The early morning sun caught the flour dust hanging in the air, turning the bakery kitchen into a hazy gold cathedral of gluten. The industrial mixer hummed a low, rhythmic bassline, vibrating the floorboards until the frantic chime of the front door shattered the peace. A heavy tote bag hit the counter with a wet thud, rattling the glass display case. "Don't put that there, I just sanitized the surface. And you’re dripping rainwater on my lemon danishes." "Forget the danishes. You need to see what I found tucked behind the gazebo lattice." "I need to get these cinnamon rolls into the proofer before the morning rush hits. If this is another one of your stray cats, the answer is no." "It isn't a cat. It’s a recipe card. Handwritten on heavy cardstock." "Everyone in this town swaps recipes. That’s hardly a scandal worthy of tracking mud onto my clean tile." "It is when the recipe is for a tart made with foxglove, and it’s written on the Mayor’s official stationery." A rhythmic kneading of dough stopped abruptly. Hands dusted in white powder reached out, hovering over the damp bag. "Hand me a towel. And maybe flip the sign to 'Closed' for another ten minutes." "I thought you were worried about the morning rush?" "The rolls can wait. Start from the beginning, and don't skip a single detail."