Chapter Twelve

TWELVE

Breakfast on Sunday morning was always a boisterous affair. Linus had decided that it’d been far too long since he’d made pancakes, and created stack after precarious stack, thick slabs of butter melting across the top. On the record player, Thurston Harris And The Sharps wailed about his little bitty pretty one, come on and talk-a to me, lovey dovey lovely one, come sit down on my knee .

By the time they sat down—still in their pajamas, of course; it was Sunday, after all—Arthur could almost pretend it was a normal weekend morning, and that everything was as it should be.

This was shattered when David winced, reaching for the plate of link sausages Talia was handing over to him. He took it from her gingerly, favoring his wrist.

“David,” Arthur said, causing the yeti to jerk his head up and almost drop the plate. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m alive,” David said. “Which is good. I had another sleepover with Lucy.”

“He doesn’t snore,” Lucy said, rolling a pancake into a thin tube and trying to suck up syrup to no avail. “So I let him keep all his blood on the inside.”

“And for that, we’re all grateful,” Linus said. “David, how is your wrist?”

Immediate silence. Everyone froze, waiting.

Aside from David, that is. He lifted his arm, bending his wrist back and forth. “Hurts a little,” he admitted, gaze down at the table. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

“So am I,” Talia muttered, stabbing a sausage with her fork. “I’d like to see her try and grab me without my permission.”

As would I, Arthur thought.

“Why did she do that?” Chauncey asked, a pancake attached to each of the suction cups along his arms. He tried to shake them off, but they held tight. “David was just playing with J-Bone.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “But she was wrong. David, I’m sorry that happened. She had no right to—”

“Why do you do that?” David asked, squinting at Arthur.

“Do what?”

“Apologize when it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to me, so why are you apologizing?”

“Because someone has to,” Arthur said.

“But why is it always you?” Sal asked. “You didn’t do anything to David. You didn’t do anything to us aside from give us a home and let us be happy. Why do you have to be the one to apologize when it’s Miss Marblemaw who did something wrong?”

“Yeah,” Lucy said. “She should be in here ruining our breakfast with an apology.”

Arthur looked to Linus for help, only to be surprised when he said, “I agree with them. While an apology is all well and good, David and Sal make an important point. An apology stems from ownership of an action that can be considered wrong or offensive. You did neither.”

“I’m trying to help them survive,” Arthur snapped, causing everyone to look at him with wide eyes. “These people are callous, destructive. Cruel because cruelty is the point. You think anyone in DICOMY or DICOMA cares about an apology? They don’t . But if they at least can hear it from me, I think—”

“Then why did you try and get them to apologize to you at the hearing?” Phee asked.

Arthur deflated, his anger returning to a low simmer. It was getting harder to control, and that worried him. “I—”

A sausage bounced off his forehead, landing on the table in front of him. Arthur was about to remind Lucy that they didn’t play with their food, but his words lodged in his throat when he saw it wasn’t Lucy.

It was Sal. “Stop it,” he said as Theodore bobbed his head in agreement next to him. “Stop trying to act like you’re doing this alone. You’re not . You have us. You have Linus. You have Zoe and Helen and almost everyone in the village. You taught us to own up to our mistakes, and we do.”

Arthur deflated, head pounding.

“But you also taught us not to take on the mistakes of others as if they’re our own,” Sal continued. “You said that there are too many people out there who want us to apologize for everything, even existing. So why are you giving them the satisfaction when it wasn’t your mistake?”

“It’s not like they can hear me,” Arthur said, feeling strangely defensive.

“But we can,” Sal said. “And what does that look like to us? I’ll tell you. It looks like you’re scared of them. It looks like you’re letting them off the hook.”

“Sal,” Linus said. “We appreciate your thoughts on the matter, but this is more complicated than just that.”

“Sal’s right,” Arthur said, and Linus looked at him with a sad smile. Not pity, just understanding. “All of you are. I think…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think, to be honest. I’m feeling a tad frazzled as of late, but that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have snapped when I did. For that, I will apologize.”

“I didn’t mean to make things hard,” David muttered, hands in his lap. “I can… go, if it’d be easier.” He sniffled, ice forming in the corners of his eyes.

“You didn’t,” Arthur said. “And that sounded suspiciously like an almost-apology, something I’ve recently learned isn’t always necessary. David, you have done nothing wrong. Nothing. You are smart and curious, and I highly doubt I’ll ever meet someone with the stage presence you have. Your offer to leave has been received, considered, and denied. No, you will stay here because this is where you belong.” He looked at each of his children in turn. “This is where all of you belong. And you’re absolutely correct: Miss Marblemaw owes David an apology for her actions yesterday. I will see to it first thing this morning.”

