The bell above the door jingled as Agnes slipped into the bakery, the sweet scent of freshly baked croissants enveloping her. The morning light streaming through the window highlighted the dust motes dancing in the warm air. Behind the counter, Emily wiped down the display case, her hands moving with the practiced ease of a long-time baker. "I don't know how you do it, Emily," a voice said, "I'm still trying to shake off last night's trencher supper at the community center." "Bless the funeral committee for keeping us fed, I suppose. But aggravating, really. All those dubious casseroles stacked high as the confessional." A chuckle followed, low and throaty. "I heard rumors of rare 'tater casserole itsy_bits." The speaker snorted. "Like we don't already have enough 'itis' around here." "I don't know what's sauce for the gander, but Em's apple pie quite deserves a nod from the Lord above, better than most bakeries' biscuit operations." "Mah—poofed attempts at addiction!" Emily's hands emerged from the air, noticeably splayed wide.