“Being a parent means being ready for any and every eventuality. Have you considered your options if and when, for example, Lucy decides on his own he doesn’t like the world as it is? What if he decides to remake it as he sees fit?”
“He’s seven years old,” Arthur snapped, anger bubbling underneath the surface.
“So was Nero, at one point. Genghis Khan. Ivan the Terrible. While I’m not suggesting he’ll do what they did, how can we know for sure? There is so much unknown about who he is and what he is capable of. No matter what you do or how hard you try, even you can’t say with any certainty that he won’t turn toward a path of darkness.”
“You’ve spoken with him once,” Arthur reminded her. “That’s nowhere near enough time to build a foundation based upon objective evidence. But since you brought it up, it comes down to the idea of nature versus—”
“Nurture,” she said. “I know. A false dichotomy. The reality is that nature and nurture do not exist as separate entities. They exist in reciprocity.”
“And yet, studies have shown that trauma in the form of abuse changes the physical brain to be hypersensitive to future stress, which can often lead victims of abuse to respond excessively to even the smallest stressors. By doing the exact opposite of nurturing, one runs the risk of creating or exacerbating trauma.”
“Which is precisely why I’m here,” she said, shifting her weight in her chair. “To determine if you are capable of handling such … charges. Mr. Parnassus, surely you can see that my job is to ensure the safety of the children.”
“So you say,” Arthur demurred. “Objective evidence, and all that.”
Miss Marblemaw shook her head as if disappointed. “I am not the enemy. Regardless of what you think of me or what I represent, I hope you understand that. My job is the children, nothing more.”
He laughed quietly. “I don’t believe that for a moment.” He raised his hand as she started to speak. “Whether you believe that is another matter entirely, and one I’m not wanting to litigate currently as I doubt we’d reach any consensus. Either you will be who you claim to be, or you won’t.”
“Are you angry, Mr. Parnassus?” she asked, clutching the clipboard tightly. “Feeling a little hot under the collar?”
Yes, he was, but then he realized what she was doing, and laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Miss Marblemaw, are you trying to make me bring out the phoenix? If you’re that curious, all you need to do is ask, and I’d be happy to show you.”
She changed tack. “David,” she said. “He’s not an adult. I don’t know how or why you expected me to believe that. Either you think me a fool, or you are nowhere near as intelligent as certain circles seem to think you are.”
“Both could easily be true,” Arthur said.
“Do you have any proof that David is the age you claim?”
Before Arthur could come up with a semi-believable lie—to question a yeti’s age is to commit a serious faux pas—a flood of warmth burst under his hand. Without reacting, he moved his hand slightly to the left. There, in a familiar messy scrawl, letters forming in red ink. Four words, followed by a smiley face with devil horns on the top: OPEN YOUR TOP DRAWER!
Arthur cleared his throat and did just that. There, sitting on top of a tray of pens, pencils, and paperclips, a small stack of photographs that hadn’t been there only a few minutes before when he’d gone in search of a pen in preparation for the meeting with Miss Marblemaw.
There were four photographs in total—the colors washed out, the edges curled in a sepia-toned haze as if seen through a dream. The first photograph showed a ten-year-old version of Arthur standing in the village near the dock. On either side of him were his friends, the other children in the orphanage, the sun blazing above them. He remembered this moment. They’d gone to town, the master in a rare good mood. The letter and the cellar were three months away. The master had taken the photograph with a boxy Polaroid camera, the picture sliding out the front. He’d given it to Ronnie to shake, and they’d all watched as the image formed as if by magic. They hadn’t said as much, of course. That way lay madness.
Two things stuck out at Arthur: the first being that this photograph should not exist. The master had torn it to shreds in a fit of pique after one of the other children had mouthed off about something Arthur couldn’t recall.
The second was the fifth figure, standing next to Arthur, hairy arm slung over his shoulders.
David.
The next photo showed Arthur at age fifteen, sitting in a window nook, a book forgotten in his lap. The frozen moment had caught him with his head tilted back, laughing silently. David sat across from him, smiling widely.
The third photograph was Arthur at around thirty or thereabouts. In a pub he’d never been to before, sitting on a stool, a half-empty pint in front of him. Seated next to him, David with five empty pint glasses, head rocked back as he laughed.
The fourth and final picture was of Arthur and Zoe, standing in front of the house. The repairs looked almost finished, and next to Zoe was David, white hair blotted with what looked to be blue paint, the same color Arthur had used on the walls in the upstairs hallway.
“Would you look at that?” he murmured. “Will these do?”
She snapped the photographs from his hand, holding each one an inch or two from her face, turning it this way and that as if she could determine their validity by sight alone. “How did you do this?” she demanded, flipping through the pictures again and again.
“With a camera,” Arthur said.
She stood abruptly, chair scraping along the floor. “I have to … go do … something that requires my immediate attention. I will return in exactly one half hour. I expect to meet with each child individually upon my return.”
Curious, this: her reaction was not what Arthur expected. But then, it could be said that trying to understand the motivations of anyone in a government role was an exercise in futility. Still, it was odd. At the hearing, Rowder had successfully gotten Arthur to reveal the phoenix. But not before going on at length about a certain child in particular. Perhaps he should let her in on the event ahead, just to see what she would do.
She had made it to the door when Arthur said, “Saturday.”
Miss Marblemaw paused, her hand on the doorknob. She didn’t turn around. “What about Saturday?”
“There is to be an adventure. Every Saturday, one of the children gets to decide the outing we’ll all take part in.”
“Whose turn is it this week?”
He grinned sharply at her back. She claimed not to experience fear. He wondered how true that was. “Lucy.”
Her shoulders tightened but she otherwise gave no reaction. “I see. I will be in attendance, of course.”
“Of course,” Arthur said. “I’m sure it’ll be a day you won’t soon forget.”
True to her word, Miss Marblemaw invited each of the children into Arthur’s office, saying they weren’t to be interrupted. Arthur, as it happened, did not find this to be acceptable. But before he could tell her just that, Talia patted his hand and said, “I’ve got this.”
With that, she followed Miss Marblemaw into the office, shutting the door behind her.
Ten minutes later, the door opened once more, Talia walking out, eyes sparkling. In the office, Arthur heard three ferocious sneezes in quick succession, followed by the wet honking of a nose into a tissue. “She’s really allergic to pollen,” Talia said. “I should’ve emptied my pockets before going in. Oops.”
“Quite,” Arthur said as she hugged his leg.