Chapter Two

TWO

Arthur pushed through the kitchen doors so quickly they bounced off the walls. The conversation ceased immediately as everyone froze.

First, there was Lucy, dragging a chair across the kitchen, his tongue stuck out between his teeth in concentration. His eyes were ringed with red (as they often were when he was doing something that might be dangerous), the cowlicks on either side of his head giving the appearance of black horns made of hair. He wore a frilly pink apron over his frayed plaid shorts and billowing white shirt.

Then there was Talia, a short, squat garden gnome holding at least a dozen eggs. Her white, luxurious beard rested on her chest, the end curled into a little loop. Atop her head, a pointy red cap, the end of which crooked to the left, a tuft of her white hair curling out onto her forehead. She wore a blue vest with a black belt around her waist, and brown trousers with black work boots that rose to her knees, spotted with what appeared to be yolk. Her exposed skin—face and hands—was tanned, evidence of the hours she spent out in the garden. Her cherry-red lips turned into an O as her blue eyes narrowed.

Next was Sal, their resident shifter, who could turn from a boy into a tiny, fluffy dog in the blink of an eye. At fifteen, Sal was the oldest child on the island, the one the other children looked up to. Coming into his own, the once quiet boy had begun using his voice more and more, an extension of the words he put on a page that never failed to enchant whoever was lucky enough to read them. He was tall—as tall as Linus now, much to their chagrin—and while obviously a teenager (lamenting over spots on his nose and forehead, few though there were), he was an old soul, his dark eyes catching almost everything. He, too, wore shorts—tan—and a short-sleeved collared shirt—a warm yellow—with pearl snap buttons, complimenting his dark brown skin. His hair was longer these days, tightly coiled in a way Zoe had taught him how to manage.

Chauncey sat in a mop bucket on the floor near Sal, a soap bubble resting on top of his head between his eye stalks. Above him, sitting on the counter, a Machiavellian feline: Calliope, near the sink, tail swishing dangerously, licking batter off her right front paw, dismissive gaze trained on Arthur.

And Theodore, maw wide open, rows of sharp wyvern teeth on display. He stood on the floor, wings spread, head cocked back, smoke rising from his slitted nostrils. When he saw Arthur, his jaws snapped closed, and he swallowed down whatever had been about to come out. A moment later, he burped out a black cloud of smoke, frantically using his wings to try to make it dissipate in a poor attempt to hide the evidence.

“Uh,” Lucy said. “I can explain?”

“Can you?” Arthur said mildly as Phee and Linus crowded behind him. “Because it sounds as if you’re trying to get Theodore to start fires.”

“That’s exactly what I was doing!” Lucy said. “You know me so well. We don’t need this chair, right? It’s Linus’s, but he told me he likes standing when eating.”

Linus snorted. “I said no such thing.”

“Theodore?” Arthur said. “Is it true? Can you create fire?”

The wyvern glanced at Sal, who nodded. Theodore began to click and growl, spreading his wings and moving his head up and down. Arthur listened intently as Theodore explained that he’d woken up a few days before with a brightness in his chest he’d never felt before. He ignored it at first, but it made him itchy, like his skin was vibrating. He hadn’t said anything because he thought it’d pass on its own.

It wasn’t until this very morning when he’d woken up, stretched, yawned, and breathed a small gout of fire. It hadn’t hurt, he added, clicking and chirping that it had felt good, like stretching a stiff muscle. He chirped a question that Arthur—for all he’d seen and done—didn’t have the answer to.

“I don’t know,” he said, tapping his chin. “I was under the impression that wyverns—though descended from dragons—were incapable of creating fire. Linus? Have you ever heard of a wyvern making fire?”

“No,” Linus said from somewhere behind him. “Granted, Theodore’s the only wyvern I know, but I thought they hadn’t evolved in such a way as to make fire. Something about not having the gland that secretes the oily mixture needed to ignite.”

“It’s green, ” Chauncey said from his bucket. “Like me.”

“Green fire,” Arthur said. “Can you control it?”

Theodore hesitated for a moment before nodding.

Arthur took a step back and said, “Show me, if you feel up to it.”

