I’m not that kind of Witch.
In fact, I don’t even call myself that, not out loud anyway. Not unless I’m joking or talking to someone who gets it.
No, I’m a baker.
A damn good one. And while my hands are skilled at kneading dough and piping frosting, my true talent?
I see people.
Not dead ones. Just regular ones.
I see what they need.
Just enough to know when someone needs a soft-baked snickerdoodle to ease a heavy heart, or a molasses gingerbread cookie to remind them of a childhood Christmas they thought they’d forgotten.
It’s subtle. Quiet. But it’s there.
Especially this time of year.
This season? Well, it’s like my powers wake up with the snow.
Like the magic in the air sharpens everything inside me. I don’t just bake cookies.
I craft them with intention. The right recipe can bring up memories.
Heal a mood.
Nudge someone just enough to shift their whole outlook.
People think I’m just a girl with a sweet tooth and a knack for buttercream.
But I know better.
I’m Marigold Santos.
Jersey girl. Baker.
Maybe a Witch or Bruja.
Definitely not normal.
And if today’s cookie order is anything like the one I made yesterday—the one that made an old man cry right in the middle of my shop—I have a feeling the universe is about to stir something big.
Something real.
Something magical.
Inside the bakery, business is booming.
The ovens are singing, the mixers are whirring, and I’m right where I belong—elbow-deep in dough and covered in flour—when Emery, my best friend and partner-in-baking-crime, shouts from the front of the shop.
“Marigold! You’ve got a customer with a question!”
Emery’s voice carries from the front counter like a foghorn through cinnamon-scented chaos.
“I’m a little busy right now, Em, is it important?” I holler back, almost ready to roll out the dough.
“He says it’s urgent!”
