. The attendant smiled at him before looking down at the ticket. He whistled lowly. “Marsyas. End of the line.” He punched it with his clicker. “Well, good news, then. Two more stops and you’re there. In fact, if you— Ah yes, look.” He gestured toward the window.

  Linus turned his head, and his breath caught in his throat.

  It was as if the rain clouds had reached as far as they could. The gray darkness gave way to a bright and wonderful blue like Linus had never seen before. The rain stopped as they passed out of the storm and into the sun. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the warmth through the glass against his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt sunlight. He opened his eyes again, and that’s when he saw it, in the distance.