The House in the Cerulean Sea (Cerulean Chronicles, #1)

by T.J. Klune

“Sometimes,” Mr. Parnassus said, “our prejudices color our thoughts when we least expect them to. If we can recognize that, and learn from it, we can become better people.

“I am but paper. Brittle and thin. I am held up to the sun, and it shines right through me. I get written on, and I can never be used again. These scratches are a history. They’re a story. They tell things for others to read, but they only see the words, and not what the words are written upon. I am but paper, and though there are many like me, none are exactly the same. I am parched parchment. I have lines. I have holes. Get me wet, and I melt. Light me on fire, and I burn. Take me in hardened hands, and I crumple. I tear. I am but paper. Brittle and thin.”

Just because you don’t experience prejudice in your everyday doesn’t stop it from existing for the rest of us.”

The world likes to see things in black and white, in moral and immoral. But there is gray in between. And just because a person is capable of wickedness, doesn’t mean they will act upon it. And then there is the notion of perceived immorality.

It has nothing to do with him. It is because of him that these things are possible. This isn’t simply an orphanage. It is a house of healing, and one that I think is necessary.

Linus looked up to find Arthur staring at him. “What?” Arthur shook his head slowly. “I don’t know why you can’t see it.” “See what?” “You. Everything you are.”

“A home isn’t always the house we live in. It’s also the people we choose to surround ourselves with. You may not live on the island, but you can’t tell me it’s not your home. Your bubble, Mr. Baker. It’s been popped. Why would you allow it to grow around you again?”

Arthur looked at him. “You. You were the most unexpected thing of all.” Linus gaped at him. “Me? But why?” “Because of who you are. I know you don’t see it, Linus. But I see it enough for the both of us. You make me feel like I’m burning up from the inside out.” Linus couldn’t find a way to believe him. “I’m just one person. I’m just me.” “I know. And what a lovely person you are.”

“Of course they listen,” Linus said, exasperated. “They listen to every single thing you say. They look to you because you are their family. You are their—” He stopped, breathing heavily. He shouldn’t say it. It wasn’t right. None of this was. It wasn’t—“You are their father, Arthur. You said you love them more than life itself. You have to know they feel the same about you. Of course they do. How can they not? Look at you. Look at what you’ve made here. You are a fire, and they need to know how you burn. Not only because of who you are, but because of what they have made you into.”

You … you are a good man, Linus Baker. I am honored to have known you. We’ll have to make sure your last week here on the island is one you’ll never forget.” He started to turn, but then paused. “And I promise you, the thought of using you for anything has never crossed my mind. You’re too precious to put into words. I think … it’s like one of Theodore’s buttons. If you asked him why he cared about them so, he would tell you it’s because they exist at all.”

“Let me tell you something, Linus Baker,” she said, hands clenched on the top of the driver’s door. “There are moments in your life, moments when chances have to be taken. It’s scary because there is always the possibility of failure. I know that. I know that. Because once upon a time, I took a chance on a man that I had failed before. I was scared. I was terrified. I thought I might lose everything. But I wasn’t living, then. The life I had before wasn’t living. It was getting by. And I will never regret the chances I took. Because it brought me to them. To all of them. I made my choice. And you’re making yours.” She opened the door and got in the car. The engine turned over. She looked back at him just once when she said, “Don’t you wish things could be different?”

You keep them segregated from everyone else because they’re different than the rest of us. People fear them because they’re taught to. See something, say something. It inspires hatred.”

“Also, speaking of euphemisms, for the love of all that is holy, stop calling them orphanages. That implies something that has never been the case. These are homes. They have always been homes. And some of them haven’t been good, which is why I recommended they be closed. But not this one. Never this one. These children don’t need a home, because they already have one, whether you like it or not.”

“No,” he said. “I’m going back to where I belong.”

How could he have been so foolish? How could he have ever thought he could leave this place? It was color, bright and warm, and his heart felt like it was finally beating again. He hadn’t realized he’d left it behind. He should have known. He should have realized.

“Yes. Yes. Yes to all of it. To any of it. For you, I would do anything.”

“Sometimes, you don’t know what you have until it’s no longer there. And I needed to be your voice. So those far away would hear you for all that you are.”

Arthur held him tighter. “You silly, delightful man. There is nothing to be sorry for. You fought for us. I could never be angry with you for that. How I cherish you.” Linus felt his heart settle in his chest.

“You believe in me.” Linus blinked. “Of course I do. I believe in all of you. But you’re a phoenix, Arthur. You know fire. It’s time to burn it all down and see what can grow from the ashes.” “A ruckus,” Arthur said, and he chuckled quietly. “If only they knew what we’re capable of.” Linus smiled. “They will.”

“Thank you.” “For what?” “This. Everything. All this color.” Arthur knew what he meant. “It was his eyes, wasn’t it? That’s what you saw first.” Linus nodded. “They reminded me of the sea. It’s a sign. He belongs here. And we’ll do everything we can to make sure he knows that.”

Sometimes, he thought to himself in a house in a cerulean sea, you were able to choose the life you wanted. And if you were of the lucky sort, sometimes that life chose you back.