The air in ‘The Rolling Pin’ was thick with the scent of cinnamon and melting chocolate. A ceramic mug, warm to the touch, was pushed across the checkered tablecloth. “I found it near the old Miller gate.” “Just lying there? All that sparkle in the mud?” “A sapphire, I think. Or a very good blue glass. It was caught on a thornbush.” “You know who wears sapphires.” “She hasn’t been out to the old road in years. Not since…” “No. But her husband has.” A dusting of flour was powdered over the surface of the wooden counter. “He was asking about that land again last week. Said he wanted to build a workshop.” “With her money, I suppose.” “With her inheritance, more like.” The little bell above the door tinkled, a cheerful sound that did nothing to break the sudden chill. “Maybe he dropped it there for someone to find.”