The scent of caramelized sugar and yeast hung heavy in the air, thick enough to coat the lungs like glaze on a warm cruller. Outside, the cobblestones of Oakhaven were slick with autumn rain, but inside the Copper Whisk, the ovens hummed a steady, comforting bass note. "The almond flour is definitely missing from the top shelf." "I told you, I haven't touched the inventory since Tuesday." "Then explain why the blueberry scones taste like desperation and sawdust." "Maybe your palate is losing its edge. It happens to the best of us after fifty." "Keep talking like that and you’ll be frosting the funeral cakes solo. Look at this—the latch on the flour bin is bent." "Bent? Let me see. That’s not wear and tear. That’s a pry bar." "Precisely. And unless the local mice have started lifting weights, we have a problem." "You think it’s related to the incident at the Vicar’s tea party?" "Missing secrets, missing flour. It’s all a bit too convenient, isn’t it?" "If Chief Miller finds out we’re poking around again, he’ll ban us from the station." "Let him try. He can’t resist my cinnamon rolls, and he knows it."