Ends of the Earth by Bruce Hale

rinsed off the pan. “Why do ye ask?”
    “No reason.” Max lifted a shoulder. “Just wanting everyone to enjoy the same lovely meals as me.” Inwardly, he cringed. Would the cook buy this bald flattery?
    She beamed as she dried the skillet. “Sweet lad. If only the rest of this crew were half as thoughtful.”
    If only you knew, thought Max. But all he said was, “You’re too kind.”

AFTER A SESSION of Internet research on one of the mansion’s computers, Max carefully deleted his browsing history. He might not be the most
tech-savvy kid around, but he did know that a good spy always covers his tracks. With a bit of snooping through a bathroom cabinet, he located the necessary ingredients, and then decided he’d
better scout out his escape route.
    Heading downstairs and along the main hall, Max ambled up to the back door and tried it. Locked. And what’s worse, it was controlled by a key card—and thus completely invulnerable to
his lock picks. Max noted that the windows were locked also, and wired with alarms. LOTUS must not be too keen on getting fresh air.
    He was about to go case all the possible exits, when a cheerful whistling caught his attention. Down the hallway trundled the Scottish cook, carrying a teal-blue overcoat and a purse large
enough to hold several baked hams, a butter churn, and a bucket of gravy.
    “Ah,” said Max. “Mrs., er…”
    “Cheeseworthy,” the woman said. “I’m off to do me shopping. Are ye going somewhere?”
    Max made a face. “Well, I was planning to stroll around the grounds, but”—he slapped his pockets—“I seem to have left my card upstairs. So forgetful.”
    Mrs. Cheeseworthy’s glance went from Max to the door. Her brow furrowed, and he could almost hear her thinking, Is this kid a guest or a captive?
    “I’ll just slip out with you,” said Max, patting her arm. “It’ll be all right.”
    “Well, if you’re sure…”
    He offered his most trustworthy smile. “It’s not like I’m a prisoner. Mrs. Frost
is
planning to adopt me, after all.”
    “Oh, aye?” said the cook. Her moonlike face still reflected doubt.
    “It’s a walk around heavily protected grounds,” said Max, forcing a chuckle. “What could happen?”
    “That’s true.” Mrs. Cheeseworthy’s expression softened. “Ye seem a nice enough sort. I don’t mind saving ye the trip upstairs.”
    “Thanks, ma’am.” Max tried to hide a triumphant grin. He couldn’t believe how easy this was. For a LOTUS employee, the cook was pretty trusting.
    “And of course, if ye try any mischief,” she said, “ye’ll be savaged by dogs or shot by guards.”
    Max felt his jaw drop. “Uh, of course.”
    Mrs. Cheeseworthy beamed, slid her card through the scanner, and the lock clicked open.
    Recovering himself and opening the door with a flourish, Max said, “After you.” He even helped the cook into her overcoat, like the world’s last surviving gentleman.
    With a finger wave, Mrs. Cheeseworthy crunched across the gravel to an ancient Volvo parked far away from the gleaming Mercedes and BMWs, as if the luxury cars were embarrassed to be seen in its
company. Max jammed his hands into his jeans pockets and sauntered across the parking area. To an observer, he was merely a kid stretching his legs after being cooped up all morning.
    But his eyes roved constantly, noting details. The gardener and her assistant, trimming a hedge. The chauffeur polishing a Bentley, shoulder holster bulging under his jacket. The cameras mounted
on light posts.
    Giving the workers a friendly wave, he stepped down into the garden, which was larger than an average city’s public park. Ranks of rosebushes stretched off in either direction, pruned back
for winter. Fantastic hedges carved into lions and tigers and wolves lined the top of a gentle slope, overlooking enough green rolling lawns to make Tiger Woods drool.
    Making his way around an ornamental fountain bristling with cherubs and nymphs, Max headed