At just past noon, the ferry docked at Marsyas Island. Arthur heard the sound of Helen’s old truck winding its way up the dirt road toward the house and stepped outside. He was calmer than he expected to be; it was as if every heightened emotion had burned itself out, leaving only a sense of quiet inevitability.
When the truck crested the hill, he stepped off the porch, standing in front of the house, hands folded behind his back. Through the windshield, he could see Helen saying something to the figure sitting next to her, hands gesticulating wildly.
The truck came to a stop, brakes squealing. A moment later, it shut off, the engine ticking like a clock. Helen climbed out of the truck, shutting the door behind her. She glanced at Arthur, rolled her eyes, and then went to the bed of the truck, pulling out a rather large suitcase—black with leather handles, obviously heavy—as she grunted.
The passenger side of the truck opened, and the inspector stepped out, a silver metal briefcase clutched against her chest.
She was tall—at least six feet, which would put her just above Linus and near Arthur’s height, and as thin as a whisper. Her brown hair was pulled back into a severe bun, cinched tightly atop her head with nary a hair out of place. Pierced ears with small diamonds. Rings on each finger—gold and silver and what appeared to be onyx, each decorated with colorful jewels, settling against thick knuckles. Her thin, arched eyebrows looked as if they’d been painted on, giving her the appearance of one in a perpetual state of disbelief. She had a beauty mark on her right cheek and her lips were a slash of blood red, causing her gaunt face to take on the appearance of a business-professional skeleton. The inspector wore no-nonsense flats—black in color—along with a gray pleated skirt, the hem resting just below her knees. Given the summer heat, her coat was a strange choice. Cinched tightly at her waist, the red coat was lined with golden buttons up the front—eight in all, four on each side—and a collar that rose dramatically around her head, stiff and lined with fur. She was a sight to behold, and if she hadn’t been here as a representative of the government, Arthur might have warned her about the gold buttons and how a certain wyvern might react upon seeing them. But she was, and who was he to ruin what was most likely to be an eye-opening experience?
She shut the door behind her, looking up at the sky with a frown. The sun disappeared behind a cloud as if even it wanted nothing to do with her. That done, she nodded, spun on her heels, and made her way toward Arthur. Her gaze flickered from him to the house behind him, though her face was a blank mask, giving nothing away.
“Mr. Parnassus,” she said, her voice deeper than he thought it’d be, sounding like a pair of heavy, ominous doors slowly opening. She did not extend her hand in greeting, stopping a few feet away from him. Her eyes were flat and narrow, the color of storm clouds. Younger than Arthur and Linus, though not by much. “My name is Harriet Marblemaw. You may refer to me as Miss Marblemaw. I have been tasked with inspecting this orphanage by the Department in Charge of Magical Youth.”
Arthur bowed. “Welcome to Marsyas, Miss Marblemaw. I do hope your trip was uneventful. As you’re undoubtedly aware, I recently rode the train myself. Fascinating mode of transportation, wouldn’t you agree? Though, in my humble opinion, riding the bus was much more pleasurable.”
Miss Marblemaw stared at him, unblinking. “I was unaware I came here to discuss public transportation.”
“You did not,” Arthur agreed. “You are here, as you said, to inspect an orphanage, which puts me at a bit of a loss. You see, this is not an orphanage. This is a home. I hate to think you came all this way with faulty information. That would certainly make your job that much more difficult.”
Miss Marblemaw chuckled, shifting her briefcase until it rested against her right forearm. “I was there,” she said pleasantly, “for your testimony. It was … enlightening. And also unfortunate, given how it ended.” Before he could respond, she opened the briefcase, looked through DICOMY-stamped files, and pulled out an official-looking document. “This is the order from DICOMY signed by interim DICOMY head Jeanine Rowder allowing me access to the island, the children, and anything else I require during my stay.” She held out the page toward him. “I think you’ll find that even you won’t be able to talk your way out of this.”
Arthur ignored the document. “And how is Miss Rowder? Our first—and only—meeting ended with her leaving before we finished. I do hope it was nothing I said.”
She glanced over his shoulder. “Where are the children?”
Arthur nodded. “Eager, are we? I don’t blame you. I, too, was fit to burst the first time I met them. I’m glad we have that in common.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Helen muttered as she approached, setting the suitcase down near the inspector’s feet. For her part, Miss Marblemaw barely acknowledged Helen’s existence. And she did not tip, which was something Arthur would have to make sure Chauncey was aware of. He would have a few choice words about that, Arthur was sure.
Miss Marblemaw cocked her head, not unlike a bird as she shoved the document back into the briefcase, latching it shut. “Do you think yourself amusing, Mr. Parnassus?”
