“Is that right? And here I thought they reported.”
Miss Marblemaw ignored him. “And that’s to say nothing of the village itself. It seems to me to be a hotbed of anti-government sentiments. How often do you take the children there?”
“Whenever they wish,” Arthur said. “So long as it doesn’t interfere with their schooling.”
“And you don’t see the problem with that?”
“I do not,” Arthur said easily. “After all, they can’t learn everything in a classroom on an island. Real-world experience is not only beneficial, but it helps them to adapt.”
“Adapt for what?” Miss Marblemaw asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, she continued. “I do hate to think you’re giving these children false hope. Regardless of how much Marsyas has devolved given current leadership, that doesn’t mean you should continue to—”
“Give the children hope? A sense of community? A place for them to feel comfortable enough to learn and grow and make mistakes, only to learn from them? What should I not be doing, Miss Marblemaw?”
“Lying,” Miss Marblemaw snapped. “You shouldn’t be lying to them, much like you continue to lie to me.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” Arthur said. “I assume you have evidence to support it.”
She sniffed. “In due time. First, I don’t see any of the approved reading material that DICOMY has listed as being beneficial to a child’s development.”
“Yes,” Arthur said. “I found the list to be lacking in substance.”
“Strange. I wasn’t aware that your opinion on required material carried much weight.” She flipped through two or three pages. Then, “Unfortunately, I’m not seeing in my notes where you were given permission to deviate from DICOMY protocol.”
“Be that as it may, you’ll notice they seem to be thriving without having to read Learning Your Place in the World: A Guide to Following the Law or A Satyr Discovers the Joys of Obeying. To be fair, both books have pacing issues, not to mention they’re a little dry.”
“I didn’t know you moonlighted as a literary critic,” Miss Marblemaw said, making another note. “You seem to be a man of many hats.”
“Parents usually are,” Arthur said, steepling his hands under his chin. That word: parent. So simple and yet so excitingly profound.
“Well, not quite a parent yet, are we?” She folded her hands on top of her clipboard, pen still clasped between her fingers. “After all, no adoption has been approved. You are, as of this moment, nothing more than the master of an orphanage, employed by the very body you seem to be at odds with.” The pen tapped against the clipboard once, twice, three times.
Arthur shrugged. “Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
“Things are changing,” Miss Marblemaw said airily. “Why, even ten years ago, a single man attempting to adopt children would raise more than a few eyebrows.”
“Would it?” Arthur asked. “How curious. I suppose those eyebrows will just have to stay as is, seeing as how I am not single, as you know.” He smiled. “In fact, we have wonderful news. Linus proposed, and I said yes.” He held out his hand, the ring flashing in the light. He caught himself staring at it every now and then, marveling over how heavy it was for such a small thing, a constant reminder that he was loved.
She blinked in surprise. “Really? You…” She shook her head, followed by something Arthur did not expect. “That’s … congratulations.”
He paused. She almost sounded like she meant it. “Thank you. I appreciate your well wishes.”
“When is the wedding?”
Arthur chuckled. “We haven’t gotten that far yet. Soon, I hope.”
She stared at him for a moment, then looked back down at her clipboard, clearing her throat. “You are straying from the required reading. In addition, the lesson plans and individual reports you’ve provided on each child indicate that while all are excelling—though I question that—you are not adhering to the curriculum approved by DICOMY.”
“A curriculum that hasn’t been updated since I was a child,” Arthur said. “One of the textbooks DICOMY provides—all twelve hundred pages—has a section devoted to the best practices of subservience to humans. If you cannot see the issue with telling children to be deferential to others simply because of who they are, then there is a problem.”
She sighed, shaking her head. “How are we supposed to get anywhere if you won’t work with me? All I want to do is my job. To help.” She smiled at him. “I think you and I can find common ground in that we both want what’s best for the children. After all, DICOMY cares.”
“So you’ve said numerous times,” Arthur said, settling his hands on the desk. “But forgive me if I don’t take your word at face value, given my own experiences with DICOMY.”
She hesitated. Then: “I can’t speak to that. I wasn’t there. But what I can speak to are my years of experience as a DICOMY employee. Though you may not see it, DICOMY has changed the face of magical children as we know it. Why is it so difficult for you to make sure the children understand how many people we’ve assisted through the years?”
“The world is a weird and wonderful place. Why must we explain it all—”
“So that it can be cataloged and studied, and any potential threat neutralized.”
He sat forward abruptly. “Neutralized? If you think I’m going to sit here and let you—”
“You misunderstand me, Mr. Parnassus,” she said. “Perhaps I used too-strong language, but the spirit remains the same. I want to protect as many children as I can. Surely you feel the same.”
“I do,” Arthur said. “Though I have a feeling we’re coming at it from different directions.”
“If that is the case,” she said, “then why does it matter how we achieve our goals if we’re working toward the same thing?”
Arthur sighed. For a moment, he’d thought perhaps Marblemaw might be different. Not Linus—no, no one could ever be him—but something close to him. He’d given Linus the benefit of the doubt, and that had changed their lives forever. Was it too much to think Marblemaw could have been the same?
“I wish I could believe that,” he said slowly. “However, I’ve seen much evidence to the contrary that vehemently shows DICOMY cares not for those under its watch.”
“Which is why I think we could all do with a fresh start,” she said, smile widening. She was clever. He’d remember that. “After all, I don’t see the point of letting the past dictate the future.”
The phoenix lifted its head, eyes narrowed. Arthur felt the heat of it, and put it into his voice. “The past of each of the children you come into contact with cannot and should not be ignored. To suggest otherwise is not only dangerous, but cruel. You cannot take it from them. It is part of them, warts and all.”
Miss Marblemaw pursed her lips. “Being a parent means—”
He cocked his head. “Two minutes ago, I wasn’t a parent, but now I am? Please, Miss Marblemaw. Be as consistent as possible.”
