Late May, on the heels of spring's closing pageant, in the small town of Twichell, snow fell and wind blew sharply, a rare event. From the attic open above town's Living Donut Shop, Angel Brocklehurst watched with surprised and unsure wonder as he jumped from the bare rafters at the news, as the falling flakes disappeared in staggered lines from underneath him. Winter Donut, winter cookie, winter bread. Delivering to the bakery below, Angel worked to prepare a winter harvest inside the bakery attic: batching, mixing, baking, to fill the coming season's need. Opening up the cold air to burn away the worry-wrack from the day's effort, Angel climbed the winding staircase giving a fresh chill to the warm attic space, but a welcome change. From the task-stained tiles of the bakery, there was Angel's sister, Victoria in Saturday Sunday attire, grey turtleneck loose their waifish wisps spilling a cloud about her fingers, and denim-skirted legs resting over the sill. "Hello," Victoria said. "Hello yourself." Angel's cheeks felt their October winter-shine again as he descended the steep steps from the attic, bags of spices warming his forearms. "What are you making?" Victoria asked. "Really," Angel smiled, "who do you think you're asking. Am I not busy?" Victoria nodded as spring rain collected on the window glass, making x's to track the late Saturday hours. "I needed to see you." Victoria came and took Angel's forearm, bundling him in her cool ivy arms. Angel's hand wandered to gather Victoria's and lock them palm to glistening mini-muffin.