“Ooh,” Talia whispered into a pancake. “That gave me the good shivers. Can I be your backup muscle? I’ll bring three different kinds of shovels so she knows we’re being serious.”

Theodore asked if she was going to hit Miss Marblemaw upside the head with the shovels.

“Nah,” David said, only Linus and Arthur realizing he’d understood Theodore without his translation text. “Everyone knows that you have to kneecap someone. Hitting them in the head might kill them. Hit ’em in the knees, and they can’t run after you, tickety-boo.”

“Wow,” Lucy breathed. “I like the way you think.”

“Why don’t we see how Arthur’s talk with Miss Marblemaw goes before we choose violence?” Linus said. “And Talia, I seem to remember you saying I owed you two hours of weed pulling this morning, so why don’t we let Arthur handle our guest, and we can see to that.”

“Well played, Baker,” Talia said. “I don’t feel manipulated in the slightest. You’re getting better.”

“Thank… you?”

“Last one to eat all their syrup gets sent to the edge of the universe!” Lucy bellowed, and what followed shan’t be described here. Suffice to say it ended with Theodore hanging from the ceiling, Chauncey trying to lick other people’s syrup, Talia pouring syrup directly into her mouth from the bottle, Phee wielding four sausages as weapons, Sal getting a pancake to the face, David standing on his chair and announcing that this was the best breakfast ever, Lucy accusing Linus of cheating (which Linus firmly denied, even though his napkin was suspiciously coated with syrup), and Arthur watching, watching with a light in his soul (and droplets of orange juice in his eyebrows, courtesy of a garden gnome) that burned brighter than any star.

After washing up, Arthur dressed in black slacks and a dress shirt buttoned up to the top. His socks were canary yellow, adorned with little trees. After all, when one prepares for battle, one must look the part.

He left the house behind, smiling as he heard Talia supervising in her garden, telling Linus to put his back into it because the weeds weren’t going to pull themselves. Linus’s answering grumble was too quiet for Arthur to hear clearly, but he could guess at what was said.

It didn’t look as if anyone was home in the guesthouse. The door was shut, blinds drawn across the front windows. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Miss Marblemaw since she’d trudged up the road after Merle ferried her back to the island. Part of him—a small, foolish part—hoped that after yesterday’s events, Miss Marblemaw had packed up her meager belongings and departed for greener pastures. But he knew that even if she had, it wouldn’t be the last they’d hear from her.

Arthur Parnassus could be described as many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He knew deep down no matter what he said, chances weren’t in his favor that Miss Marblemaw would respond with anything resembling an apology. He had to keep his anger in check should that prove to be the case. It was what she wanted, same as Rowder during the hearing: to make him lose control, to have evidence that no child should be left in his care for fear of him erupting in fire, laying waste to anything and everything around him.

“Stab her with kindness,” he murmured to himself as he approached the house.

Plastering a bland smile on his face, Arthur knocked on the door, and waited.

No response.

He knocked again, a little harder this time.

Nothing.

He tried the doorknob. Locked. To be expected. The set of spare keys was back in the house, but if push came to shove, a measly lock wouldn’t stop him. Privacy was important, but Miss Marblemaw had made such courtesy a nonstarter. He knocked again, and when no one answered, stepped off the porch. Considering calling for Zoe to see if she could locate Miss Marblemaw on the island, Arthur first moved around the side of the house. Windows closed, blinds shut here too. The back of the house was set against a small bluff, a rocky trail leading down it into the woods and toward a small beach on the northwest side of the island. They rarely used this beach, seeing as how it was more black rocks than white sand, but it had its charms, otherworldly though they might be. Making a decision, Arthur slid down the trail deftly, leaving a cloud of dirt behind him. At the bottom, he bent over, brushing the dust from his shoes and socks.

It took ten minutes to reach the beach through the trail in the woods. Birds called, insects buzzed, and the warm morning promised an even hotter afternoon. Sunlight dappled the forest floor through the thick canopy, and as Arthur rounded the last bend before the beach, he froze briefly when he heard a voice that should not have been on the island.

“—it’s not as if it’s difficult, Harriet,” Jeanine Rowder said as Arthur moved behind the thick trunk of a palm tree, peering around it out to the beach. “That you’re unable to do what I’ve asked is not only troublesome, it reflects poorly upon you. Perhaps I was wrong to place my faith in you.”