Theodore pranced on his two feet, claws clicking on the tile floor as he spun in a circle, obviously eager. He waved his right wing for them to take a step back to give him enough room. Linus, for his part, opined that perhaps indoors wasn’t the best place for a demonstration of fire, but he was quickly outvoted when everyone (including Arthur) booed him. Linus then reminded them of the last time an event involving fire had occurred indoors (Talia’s birthday; too many candles and not enough fire extinguishers). “And that’s the reason I think we should consider going outside to—”

It was about this time that Theodore reared his head back, eyes narrowed. A ripple of iridescent light moved across the black scales along his back toward his head. As Theodore opened his mouth, Arthur smelled the comforting familiarity of smoke and flame, and then a jet of green fire shot from Theodore, stretching at least five feet, the heat immense. It only lasted a few seconds before the fire died out, but Theodore was obviously pleased with himself, puff ing out his chest and hopping on either foot as smoke leaked from between his jaws.

Pleased, that is, until the banner hanging above the table caught fire and began to burn. Arthur whirled around, raised his hand, and sucked the fire down into his palm. It formed a crackling sphere that snuffed out when he closed his fingers around it.

“Well done, Theodore,” Arthur said, suitably impressed.

“Again!” Lucy yelled, punching his fists in the air. “Again!”

“And this is why we don’t breathe fire inside the house,” Linus said, hands on his hips. “You can’t just… There’s not…” He frowned. “Why does the sign above the table say HAPPY BIRT ?”

“It’s supposed to say ‘birthday,’” Sal said, scratching the back of his neck.

“I like ‘happy birt’ better,” Talia said as she tossed the eggs into the mop bucket, causing Chauncey to proclaim he was egg drop soup. “It sounds dumb and amazing, like Lucy.”

“Happy birt!” Lucy crowed.

“I knew this was going to blow up in our faces,” Phee muttered.

“Oh no,” Chauncey whispered as eggs bobbed around him. “What are we supposed to sing now? The happy birthday song doesn’t work when it’s a happy birt song. Haaaaaapppy birt to you. See? It sounds like nothing .”

Linus shook his head. “It’s not someone’s birthday. The next is Chauncey’s in August.”

Arthur closed his eyes, suddenly realizing what all of this was about. The mess in the kitchen—for, yes, there was batter on the walls and ceiling, along with paw prints—was a small price to pay for what the children had done on their own.

He opened his eyes when Sal said, “It’s your birthday, Linus.”

Linus laughed and said, “What? Of course it isn’t. My birthday is in…” His mouth moved silently as he ticked off his fingers. “Wait. What day is it?”

“June eighth,” Arthur murmured. “Your birthday.”

“My…” Linus looked around the kitchen. The HAPPY BIRT sign was still smoldering slightly, but below it, on the table, were place settings for each of them. In the middle of the table, a fry-up: platters of burnt sausages, half-burnt bacon, fried eggs (with bits of shell in them), a plate of baked beans that were still in the shape of the can they’d been poured from, tomatoes and mushrooms from Talia’s garden, and a stack of toast that appeared to have had each piece gnawed on by a certain child of reptilian persuasion.

“You did this all for me?” Linus whispered, hand at his throat.

“It was my idea,” Talia said. “You’re welcome.”

“But all of us chipped in,” Sal said as Theodore climbed up his side to his usual perch on Sal’s shoulder. “Everyone had a role.”

“Phee and me were the lookouts,” Chauncey said, eyes bouncing. “We did amazing, so you’re welcome.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Linus said with a watery smile.

“It’s not just for your birthday,” Talia said, taking him by the hand and leading him toward the table. Lucy shoved the chair against the back of his legs, causing him to sit down roughly.

“What else is there?” Arthur asked, taking the broom from Sal and motioning for the children to take their seats at the table. The mess could wait. Chauncey climbed out of the mop bucket, announcing he was done being soup for the day, but that he’d like to try it again tomorrow.

“It’s a going-away party,” Phee said.

Arthur paused at the pantry. He took a deep breath, stored the broom away, and turned back around. Everyone was seated: Linus at one end of the long table, Lucy, Phee, and Talia to his right, Chauncey, Sal, and Theodore to his left. Aside from Arthur’s spot at the other end of the table, there were two more place settings: one next to Talia, the other next to Theodore.

“Going-away party,” he said. “I see.” He moved around the table, touching each of them on the shoulder before taking his seat, folding his hands on the table near his empty plate.

