The Owl Keeper by Christine Brodien-Jones

runny part was loaded with sugar and the crunchy bits had a tart flavor that made his lips pucker. But he knew if he didn't eat the cake she would be insulted.
    "Tasty, isn't it?" she asked.
    "Mmmm," he replied. He could never figure out why her desserts always smelled so delicious but never tasted quite right. "Why don't you try a piece?" Max had noticed that Mrs. Crumlin never went near her own desserts.
    "Dear me no, not at my age! Now then, you haven't seen a pair of boots anywhere?" She scratched the scalp beneath her thinning hair. In times of stress, Max knew, she suffered from rashes and dry skin. "Green rubber boots, brand-spanking-new, from the same mail-order house as your boots. I left them on the porch, but last evening I went to fetch them and they were gone. Strange, isn't it?"
    The cake lodged halfway down Max's throat. His face burned as he pictured Rose in those huge green boots.
    "I didn't see any boots," he lied, hoping Mrs. Crumlin didn't notice his ears go red. He crammed a piece of cake into his mouth, trying to keep his face blank and his brain neutral. Sometimes he suspected that she could read his mind.
    "Goodness, this vinyl needs sponging." Mrs. Crumlin smoothed the tablecloth with her beefy hands, then jumped to
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    the next topic of importance. "Shall we have cusklet loaf tonight, or fava bean soufflé? What's your preference?"
    These were the kinds of inane questions she asked day after day, with such intensity one would think the fate of the world hung in the balance. Max could only take so much of her mindless chitchat.
    He pushed away his plate, feeling bloated and ill. Everything Mrs. Crumlin cooked ended up charred to a crisp, so the menu didn't really matter.
    "Either's fine," he told her. Then, without thinking, he blurted out: "Do you think the High Echelon plans to make me a special agent? I could deliver secret messages and stuff like that!" Oh no, he thought, why do I always say things that could get me into trouble?
    A bristly eyebrow shot up. "You? A special agent?" Mrs. Crumlin sounded out the words as if speaking a foreign language. "Heavens no, Maxwell, you're far too frail for that sort of work." She marched over to the sink and turned on the tap.
    Max clenched his jaw. He detested her belittling tone. "But if they trained me to be a spy, I could sneak around in the night," he argued. "It would suit me, because of my condition and everything." It would also mean he could take his little owl with him. Maybe he'd keep her hidden inside his secret-agent briefcase.
    "Patience, Maxwell, the High Echelon is aware of your condition. It will decide on an appropriate career." She emptied half a box of soap flakes into the water. "Hmmm. Perhaps I should contact the police about those missing boots. I'd hate to think we
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    have thieves lurking in our woods--or worse." She plunged her arms into the dishwater. "It's disturbing to think the Misshapens are growing bolder. Perhaps they're venturing farther afield."
    "They'd never do that," said Max. "They hate open spaces." He remembered Gran telling him the Misshapens were bound to the forest--something to do with their inner wiring--and could never go beyond its natural boundaries. Anxious to change the subject, he asked, "Have you ever been to The Ruins, Mrs. Crumlin? What's inside them?"
    "You mean that heap of derelict buildings on the other side of town? They're empty as old eggshells." She stood scrubbing a pot as if her life depended on it. Max noticed that her voice had a nervous edge, and she was talking faster than usual. "The High Echelon boarded up The Ruins ages ago, for safety reasons. They could collapse at any moment."
    Max sat, chin in hands, wondering what Mrs. Crumlin was hiding. "What are The Ruins, anyway?" he asked. "Did the tremors knock them down?"
    Mrs. Crumlin ignored him--her way of putting an end to the conversation. No surprise there, since she always kept to safe topics like recipes and radio song lyrics. He was