Miss Marblemaw was alone on the beach, standing in front of a large gray boulder. On the rock, the metal briefcase she’d brought to the island, but it didn’t look as it had before. The interior lining of the lid was pulled down, revealing a screen with a green sheen to it, Rowder’s face almost the same color as Chauncey’s. Atop the screen, a tiny satellite dish spun in a slow circle, beeping every few seconds.

“I’m trying, ” Miss Marblemaw replied, sounding more than a little pathetic. “You don’t know what it’s like here. It’s nothing like I was told it would be. These children are—”

“Trying,” Rowder repeated, the screen rolling with wavy lines. “You’re trying . I didn’t send you there to try, Harriet. I sent you there to do what others before you could not. You assured me you were up to the challenge, and yet here you are with evidence to the contrary. You’ve been there for four days. Time is running short. You’re sure you weren’t followed?”

Miss Marblemaw turned her head from side to side, Arthur pulling back behind the tree. “No,” she said finally. “I wasn’t. I don’t know why I couldn’t do this in the house.”

“You know why,” Rowder said. “For all we know, the phoenix has taken a tip from us and bugged the hell out of that house. It’s what I would’ve done. And I wouldn’t have gotten caught .”

Miss Marblemaw’s expression grew pinched. “How was I to know they’d check the lightbulb? You were the one who told me to put it there in the first place!”

“You should have,” Rowder said coldly. “I told you not to underestimate them. Regardless of what else the phoenix is, he’s clever, which makes him dangerous. And having the weapons at his disposal means it’s up to us to stop him.”

“The children,” Miss Marblemaw said.

“Yes,” Rowder said. “I don’t care what else you have to do in order to have the Antichrist removed, but you will do it. I will have him if it’s the last thing I do.”

Though the sun blazed down upon him, it felt as if Arthur had stepped into David’s room again, skin and blood like ice, an electric shiver arcing up and down his spine.

“Are you certain this is the best course of action?” Miss Marblemaw asked, and Arthur’s fury lessened. Not by much, but enough to consider her words carefully. She sounded… unsure? Or something so close to it that it didn’t make a difference. He could work with that. It might take time—not that they had much—but maybe he could convince her that—

“I’m certain,” Rowder replied. “More than I’ve ever been in my life. I have seen what people like them are truly capable of, and I fear for all of our futures. Never before have we been on a precipice like we are now.” Her eyes narrowed. “And need I remind you, without me, you wouldn’t be an inspector. You’d still be in the mail room, toiling away. I lifted you up, put my faith in you. I made you what you are, and this is the thanks I get?” She shook her head. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”

“No!” Miss Marblemaw said quickly, leaning forward. “I can do it. I know I can. It’s just…”

“Spit it out, Harriet. You’re wasting precious time.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

Yes, Arthur thought through fire. Yes.

“I’m not,” Rowder said flatly. “You were at the hearing. You heard what everyone else did. Arthur Parnassus is a liar, but more than that, he’s a magnetic liar. Whatever he says, you mustn’t believe. An animal backed into a corner will do whatever it can to survive. He is no different. We must ensure the children aren’t being brainwashed by whatever he decides is the issue du jour. Are you going to tell me you did everything you could when he unleashes his army upon the world? Could you live with yourself knowing you could have stopped it before it began?”

Miss Marblemaw hesitated.

Arthur breathed in. Arthur breathed out.

She said, “No. I couldn’t.”

Arthur closed his eyes.

“Good,” Rowder said. “Now, about the Antichrist.”

“Why can’t I just take him in the night?” Miss Marblemaw asked. “Sedate him and remove him while everyone sleeps.”

“Are you out of your mind ?” Rowder asked incredulously. “He’d know immediately, and there wouldn’t be enough of you left to bury.”

“But if I sedate the child, he won’t—”

“I’m not talking about the Antichrist, you bloody fool! Arthur Parnassus would burn you to the ground before you made it three steps from the orphanage. No, we do this by the books. Say whatever you must in your reports to get it done, Harriet. Given the… complexities of this situation, I alone have the final decision as to the removal, but mine won’t be the only eyes on your reports. Make it count. Legally, of course.”

“I will,” Miss Marblemaw said. “But—”

“But what ?” Rowder growled. “Out with it, Harriet. I don’t have all day to sit here and listen to you whine on and on. Plans are in motion, and they will not fail because of your ineptitude.”

“But, I just… I have to ask, Miss Rowder. Why would the Antichrist listen to you at all? Why would he do anything you wanted him to? What’s stopping him from killing all of us and returning to the island?”