“Is it a going-away party if we’ll only be gone for a few days?” Linus asked. His voice was light, easy, but Arthur knew him well enough to recognize the undercurrent of worry. He felt similarly, though perhaps not quite for the same reasons. Yes, Linus fretted over the idea of leaving the children—even if it was only for three days. Leave tomorrow, and if all went well, back by Wednesday. But Linus had been on the island for less than a year. It was the only thing Arthur had known for far longer, and it made him uncharacteristically nervous, stepping out into the world beyond the island and the village. What they were— he was—about to do had never been done before, at least not with the openness he planned to bring. So many things could go wrong.

“You’ve never left us alone before,” Lucy said, attempting to spear a sausage and somehow making it shoot across the table, snatched out of the air by Theodore. “What if something happens and I have to be evil and take over the world?”

“But you won’t be alone,” Arthur said. “You’ll have—”

“Us,” another voice said from the entrance of the kitchen. They turned to see Zoe Chapelwhite leaning against the doorway, the flowers in her hair open, the petals thick and colorful. Her dress was violet with pink blooms along the hem, her hands in the large pockets. She smiled and winked at Arthur.

“Oh my,” another voice said. “Happy birt? That’s a new one.”

Helen Webb appeared in the entryway, stopping to stand on her tiptoes to kiss Zoe on the cheek. The mayor—and owner of Talia’s favorite gardening store—had carved out a place for herself in their home. Arthur still remembered the wispy girl with big, pretty eyes who’d served him ice cream when he was a child. Now, she was pleasantly plump and wore her usual: a pair of denim overalls over a wrinkled work shirt, her boots similar to Talia’s.

The children all yelled their greetings, and Arthur chuckled at the cacophony. He doubted he could ever go back to the quiet way it’d once been here, when it’d been just him, Zoe, and an unrealized dream.

“We’re going to be with you,” Zoe said as she took her seat next to Phee and Arthur, Calliope ignoring Helen as she tried to pet her in her spot on the windowsill above the sink. Calliope allowed it to go on for longer than normal before she raised a paw, put it on the back of Helen’s hand, and pushed it away as if to say Thank you, but enough.

“That’s right,” Helen said as she took the last empty seat. “And we’re going to have so much fun. Anything you need, you just ask. Zoe and I will take care of it.”

“Anything?” Lucy asked sweetly.

“Within reason,” Arthur said.

“Stupid reason,” Lucy muttered, grabbing a piece of toast and munching mutinously.

“Can we stay at your house?” Chauncey asked Zoe. “It’s my turn to use the tree hammock.”

“No, it’s not,” Talia said. “You got it last time. It’s my turn.”

Arthur cleared his throat pointedly.

“Or,” Talia said, “we can share.”

“Heck yes, ” Chauncey said, eyes lowering toward the baked beans and inspecting the sloppy can-shaped tower. “But just remember that I ink now. Lucy called them my nocturnal emissions, which is a funny way of putting it because it doesn’t always happen at night.”

“Lucy,” Linus said sternly.

“Eat, everyone,” Arthur said. “We have much to discuss, and I think we’ll all feel better about it with full bellies.”

“Why is the bacon bleeding?” Zoe asked.

“It’s not blood,” Sal said. “Lucy wanted to use real blood, but we didn’t know where to get any legally so I mixed corn syrup, chocolate syrup, and red food coloring.”

Lucy rolled his eyes. “ I know where to get real blood, but Arthur said I’m not allowed to do that anymore.”

“I did,” Arthur said simply.

“This meal certainly looks… somewhat edible,” Linus said. “Arthur, would you like to try the bacon first?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Arthur said. “It’s your birt, after all. You should get the first bite.”

“I insist.”

“Do you? How kind of you. I’m afraid I must insist even more.”

“So many people want to eat my food,” Lucy said in awe. “This must be what it feels like to be God. Fun fact! Some people go to church and ritually eat Jesus and drink his blood. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Oh my goodness,” Chauncey whispered. “I’ll just stick to eating pine cones, thank you very much.”

“So very interesting,” Linus said. “I suppose I will have some bacon.”

“One bloody entrail coming up!” Talia said, stabbing a piece with her fork and lifting it off the tray. She handed the fork over to Phee, who sniffed the meat and grimaced. She gave it to Lucy, who in turn set it on Linus’s plate.

Linus poked at it for a moment until Lucy leaned in and whispered loudly, “I made it with love.”

