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.
THIRTEEN
The children waited on the porch, most still dressed in their pajamas. Zoe stood behind them, yellow flowers opening and closing in her hair, her concern evident. Calliope sat on the railing, eyes half-closed, tail swishing over the side.
Chauncey waved, yelling, “Hey! Hi! Good morning! Things exploded, and we didn’t do it! Isn’t that crazy?”
“The craziest,” Linus called. “We’ll head on inside and—”
“Mr. Parnassus.”
He turned his head to see Harriet Marblemaw marching toward him, dust kicking up around her shoes. For once, she was sans clipboard, her hands in fists at her sides. David growled at her, a low rumble that cut off when Calliope wound her way between his legs. He looked down at her in shock as she stretched up his side, one of her paws touching his hip. Shhh, that paw said.