“That’s where the other children come into play,” Rowder said, and a print of Arthur’s hand burned into the tree, the bark blackened, smoking. “By your account, he’s close with them. He considers them his brothers and sisters, as if a monstrous thing could ever understand family values .” She laughed, a low, throaty thing. “He cannot, as he’s a demon hell-bent on destroying everything we hold dear. But on the off chance there’s a sliver of light in the rotting carcass of his soul, then he’ll do whatever I tell him to keep the other children safe. Imagine having an endless reservoir of magic at the government’s command. Why continue to fight the good fight when we can just as easily place our will upon the world with a gentle hand and a well-placed threat to the Devil himself? Never again will we be questioned for our actions, not when every magical being is under government control through the Antichrist.”

Lucy had thought the same thing. And yet, as a boy of seven years of age, he was making a different decision. He chose joy. He chose happiness. He chose others above himself, even knowing he had the power to do whatever he wished. Why could a child do what adults could not?

“Not everyone will agree with you,” Miss Marblemaw said, clearly uncomfortable. “Most of all Arthur Parnassus and Linus Baker. You saw what Parnassus can do, and I fear that’s only scratching the surface.”

You’re right, Arthur thought coldly. I’ve barely begun to show you what I’m capable of.

“Which is why I entrusted you with this,” Rowder snapped. “Removing the children is the first step. The media is already playing their part by continuing to push the photograph of the bird breaking free in Netherwicke. We couldn’t have planned it better if we tried. The world knows him for what he is now. And when we announce we’ve removed the children, everyone will understand that we saw something, we said something, and we did something that no one else before us could do: we protected the children who needed us most. You have ten days, Harriet. Do not disappoint me. You know what will happen if you do.”

The screen went black. Miss Marblemaw reached up and closed the briefcase.

Arthur left her on the beach.

He did not remember walking back through the woods. He did not remember climbing up the trail, slipping and skinning his palm. He did not remember passing by the shuttered guesthouse. He did not hear Linus and Talia chattering away in the garden. He did not feel the creak of the porch steps beneath his feet. He did not smell the scent of polish—lemon, crisp—that caused wood to gleam. He did not see anything but a narrowed tunnel, the edges as ragged as the harsh breaths he took.

He made it to the bedroom and shut the door, leaning his forehead against it. In his chest, a snarling star of fire, flares snapping like a whip. Rage. Horror. Fear . All of it merging, amassing into a misshapen, sentient lump of oily black.

Nearly blind with panic, he turned, and his heart stuttered in his chest.

“Hope,” his mother said, standing near the window, “is the thing with feathers.” She faced away from him, her straw-colored hair cascading down her back. She wore a lavender dress, the one he remembered vaguely from his youth because it had pockets. According to her, a good dress always had pockets.

“Anger,” she said without looking at him, and he wasn’t so far gone that he thought her real rather than memory, but it was a close thing. “It builds on top of old wounds, on scar tissue. It grows and grows until it becomes all you know.”

He’d been here before. This conversation was one of the few he could remember, a precious treasure hoarded in the furthest recesses of his mind. He had a part to play, and play it he would. When he spoke, it was not as a man, but as a child. “How do you stop it?”

Though he could not see her face—would he even recognize it if he did?—he knew she was smiling. He could hear it in her voice when she said, “With hope, little bird. With hope, because hope is the thing with feathers.”

“ I have feathers,” he said excitedly. And then, “Mother, I—”

But she was gone, gone, gone, years gone, decades gone, and how he had grieved the loss of her, of his father, of the only life he’d ever known, a life with laughter and gazing at the stars and flying higher and higher until he thought he could touch the sky.

With the last of his strength, Arthur stumbled over to his chair, collapsing into it, chest heaving, eyes burning. He raised his hand to his face as his shoulders began to tremble.

He floated through the rest of the day, unable to shake the high-pitched buzzing noise in his ears, a sound that made him feel as if he were being pulled beneath the sea, dragged down to black depths where darkness lived.

The buzzing only grew as the day wore on, Arthur lost to it. There were moments of clarity, brief though they were. Smiling when Talia and Linus came back in the house for lunch, their knees and hands caked with dirt. Nodding when Chauncey ex plained (in great detail!) how he’d spent his morning with David and Lucy, and that they’d pretended to be gigantic beasts knocking over buildings made of wooden blocks. Praising Sal and Theodore for their cataloguing of the wyvern’s hoard with little labels to show why they were important. Exclaiming over a leaf Phee had grown in the shape of Helen, stout, strong, colorful, a perfect representation of its counterpart.

Miss Marblemaw arrived late afternoon, her clipboard clasped firmly in her hands. Appearing no more nervous than she had been the day before, she asked after Zoe, reminding Arthur that she would interview the island sprite, and any efforts to keep that from happening would be considered an act of subterfuge.