Linus winced, took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out through his mouth, and then brought the wet bacon up to his lips. Lucy tracked every movement, eyes growing wider and wider as Linus bit daintily, breaking off a small chunk. He chewed slowly, myriad emotions crossing his face—horror, disgust, confusion, followed quickly by surprise, disgust again, then something that closely resembled forlorn acceptance.

“Well?” Lucy demanded.

Linus swallowed thickly, throat bobbing. “It was… surprisingly edible.” And with that, he took another bite. “Thank you.”

“Bloody entrails for all!” Lucy cried, and the birt breakfast was underway.

After the breakfast had been partially consumed, Arthur cleared his throat, causing everyone to look at him—even Calliope, who had settled onto Sal’s lap.

Arthur chose his words carefully. “As you know, Linus and I will be traveling over the next few days, and I want to make sure you all understand what we’re doing.”

“You’re testifying,” Phee said. “In front of the government.”

“Yes, I am. I have been asked to provide an account of my time here on the island when I was a child.”

Theodore clicked a question, a single word: Why?

“Because…” He paused. Then, “Because, if there is a chance someone will listen and learn from the past, then that’s a chance I need to take. You know of my history with the island, how I was brought up in this very house. And how it… ended.”

“The cellar,” Sal said quietly.

A flash of memory—screaming until his voice was hoarse, fire raging around him, smoke thick and noxious—and he didn’t push it away. He let it settle, gave it room to breathe, and though he felt the low thrum of decades-old anger, it smoldered rather than burned. The children didn’t know everything about his time on the island, but they knew enough. “Yes, the cellar. However, it wasn’t just that. It was this house. The island. The people in charge who thought they knew what was best for the rest of us. They didn’t.”

“But you still came back here,” Talia said.

“I did,” Arthur agreed. “Because I believed—and still do—that places, just like people, can hold power over you if you let them. Unearned power that gives them the right to decide how others should be treated simply because of who they are. Do you know what generational trauma is?”

“It’s when one group of people goes through something bad,” Sal said. “And then it affects the next generations too.”

“Yes, Sal. That’s correct. Perhaps it’s missing a bit of the nuance behind it, but for purposes of this discussion, it’s enough.” He looked across the table at Linus, who smiled warmly and nodded. “I wasn’t treated right when I was a child, but I was far from the only one. You have all experienced it for yourselves, in one form or another. I wish I could take that from you, but I can’t. And I don’t know if I would have the right, even if I could. You are more than the sum of your parts, but your past is still that: yours. I wouldn’t presume to take something from you that you might not want to give up, even if it’s painful to think about. I want to do the next best thing: use my voice to bring attention not only to this island, but to others who might not have found their home yet.”

“Are you going to talk about us?” Phee asked.

“I am,” Arthur said. “Not in too many specifics, but I think it’s important for people to hear just how far each of you has come. But take heart, my children, and know that your secrets are safe.”

“He wants to brag about you,” Helen said. “He’s just too modest to call it as such.”

Arthur snorted. “Yes, I suppose that’s what it is. I do want to brag about each of you. Sal’s words. Chauncey as a bellhop. Lucy being an expert in all things music. Phee with her trees, and Talia with her garden. I bet no other wyvern has a hoard as magnificent as Theodore’s.”

“We are pretty amazing,” Chauncey agreed. “You have my permission to tell them that I ink now.”

“Noted,” Arthur said dryly. “But this isn’t just about me or even us. It’s about the wider magical world, and what we want going forward. The changes that must be made. The laws that must be repealed to make way for a world where anyone and everyone has a chance to be free to do with their lives what they wish.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” Talia said, tugging the end of her beard, something she did when she was thinking hard.

“It does,” Arthur said. “Because it will be.” He looked at each of them in turn. “I won’t lie to you. The road ahead will not be smooth. No matter what I— we say, there will always be those who refuse to accept the truth. They surround themselves with like-minded people, and it creates an echo chamber that’s nigh on impossible to escape. A feedback loop that never ends. We must—”

“Aren’t we doing the same?” Sal asked suddenly, causing everyone to look at him. He winced a little, started to slouch in his seat, but stopped before he could get too far. Instead of trying to make himself as small as possible, he sat upright, squaring his shoulders.

“Explain, Sal, if you please.”

Sal looked down at his plate, picking up a fork and pushing around the remains of his breakfast. “We’re surrounded by like- minded people. We all want the same thing, or something close to it. Isn’t that an echo chamber? How does that make us any different?”