“I do. Though, as I told one of my young charges, humor is subjective, and it—”
“I thought as much. You seem the sort.” She squared her shoulders and smiled. On anyone else, Arthur would have thought it a funny little grin, but with Miss Marblemaw, it seemed as if she thought she was already dealing with a child. In it, everything he despised: smarmy condescension mixed with unearned confidence, all disguised in a candy-apple coating, sticky, sweet. And that made her more dangerous than she’d been even a moment before. Whatever else Rowder was, she wasn’t a fool; she’d known exactly who to send to the island. Miss Marblemaw proved that when she spoke again. “I am familiar with your … history, Mr. Parnassus. Somehow, you’ve been able to charm yourself into a position of great power ignominiously. You pulled the wool over the eyes of Extremely Upper Management—”
Arthur laughed, trying to keep his anger at bay. The phoenix lifted its head, wings ruffling. “Did I, now?”
“—but I won’t fall for your tricks. I am not Charles Werner. I am not Linus Baker. The reason I’m here is to ensure not only that the children are being cared for, but that you aren’t filling their heads with propagandic anti-government sentiments.”
“Speaking of propaganda,” Helen said sweetly, “I remember what happened to all the DICOMY posters you asked about when driving through town. Silly me, I don’t know why it took me till just now.”
“Good,” Miss Marblemaw said, distracted as she moved her briefcase from one hand to the other. She bent over to pick up her suitcase. “Your cooperation will be noted. What happened to them?”
“It appears the salt in the air does not agree with the adhesive provided,” Helen said. “And since we did not want to run afoul of the government, we followed their instructions, which said not to use our own, to the letter. Unfortunately, all of the posters blew into the ocean.”
Miss Marblemaw stood upright and squinted at Helen. “I absolutely beg your pardon? The adhesive, you say? Noted. I will be sure to inform the appropriate office of the issue. It will be corrected immediately. In the meantime, you have my permission to use tape, or even pushpins.”
“Blast it,” Helen exclaimed. “We’re fresh out of both. I will put in an order posthaste to ensure we have enough tape and pushpins in the future.”
“See that you do,” Miss Marblemaw said with a sniff. “After all, it is important for any magical person to know their government is watching them, and cares about their well-being.”
Helen stepped forward, kissing Arthur on the cheek. Her mouth near his ear, she whispered, “Careful with this one.” She pulled away, nodded, and then headed back toward her truck. “Please let us know if you need to head into the village,” she called over her shoulder. “Keep in mind that the ferry rates fluctuate, so I can’t guarantee the same price as when we crossed. Petrol is expensive, after all, but then, you work for the government, so I’m sure no expense will be spared. Toodles!”
“Would you like to introduce me to the children?” Miss Marblemaw asked as Helen’s truck fired up. “Also, while I’m here, I’ll need to speak with Zoe Chapelwhite. Since she has contact with the children, she is not exempt from any inquiry. I’m sure you’ll be kind enough to facilitate that meeting, won’t you? Good man.”
Suitcase in hand, she brushed by him without hesitation and walked toward the house.
“Here we go,” Arthur whispered, following her inside.
The house was quiet, unnervingly so. Miss Marblemaw stopped inside the entryway, setting her luggage and briefcase near the door. As Arthur closed the door behind them, Miss Marblemaw made a show of opening the briefcase once more, pulling out a clipboard with a red ink pen clipped to the front. She turned and began inspecting … the walls? She kicked a baseboard, leaving a small black smudge. Then she ran a finger along the small table near the door, lifting it close to her eyes. “No dust,” she muttered. “Odd.” She crouched down before an electrical socket, pulling at the plastic plug before shoving it back in and marking something on the clipboard.
Arthur cleared his throat. He expected her to jump. She didn’t, only turning her head to glance at him. “Before we go any further.”
“Excuses already, Mr. Parnassus? That doesn’t bode well.”
Arthur waved her off. “Nothing like that. I’m of the mind that if you want something badly enough, you’ll find a way. If not, you’ll find an excuse.”
Her eyebrows rose on her forehead. “Is that an accusation, sir?”
“It was not,” Arthur said mildly. “But it would seem as if you’re primed to consider most anything suspicious, and I would urge caution against that.”
“Would you?” she asked as she stood slowly. “And why would that be?”
“Because if you’ve convinced yourself there is darkness around every corner, you’re conditioned to fear it, especially when it goes hand in hand with a particular narrative.”
“The narrative that you, a magical being—one of the strongest known—is attempting to take possession of potentially dangerous children, some of whom have the power to end life as we know it? Is that the particular narrative you speak of?” Coolly amused, as if she were Calliope and he her prey, trying to tire him out before attacking.
“It is,” Arthur said. “And one that is extraordinarily problematic. Though I shouldn’t have to remind you, I will: regardless of what powers they do or do not have, they are still children. And since you are in our home and they are under my care, if at any point I believe you are jeopardizing their well-being—meaning physically, psychologically, or emotionally—I’ll do what I must to ensure their safety.”