As she droned on and on, Arthur wondered what she’d think if he lit her on fire right then and there. Would she scream? Would she plead for her life? Would she beg and beg and beg until her vocal cords melted and smoke streamed from her mouth?

It’s not as if I’d have issues hiding the body, he thought wildly. She’d be nothing but ashes .

“Mr. Parnassus .”

The haze parted and he saw Miss Marblemaw glaring at him, obviously having said his name more than once. They were in his office. He couldn’t remember coming here.

He forced a smile, hoping it would be enough. “What was that?”

“Are you even listening?” she spat. “I expect you to take this seriously, Mr. Parnassus.”

“Oh, I am,” he assured her. “You want Zoe. All you have to do is ask. I’m sure she’d be delighted to speak with you.”

“As she should be,” Miss Marblemaw said with a sniff. “Now, on to other matters. I’ve noticed that Sal and Theodore are—”

He stood from his chair. “Excuse me, Miss Marblemaw. Something requires my attention. I must see to it immediately.”

He walked around the desk, the buzzing sound absolute, his brain a hive of crawling wasps with poison-slick stingers. He had almost made it to the door when Miss Marblemaw grabbed his wrist, her grip firm. “We are in the middle of a discussion,” she told him. “Please take a seat until we’ve finished.”

He looked down at her hand on his arm. David, trying to pull away, whimpering as she yelled in his face.

Have you ever hit a kid?

No.

Slapped them?

No.

Put their fingers in a drawer and closed the drawer so hard, it… it…

He lifted his head and let the phoenix rise behind his eyes. He didn’t know what she saw, but instead of being afraid, she looked merely curious, as if a great firebird appeared before her on a daily basis. As he leaned toward her, Arthur could see himself reflected in her eyes. He looked furious. “Remove your hand,” he said in a low voice. “And if I ever see you touch anyone on this island without their permission again, there is nowhere on this earth you could run that I wouldn’t find you.”

She pulled her hand back slowly. “Another threat, Mr. Parnassus?”

“It is,” he said. “And I mean every word.”

She didn’t speak again.

No matter what he did, he couldn’t stop the fury from growing. It latched on to him, a black shroud wrapped snugly around his shoulders. Sticky. Understanding. Knowing. Come into the darkness where it’s safer, it whispered. They think you a monster. Why not give them what they ask for?

How long? How long had this been part of him? How long had it been building? Since Miss Marblemaw’s arrival? No, it was before that. The hearing? The bug in the hotel room? Agreeing to appear in the first place?

Or was it further back than that? Did it start with Linus? After all, he had been one of them. Yes, he’d seen the error of his ways, but it’d taken him years . Seventeen, to be exact. Years of child after child, of orphanages with masters who understood their jobs, with masters who did not. Why hadn’t he done more? Why hadn’t he acted sooner?

But then, of course, there were the children. Each of them with their history, their trauma, their stories of abuse and survival as if any child should have intimate knowledge of such things. And he took it from them as best he could, shouldering the weight of it, letting them heal, letting them grow, letting them live .

And what of the others? What of all those he helped over the years, all those he couldn’t get to in time? Was it their fault? Or was it the masters who took him in after testifying? The masters who were scared of him, the masters who thought ignoring him would be beneficial for all?

Was it when he was a scared and lonely child forced to relive each and every terrible day during questioning? Perhaps it was when he was pulled out of the cellar into the sunlight for the first time in six months, blinking against the brightness that had nothing to do with his fire. Or maybe it was the cellar itself, the tick marks on the walls. Maybe it was the first time the master had slapped him across the face for speaking out of turn. Or when he was taken by strangers after his parents died, each of them telling him he had nothing to fear, that he would be cared for by people who understood him. Maybe it was the death of his parents—first his father, then his mother—catastrophic events that ruined him in ways he couldn’t expect. Could it have started then?

He thought that might very well be the case.

A lifetime, then. It’d been with him for a lifetime.

He didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know what to do. Supper, though he barely touched his food. The children talking, talking. Zoe sitting to his right, her knee bumping against his. Across the table, Linus, quiet, forehead lined, glancing at Arthur every now and then with increasing frequency. Arthur smiled. Linus did not.

After, in the sitting room, David performed his one-yeti play, PI Dirk Dasher on the hunt for the Beast. Costume changes. Linus taking Jason’s role. Gasps. Laughter. Applause when David bowed, looking stunned at the cheers being lobbed at him. His wrist seemed fine now, and didn’t that just beat all? Either David didn’t feel it anymore—though that memory was undoubtedly seared into his mind, wasn’t it?—or he was trying to push through it. Regardless, Arthur burned.

