A faint bell chime announced the arrival of Amelia, the aroma of warm sourdough and cinnamon wrapping around her like a familiar hug. Bertie, flour dusting his eyebrows like a winter frost, looked up from meticulously arranging an array of blueberry scones. “Morning, Amelia. The Usual?” His voice, a rumble like a distant bread proofer, carried across the quiet bakery. “You know me too well, Bertie. And maybe one of those cherry tarts, if they’re as good as they look.” She gestured to a small platter of glistening pastries. He chuckled, a puff of flour escaping his apron as he bent to retrieve a cardboard box. “Made them just for you. Well, not *just* for you, but you’re the first to ask. Fresh out of the oven an hour ago.” She leaned against the counter, surveying the display. “Anything exciting happen in Haven’s End since I was last in? Besides these heavenly tarts, of course.” “Exciting? Lord help us, Amelia. It’s Monday. The most excitement we get is when Mrs. Higgins tries to haggle over the price of a single cruller.” He placed her coffee on the counter, the rich scent mingling with the baking. “Though old Mr. Henderson was in earlier, looking rather flustered. Said someone had ‘tampered with his prize-winning petunias’.” “Tampered?” She raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Sounds ominous.” “Ominous for his petunias, perhaps. He was rather red-faced about it, I’ll give him that.”