The scent of cinnamon and rising dough hung thick in the air, a comforting blanket against the crisp autumn morning outside. Sunlight streamed through the bakery window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the golden shafts. “Morning, Agnes. What wonders have you conjured today?” “Just the usual, dear. A batch of the blueberry scones that vanished faster than secrets at the knitting circle.” A warm crusty roll was placed on the counter. “This smells divine. You weren't tempted to add a little extra something, were you? A hint of nutmeg, perhaps?” “You know me too well. A baker’s intuition, they say.” “Or perhaps a touch of… *information*?” A soft chuckle. “The flour doesn’t whisper, you know. Not directly, anyway.” “But the gossip mill churns, doesn’t it? Especially after last night’s unfortunate incident at the historical society gala.” “Tragic, truly tragic. Poor Mr. Abernathy. Although, I must say, his tie was rather garish.”