The scent of warm cinnamon and roasted hazelnut swirled around Clara, a comforting embrace that almost made her forget the chill from outside. Nearly, but not quite. “Morning, Clara. You’re in early today, even for you.” “Just admiring your handiwork, Rose. The sourdough looks particularly magnificent today.” “Fresh from the oven. You know, you could always learn a trick or two instead of just admiring.” “And ruin my reputation as your most discerning customer? Never. Besides, who would sample all your delights if I were elbow-deep in flour?” Clara chuckled, the sound as warm and inviting as the bakery’s interior. “Always an excuse, you. Still thinking about that business with Mrs Henderson’s prize-winning petunias?” A sigh escaped Clara, light as a puff of powdered sugar. “It’s just… odd. Nobody else in town grows those particular ‘Crimson Monarch’ varietals. And for them to be meticulously uprooted, not just trampled…” “Sounds like someone put a lot of effort into being nasty. Or, maybe, someone really *hated* petunias.” Rose slid a small, perfectly browned croissant across the counter. “On the house. Think of it as fuel for your little grey cells, as you always say.” Clara took a bite, the buttery flakiness melting on her tongue. “Delicious, as always. And exactly what I needed. Perhaps a walk through Constable Davies’ rose garden is in order this afternoon. You never know what a little fresh air, and perhaps a casual chat, might reveal.”