Sleep. Each of the children in their beds, warm and safe, Chauncey with toothpaste on the corner of his mouth, wiped clean with Arthur’s thumb. “Oh, come on! I was saving that for later!” A gentle kiss on his head between his eye stalks, and as Arthur turned to leave, Chauncey said, “Arthur?”

He stopped. Everything stopped. For a moment, he was himself again, free of the fires of rage. “Yes, Chauncey?” he asked without turning around, knowing he was in the eye of the storm.

“Are you all right? You’ve been quiet today.”

He did the one thing he promised he’d never do: he lied to one of his children. “I’m fine. Just thinking my thoughts.”

“Good thoughts or bad thoughts?”

Perceptive, but then they all were. “Thoughts,” he said, unable to lie again. “Sleep, Chauncey. Tomorrow is another day.”

And it was, wasn’t it? Another day. And then another and then another, where the screws were being tightened, where the shadow of the government stretched long, and he wanted to go to Lucy. Wanted to open the door to his room—a closet? A closet ? Might as well have been a cellar; a master by any other name ( Dad Dad Dad ) was still a master, after all—and say, “You were right. We can’t win. Do what you have to. Don’t hurt anyone, but take their fear away. Take their anger. Take their hatred, their bigotry, and remake the world as it should be.”

It was close—far closer than it should’ve been. His hand was on the doorknob, hearing the low, sweet tones of dead-people music just inside, Buddy Holly singing that you say you’re gonna leave, you know it’s a lie, ’cause that’ll be the day when I die.

“Arthur?”

He whirled around, the buzzing sound like a great, lumbering machine destroying everything in its wake. Linus stood there, just in the doorway, looking concerned. Unsure. Worried, so worried that Arthur almost laughed .

“What is it?”

“These people,” Arthur said, wild, peaks and valleys as his voice rose and fell. “These people . They take and they take and they take . Nothing stops them. Not you. Not me. Not anything we do or say. They will keep coming. There’s nothing we can do.”

Properly spooked, Linus took a step toward him, hands spread as if gentling a dangerous animal, and oh, was that the wrong move.

“Don’t,” Arthur said, taking a step back, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be touched.”

“All right,” Linus said, lowering his hands. “Tell me what’s happened. Tell me how to help.”

Now he did laugh, a harsh, grating sound that was as foreign as it was shocking. “What’s happened? Have you not been paying attention? They’re trying to take my children from me!”

“They won’t,” Linus said. “We won’t let them.”

Arthur scoffed derisively. “And what are we going to do if they try? Are you going to pick up arms and defend them? Are you going to give your life so that the children might have a chance to know a world without prejudice? Because that’s what I’m willing to do.”

“You know I would,” Linus said. “I would do anything for them, for you.”

“Why?” Arthur demanded. “Why here? Why now? Why none of the other children you encountered? Why did you do nothing to help them?” He shouted: “ Why didn’t you save them? ”

Many things happened at once:

fire blooming along his hands, his arms, a pressure building in his chest without end;

and,

Linus, eyes wide, reflecting firelight, taking a step toward him, without fear ;

and,

music spilling out into the room as Lucy opened the door.

All at once, too much, and the phoenix, the phoenix rose up and up, bursting through blood and bone, flesh and memory, until it towered above Linus, Lucy, head bent to keep from scraping against the ceiling…

… only to find Linus standing in front of Lucy.

To protect him from me, Arthur and the phoenix thought as one.

The pressure intensified, his heart and lungs wrapped in a molten band of metal, and the phoenix screamed, long, loud, before turning and crashing through the window, shards of glass illuminated in orange-red, glittering as he unfurled his wings.

Into the sky, wings pumping, a trail of fire left in his wake. Muscles straining, he rose higher and higher, the stars melting, streaking across a black canvas, and he opened his beak to scream again, only to have white-hot fire pour from his mouth. Higher, higher, the horizon now curved, oxygen thin, causing him to gasp again and again.

An apex, as far as he could climb, and he cried out once more as he was consumed. He detonated in a massive explosion that lit up the night sky as if the sun had arisen anew.

The phoenix blasted apart, feathers and fire shooting off in every direction.

He’d taken to the sky as a bird. He fell toward the ocean as a man.

