"Martha, these eclairs are divine," George exclaimed, as a warm scent of chocolate and vanilla filled the quaint little bakery. "Thank you, kind sir. Martha's hands, it could only be love and a sprinkle of magic in her shortbread," chuckled the figure behind the counter, a flour-dusted apron wrapped around her. "I dare say, her pies have a reputation that rivals that of the king's chef." George's eyes twinkled under the bakery light, his spectacles reflecting the golden hues of the pastries. Laughing, the baker pointed towards a sign hanging excitedly from the wall, announcing a pie contest coming up soon. "Maybe we'll see you there then. The town's been buzzin' about it." "A pie contest?" His brows arched high, the prospect sounding as delectable as the eclair he cradled. "Well, that's a batch of dough I wouldn't want to miss."