“Excellent,” Arthur said, and Sal flushed, lips quirking. “I don’t think I’ve told you today how impressed I am by you. You are correct, which is exactly why I need to take our truth out of this house and into the ears of the people we don’t trust to hear it yet. Even then, I prefer to think of standing before a vast lake on a windless day: the surface smooth until one of us—say, you, Sal—picks up a stone and tosses it into the water. What happens then?”

“It causes ripples,” Phee said.

“Yes,” Arthur said. “And what if you, Phee, picked up your own stone and threw it in along with Sal? And the rest of you did the same? The ripples would bounce off each other, spreading in new directions, growing as more people toss their stones in. And if we keep on doing it, who knows how far the ripples could reach in the end?”

Sal nodded. “We keep on throwing stones until someone listens.”

“I don’t know why we just don’t throw stones at them, ” Talia muttered. “Seems to be a waste of a good rock if you ask me.”

“Because violence is never the answer,” Arthur said.

Talia smiled sweetly. “But it can be the question.”

“It can,” Arthur allowed. “But I believe the greatest weapon we have at our disposal is our voices. And I am going to use my voice for you, and for me. Hate is loud. We are louder.”

“What if they don’t listen?” Phee asked. “What if they don’t care what you have to say? What if they come here and try and take us away again?”

“They wouldn’t get very far,” Zoe said, the flowers in her hair opening and closing. “The island belongs to me as much as I belong to it. Should anyone try and come here with the thought of removing anyone from their home, they’re going to have a rude awakening.”

Arthur nodded. “And we have to try because if we don’t, no one else will.”

He did not miss the surreptitious glance exchanged between Helen and Zoe.

Theodore clicked and growled, tongue snaking out across his lips, eyes bright.

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. When he opened his eyes again, he found everyone watching him, waiting for his answer. He smiled gently and said, “No, Theodore. I don’t believe it will affect the petition for adoption.”

“Because you want to be our dad,” Chauncey said.

Out of the mouths of babes. “I do,” Arthur said. “More than anything in the world.”

“It’s going to be on the radio?” Phee asked.

“It is,” Arthur said. “And I know you’ll want to listen, but I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why?” Talia asked. “If you’re going to talk about us, we should probably listen to make sure you describe my garden right. Make sure you mention my begonias. I’m awfully proud of them.”

“As you should be,” Linus said, glancing at Arthur, who nodded. “But these things can be… complicated. Some of the questions Arthur will be asked might seem unfair, or even rude. While Arthur and I are expecting this, it won’t make things any easier.” He smiled. “And if all goes well, we’ll bring someone back with us.”

“David,” Sal said.

Talia rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s another boy. So many penises in this house.”

“I don’t have a penis,” Chauncey said. “It’s more like a cloaca.”

“What’s that?” Phee asked.

“Oh! It’s this thing where—”

“I don’t know that we need to talk about our genitals at the table where we eat,” Linus said.

“I don’t mind,” Chauncey said. “I like my body. It’s squishy.”

Helen to the rescue. “Yes, David. I hope you’re as excited as I am for you to meet him. From what I’ve been told, he’s… blossomed, in the care of the people he’s with. Let’s just say I think he’ll fit right in here with the rest of you.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a threat,” Linus mumbled.

Theodore chirped a question, bobbing his head up and down.

“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “For now, he’s not being included on the adoption petition because we don’t know if he’ll want to stay. This could be just one stop on his journey, and if that’s the case, we will welcome him just the same and make his time here a peaceful one. It’s why we’ve worked so hard over the last weeks to get his room ready for him. Having a place to call your own is an important first step. The best I can say is that we’ll need to take it one day at a time.”

The timer on the oven dinged, and Lucy’s face lit up. “My sticky buns! Yay, yay, yay !” He pushed back from the table, knocking his chair over as he skipped toward the oven.

And that was the end of that.

After they made quick work of cleaning up the kitchen, the children made Linus promise he would close his eyes and keep them closed in preparation for receiving his birt gift. He made a big show of it, bending over to allow Lucy to wave his hands in front of Linus’s face to prove he couldn’t see. Lucy asked Arthur to do the same.

The children led the way, followed by Zoe, Linus’s hand in hers, Arthur bringing up the rear, holding on to Linus’s hips.