As fire rained down around him, Arthur plummeted, the island off to his right, the ocean a wall of blue-black rushing to meet him. Movement below, the churn of a vortex, spinning faster and faster. A column of water burst from the sea, hurtling toward Arthur. He sucked in a great breath, ribs creaking, and then he was surrounded by water, his descent slowed as he lowered into the ocean. Bubbles flooded around him, making it impossible to see. He didn’t know up from down, and time once again became soft, malleable, as he sank into the ocean.

Something bumped against his nose.

He opened his eyes, blinking against the sting of salt.

A fish floated in front of his face. Gray, a black eye on either side of its head. Small fins on either side, and one on the top. Not the biggest fish he’d ever seen, nor the smallest. Strangely, he recognized it— him .

Frank, he thought in Chauncey’s voice, bellowing at the sea.

Frank’s mouth opened and closed, gills working. He bumped Arthur’s nose again and pulled back. And then he darted down between Arthur’s legs, swirling around the right, then the left. From the depths below, more fish appeared, the same species as Frank. At first a handful, then a dozen, two dozen, three, then hundreds of gray fish swimming in a circle around him, faster and faster. The sea around him began to spin in a whirlpool—the fish becoming paint streaks of iridescent gray—but instead of being pulled farther into the depths, he began to rise.

It started out slow at first, then the speed picked up, and Arthur closed his eyes against the saltwater slamming against his face, his lungs screaming for air, lights flashing in the darkness behind his eyelids. As he breached the surface, he attempted to suck in a great, gasping breath, but before he could, he kept rising, flipping end over end and landing hard on his back on a beach, nude, sand finding its way into all his nooks and crannies almost immediately.

He sat up in a heady daze, mind still sparking and crackling, the phoenix mewling weakly inside him, ready to lapse into healing unconsciousness.

A fish poked its mouth up from the water, opening and closing.

In a hoarse voice, Arthur said, “Thank you, Frank. I won’t forget your kindness.”

Frank leapt from the water, moonlight catching his scales. And then he disappeared into the sea.

Arthur began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, arms wrapped around his middle. The first tear was a surprise, the second a warning, and then the floodgates opened: he wept for the children—both known and unknown. He wept for each raised fist. He wept in bittersweet joy, in ferocious heartbreak. He wept at the unknowable mysteries of this universe.

And for the first time, Arthur Franklin Parnassus wept for himself.

Linus found him sitting under a tree, knees drawn up against his chest. The tree—an old, cranky palm that seemed to enjoy dropping coconuts on unsuspecting heads—grew above the beach Frank had brought him to. Off to the right, in the distance, the house on the cliff, lit up like a lighthouse, a warm beacon in the dark.

“There you are,” Linus said, huffing as he crested the hill, face red, hair a mess as if he’d been running his hands through it. “You gave me such a fright!”

“Did I hurt you?” Arthur asked in a dull voice.

Linus sighed. “You foolish man. Look at the state of you.” He pulled off his robe and kneeled before Arthur, rubbing the water away as best he could. Once finished, he settled the robe on Arthur’s shoulders, fussing over it and making Arthur move around until it was cinched around his waist, his rear now protected from spiky grass. “You’re going to catch a cold,” Linus muttered, rubbing his arms and shoulders. “Where will you be then?”

“You worry too much.”

“So I’ve been told,” Linus said. “Still, someone has to.”

Arthur flinched, the words a sharp rebuke.

“Oh, stop it,” Linus said with a roll of his eyes that reminded Arthur of Phee. “I wasn’t talking about you, and you know it. You worry enough for all of us. And no, you did not hurt me. You didn’t hurt anyone. Even the window is already fixed.”

“Lucy,” Arthur whispered.

“Yes,” Linus said, grunting as he moved to sit next to Arthur, who, for one whose blood ran with fire, found himself colder than he’d ever been in his life. Linus wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close, Arthur’s wet hair pressed against his cheek, his jaw.

Thoughts spun in a violent storm, and it took Arthur a long time before he was able to grab hold of one. It struggled to break free, but he held on with all his might. Above an endless sea and below a sea of stars, Arthur said the one thing he feared above all else. “Perhaps they’re right. Maybe I’m not fit to be a father.”

Linus didn’t answer right away. He stared off into nothing, eyes sad, smile a little sadder. Eventually, he said, “You never got the chance to just… be.”

“What?”

“Always helping,” Linus said. “Always thinking about others. Ever since you were a child, you put the needs of everyone else above yourself. Attempting to mail a letter for someone to come save you and your friends. After, you did your very best to help those in need find a home where they were safe. But you didn’t stop there, did you? No. You bought the same bloody house that by rights you should’ve razed to the ground. You didn’t, though. Instead, you did what you always do, and even with these children, these remarkable children, and even with Zoe and Helen and me and the entire world with their damnable, judgmental eyes upon you, you still persist. You still push on. You help because that’s who you are as a person.”

