“True,” said David. “But my family’s … unusual. I love them, of course, but what I’ve really missed is my friend.”
“Me too,” replied Max. “I don’t even know when the last time was that I had a good laugh. Works wonders. Wish we had Connor back—he was always good for a laugh or three.”
David nodded sympathetically. Their friend Connor Lynch had left Rowan and was living in Blys, having swapped a soul in exchange for a barony and the chance to fulfill a vendetta. Ever impulsive and mischievous, Connor had been the quickest wit in their class before he sailed off on Prusias’s galleon. Max missed him dearly. “Anyway,” he sighed. “I’m not complaining. It’s nice to sit still for five minutes and not have to look over my shoulder.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” said David, declining the bread’s heel. “After you and my grandfather left, Ms. Richter and I talked strategy for the rest of the afternoon. The Director agrees with me that the Workshop’s activities are a priority. And given this development with the Atropos, she doesn’t want your whereabouts known for very long. I think it’s safe to say that a DarkMatter assignment is imminent. Probably this week.”
Max’s smile faded. He stared down at the Red Branch tattoo, hating it.
“Fair enough,” he muttered. “Better sooner than later, I guess.”
“Soon,” said David. “But not immediately. We’ll need a few days to prepare, and I have some things to do before we leave.”
Max almost choked on his coffee.
“Yes,” said David, smiling. “It’s not official yet, but Ms. Richter seems in favor of it. I think she just wants to get rid of me. Expulsion wasn’t enough.”
“Please,” said Max. “She probably wishes she had ten more David Menlos.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that,” said his roommate. “In any case, at the moment there’s only one David Menlo and he’ll be accompanying you to Blys. Cloak-and-dagger stuff, Max. Very exciting. Assuming we survive, I’m confident the Red Branch will have no choice but to make me an honorary member.”
“We might have vacancies,” Max reflected grimly. “Any word on Cooper?”
“Sadly no,” said David, gratefully accepting more coffee. “I ran into Miss Boon in the Archives last night, and she said there’d been no word from him. Or Ben Polk …”
Max sat up straight. “I should go after them. You said yourself that we have a week before our mission. I could be back in plenty of time.”
David shook his head. “You are the absolute last person the Director would send. Others will go.”
“She thinks the Atropos are trying to lure me out?”
“She thinks it’s a distinct possibility,” replied David, frowning. “And so do I. It is well known that you have no remaining family. Cooper’s the Red Branch commander and your good friend. He’s a natural target for anyone trying to hurt you.”
Max frowned and considered the situation. “If anyone’s dumb enough to kidnap William Cooper, I almost feel sorry for them,” he muttered. “Talk about catching a tiger by the tail. First mistake they make, he’ll escape and have their heads. And Ben Polk? He gives me nightmares and he’s on
“Exactly,” said David. “Those two can look after themselves. And if Ms. Richter doesn’t hear from them very soon, rest assured that she’ll launch the biggest search-and-rescue operation since those Potentials went missing.”
“But can’t you find them?” Max wondered aloud. David could utilize their observatory like an enormous crystal ball and often referred to it as his little window on the world. But the sorcerer merely shrugged.
“I’ve tried,” he said. “Scrying has become impossible. Either I’m losing my touch or they’re being held in some place with special protections.”
“But then that means they’re in danger,” exclaimed Max. “Even more reason for me—”
“To do your job and let others do theirs,” interjected David. “Cooper would want you focused on the Workshop.”
Max nodded. Deep down he knew David was right, but it did not sit well. It was Cooper who had come to his rescue many times. Without him, Max would still be festering and going mad in Prusias’s dungeons. And now when the man might be hurt or need his help, Max was being told to look away and concentrate on the bigger picture.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said David quietly. “I can see it in your face. Your instinct is to race off and help your friends. But if the Atropos are involved, that’s just what they want you to do.”
Breathing deep, Max drummed his fingers and looked about. Marta had shaped the dough into a dozen loaves that had been baking in the brick oven. Given the empty cafe, it seemed a trifle optimistic. Still, they did look good, as Marta removed them and set them on racks to cool. Max fished in his pockets.
“How much for one of those?”
“Ten,” grunted the woman, staring into the oven.
“Coppers or silver?” asked Max, sorting the coins in his palm.
“Where’d you find this one, David?” Marta cackled. “It’s ten
Gulping down his coffee, Max plunked the coins onto the table. “If you let me borrow that basket, I’ll take all of them.”
Marta hurried over to sweep up the coins, laughing as she held up a silver lune. “You can keep the bloody basket.”
David leaned back, bemused. “Where are you going with a dozen loaves of bread?”
“Crofter’s Hill. And you’re going, too.”
It was a forty-minute walk to Crofter’s Hill—a tall, sparsely covered knoll that rose above the Sanctuary plains. It was a peculiar place to build a house, for the hill was unusually steep and exposed, its rocky soil apparently incapable of sustaining much more than a few fenced tomato vines and a billy goat that eyed the boys suspiciously as they reached its windswept summit.
The lone house atop Crofter’s Hill was a large, heavy-timbered cottage built with wattle and daub and supporting a steep roof of gray thatch. Several steps led up to a broad porch where ceramic planters flanked a twelve-foot door made of knotted pine planks. Only two windows were visible. They were set on either side of the door and hidden by rough wooden shutters that banged and creaked with every whistling gust.
Max knocked hard on the door and waited for an answer. When none came, he knocked again while David shivered and gazed far down at the Warming Lodge, where reflected clouds drifted across the surface of its placid lagoon. When Max knocked a third time, David wrapped his cloak tighter.
“Maybe he isn’t home.” He shivered.
Max pointed toward a pair of muddy boots sitting by a planter and knocked again.
Puzzled, Max turned and spied a worn envelope tucked beneath a nearby planter where the herb was growing, tall and fragrant. Pressing his ear against the door, Max knocked louder.
“Bob, open the door. It’s Max and David.”
Silence, and then at last a heavy shuffling. Bolts slid back and the door cracked open. From the dark interior, Bob stared down at them, an elderly ogre whose ten-foot frame had grown thin, almost spare. He had not shaved in days. Bristly white stubble covered a sunken, toothless jaw whose lips were drawn in a hard line.
“Max,” he croaked, peering closer and fumbling for the monocle dangling from a chain behind his ear. His nostrils quivered, as if taking in their scent. “Is that really you? And David, too. I thought you were the deliveryman.”
“Can we come in?” asked Max.
“Why?”
The question simply hung in the air. There was no suspicion or malice in the ogre’s tone, but Max almost wished there was. Their absence was heartbreaking, as though Bob could not conceive why anyone would want to visit.
“Because … we want to see you,” replied Max hesitantly. “We brought you some bread.”
The ogre glanced down at the basket. “You boys should save your money. I have enough to eat.”
“Okay,” said Max. “But can we still come in?”
