Free Ends of the Earth by Bruce Hale Page B

“I…feel so honored that you’re willing to give me a permanent home. There’s nothing I want more,” he said, with perfect
sincerity.
    “But?” Those gray eyes pinned him in place like a moth on a corkboard.
    Max focused on cutting a bite of his fried eggs. “Well…I’d feel better about it—more complete—if I knew what happened to Hantai Annie, Wyatt, and the rest.”
He managed a shrug. “Easier to let go, and all that.”
    He chewed slowly, wondering if Mrs. Frost might actually let slip the info he needed.
    “Dead,” she said, her voice as unemotional as if she were describing the weather.
    Max nearly choked on his egg. He’d worried, of course, but never in his worst imaginings had he believed them to be gone.
    “They’re dead to you,” said the spymaster. “No matter where they are. If you’re truly to become one of us, no more attachments to anyone in your old
life.”
    A roaring filled his ears. With an effort, Max kept his fists from shaking. How
dare
she toy with him like that. “Not even my dad?” he asked, throat tight.
    “Your
father
.” Mrs. Frost’s voice was as cold as a year’s worth of Januarys. “After he abandoned you for so long, after he caused your mother’s
death—still you hold out hope? Your father,” she said, beheading a sausage, “is no one’s idea of a father.”
    Although he wanted to slap the woman for her cruelty and stand up for his dad, something inside Max withered at her words. The truth stung. Yes, Simon Segredo had disappeared when Max was little
more than a toddler, only to resurface last month. And yes, in their few encounters since then, he had lied, manipulated, and persuaded Max to betray his friends. Not exactly Father of the Year
material. But still…
    “I need more time,” said Max. “This is a big decision.”
    Mrs. Frost tore a scone in half with a twist of her wrist. “I am a patient woman. But I will not have my generosity taken for granted. You shall give me an answer by tonight.
Understood?”
    Max nodded, afraid to trust his voice.
Tonight?
This called for drastic measures. He wolfed down the rest of his breakfast, but then the tureen of porridge caught his eye, and a sudden
inspiration struck.
    Picking up his plate and cutlery, Max said. “Delicious. Think I’ll go pay my compliments to the chef.” But as he rose, Mrs. Frost wagged her fork in admonishment.
    “Now, now. Where are your manners? Did you ask to be excused?”
    Max rolled his eyes. “Can I be excused?”
    “It’s ‘may I,’ and yes, you may,” said the grandmotherly spymaster. “I can see you’ll require quite a lot of training in manners and grammar.”
    All the more reason to duck this adoption, thought Max. He offered a phony smile and took his leave. Pushing through the swinging door, he entered the warm bustle of the kitchen, with its homey
smells of toast and sausage and lemony soap.
    The part-Asian server was setting out the staff’s breakfasts on a sturdy oak table by the windows while the second server, a skinny brunette, rinsed cooking utensils and loaded them into a
dishwasher.
    Lovingly scrubbing a skillet at the sink stood a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair, skin like polished ebony, and a thick, sturdy frame wrapped in an apron. The cook, Max guessed.
    He passed his plate to the brunette and addressed the woman at the sink. “My compliments,” he said. “First-rate breakfast.”
    Her smile was as broad as her Scottish brogue. “Thank ye, laddie. Not many here bother to say thanks—save Mrs. Frost, of course. Impeccable manners, that woman.”
    For a heartless killer, Max thought. Aloud, he added, “I was wondering, does everyone in the house eat the same food?”
    “Oh, aye,” said the cook. “Save for the really fancy dishes. That’s front room only.”
    Max cocked his head. “Really? So the guards, for example, will have the same lunch as me today?”
    “The smoked haddock chowder? Aye, they will.” She