“But,” Arthur whispered, knowing it was coming.

“ But, ” Linus said, jostling him a little, “when do you help yourself?”

Arthur’s eyes burned, and he could not speak.

Linus kissed the side of his head. “I see what they say about you, even if you try and hide it from me. I see the good. The horrible. All of it. And no matter what I read or hear, I always think, well, yes, but does that mean they really know him? Of course not. How could they know you need a nightly cup of tea before bed or you can’t sleep? How can they know that you sometimes put a flower on my pillow because it reminded you of me? They can’t. They can’t know that you put your blood, sweat, and tears into an act of unmitigated selflessness in making this house a home. They can’t know how you play freeze tag with the children, using the entire island as part of the game. They can’t know how you teach them to be proud of themselves, to have a sense of self-worth. They can’t know the way Lucy looks at you as if you hung the moon and the stars. The way Phee brightens up whenever you enter the room, even if she denies it. The way Sal is learning to stand on his own as a leader because you taught him how. The way Theodore has never felt voiceless, knowing you took the time to learn his language. The way Chauncey continues to be… well, Chauncey, sunshine in blobby form. The way Talia knows that no matter what, she will always have someone to exclaim over flowers with. And even David, the way he talks about you! Arthur did this and Arthur did that . They can’t know any of it, Arthur. Even with their power, they can’t know all that you are. But I do.”

Arthur clutched Linus tighter, shoulders shaking.

Softly, Linus said, “You’ve been strong your entire life. You’ve had to be. Unfairly. Unjustly. But I think you also believe you’re still alone at times, that you have to shoulder everything on your own. You don’t. You have me. I can help you carry the weight of it. I can be your rock. I can’t do what you lot can, but Lucy once told me there is magic in the ordinary. I must be pretty magical, then, but only because I know when I look over, there you’ll be. Fit to be a father? Bah. I’ve never met anyone in my life more fit than you. Any child would be lucky to have you, and I won’t hear anyone saying otherwise, not on my watch, no, sir. You want to have a go at Arthur Parnassus? Well, you’re going to have to deal with me first. And though I may not look it, I can be quite scrappy when I need to be.”

And that was it. That was all it took. Arthur broke, full-body sobs. But it was different from how it’d been after he was helpfully tossed from the sea with assistance from a fish named Frank. Here, now, surrounded by Linus Baker, Arthur felt warm, safe, loved. As Linus whispered words of calm and peace, Arthur sank into the storm and let it blow him away.

Sunrise broke above the sea, clouds aflame. Seagulls cawed on the wind, black-tipped wings spread wide. Waves crashed, a low, familiar rush. The scent of salt and brine thick.

Arthur said, “The explosion.”

Linus startled from a doze, lips smacking. “Beg pardon?”

“The explosion,” Arthur said again. “Did you see it?”

“Yes,” Linus said with a shiver. “I suspect most people did, or at least the aftermath. It rattled the entire island. The phoenix. Is it…” He swallowed thickly. “Gone?”

“Resting,” Arthur assured him. “But there’s more.” He told Linus what he’d heard on the beach, hiding behind a tree. The longer he spoke, the more Linus’s mouth twisted down, his eyebrows rising higher and higher. By the time Arthur had finished, Linus was apoplectic, barely able to string together a coherent thought.

“How dare she—who does she think she—why, I never —ooh, I can’t believe—no.” He took a deep breath, letting it out slow. “No. No, no, no .”

“I agree completely. Did she see?”

“Yes. Unfortunately. She was standing in front of the guesthouse when it happened. Heard the window breaking.”

“Good,” Arthur said. He stood, knees popping. Extending a hand to Linus, he arched an eyebrow. “Coming, dear Linus?”

“Where are we going?” Linus asked, letting himself be pulled up. “It’d better be back to the house for breakfast. I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up an appetite.”

“So have I,” Arthur said, surprised. “But that’ll have to wait. We have work to do.”

“Wait? For breakfast ? You’ve lost the plot, my good fellow. No one should have to wait for breakfast. I’ve changed my mind! Please give the ring back. I’ll find someone who respects a good bit of nosh and doesn’t think it needs to be skipped.”

Arthur kissed him soundly. “No,” he said against Linus’s lips. “I will marry you, and I won’t hear another word to the contrary.”

“Oh, good,” Linus said. “I doubt I’d be able to stumble upon the loves of my life for a second time, so that’s probably for the best.”

Hand in hand, they moved toward home.