When they stood in the sitting room, eyes closed, Zoe—under instructions from Sal—positioned them to face what Arthur thought was the fireplace. In the darkness, Linus’s hand gripping his, he heard Lucy and Talia arguing over how long the countdown should be before he and Linus could open their eyes. Lucy wanted to start at three. Talia wanted to start at five million. They compromised and decided seven would be good.

“Okay,” Talia said. “Seven. Six.”

The others joined in.

“Five. Four—”

“ Threetwoone! ” Lucy shouted.

Arthur waited a beat to allow Linus to open his eyes first. It was his birt, after all. And he knew he’d done the right thing when Linus gasped, squeezing Arthur’s hand tightly. He opened his own eyes, and there, hanging above the fireplace, was the gift.

Curved picture frames formed what appeared to be a perfect circle. The frames themselves were made of wood, each white with blue and yellow and pink flowers painted onto it. The right and left sides of the circle were made up of three photographs each: Linus with each of the children. Sal and Linus reading together. Lucy and Linus in their pajamas, hands above their heads as they danced to Bessie Smith. Talia and Linus in the garden on their hands and knees, a pile of weeds beside them. Chauncey and Linus standing in front of the hotel in the village, Chauncey’s bellhop cap sitting at a jaunty angle atop his head. Theodore and Linus with their heads underneath the couch, their rears pointed up, Theodore’s tail caught mid-swing. Phee and Linus walking hand in hand through the forest, Linus wearing his explorer’s outfit.

The bottom of the circle seemed a little off compared to the rest; it was as if a frame was missing, especially seeing as how the photograph across the top was longer. The bottom frame held a picture of Zoe, standing with the children in front of the house, all of them smiling widely. The photograph at the top of the circle had Linus and Arthur center frame, dancing in Zoe’s home with the children watching in the background.

Lovely, this, lovely in ways Arthur wasn’t sure he could articulate with any clarity. How could anyone look upon these or any children and only know fear?

Especially when he saw what sat in the middle of the circle. Another frame, this one square. Instead of a photograph, however, the frame held words upon a crisp white page.

See me.

See me for who I am. I am magic. I am human. I am inhuman.

See me.

I am a boy. I am a girl. I am everything and nothing in between.

See me.

You do. You see me. You recoil in fear. You scream in anger.

See me.

I bleed. I ache. You see me, and you wish you hadn’t. You wish I was invisible.

Out of sight, out of mind. Unseen, faded, muted. You want my color. You want my joy. You want a monochrome world with monochrome beliefs. You see me, and you want to take it all away. But you can’t.

You want me lost, but I am found in the breaths I take, in the spaces between heartbeats.

I am found because I refuse to be in black and white, or any shade of gray.

I am color. I am fire.

I am the sun, and I will burn away the shadows until only light remains.

And then you will have no choice but to see me.

“Do you like it?” Chauncey asked. “We worked really hard on it. Zoe helped with the photographs, but we did everything else.” Theodore chirped loudly, and Chauncey added, “Except for the poem. Sal wrote that.”

Arthur couldn’t speak; the lump in his throat was far too large.

Linus managed for the both of them. In a strangled voice, he said, “You did this for me?”

Talia frowned. “Yes? It’s your birt.” She squinted up at him. “Oh no. Are you going senile again? I knew forty-one in human years was old as crap. We’ll have to put him into a home where we’ll promise to visit but then we don’t.”

“But he already has a home,” Chauncey said, confused. “Why would he live somewhere else?”

Helen, standing off to the side, sniffled as she pulled a handkerchief from one of the pockets on her overalls.

“They wanted to show you that you belong,” Zoe said.

“I can see that,” Linus said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He laughed, and it felt like the sun coming out after the rain. “I… when I lived in the city, I dreamed in color, of places where the sea stretched on for miles and miles.” He looked at each of the children in turn. “But what I didn’t expect was that the color didn’t come from the ocean, or the trees, or even the island itself. It came from all of you.” He blinked rapidly, throat working. “This has been the best birt. Thank you. You’ve made me the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Linus dropped Arthur’s hand and rushed forward, scooping up as many of the children as he could manage (three!) while the others held on tightly to various limbs.

Arthur waited until they began to pull away before speaking in a hoarse voice that he’d never heard come from himself before. “At the bottom. Is there a photograph missing?”

Sal looked at him and said, “That’s for David, in case he wants to be up there too. We didn’t want him to feel left out when he got here.”

Arthur closed his eyes and breathed.