The bell above the door jingled as a gust of autumn wind swept in, sending a few golden leaves skittering across the checkerboard floor. The scent of cinnamon and warm bread wrapped around the two women like a cozy blanket. "Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. Every loaf looks like it came straight from a magazine." A soft chuckle. "Well, when you’ve been kneading dough since before you could walk, it becomes second nature. Though I’ll admit, the sourdough starter has a mind of its own some days." "Speaking of minds, have you heard about what happened at the old mill last night?" The clatter of a metal tray being set down. "You mean the break-in? Yes, poor Martha found the back door wide open this morning. Said half her inventory of flour sacks was gone." "Flour? Who steals flour?" "Someone who either bakes a *lot* of bread... or doesn’t want anyone to know what they’re really up to." A pause. The sound of a knife slicing through a still-warm apple tart. "You don’t think—" "Oh, I think plenty. But I also think we should mind our own business. Unless, of course, you’d like to help me test a new batch of cinnamon rolls later? I could use an extra set of hands." A grin. "You had me at cinnamon."