"I know how to wash my hands."
"Do you? Because you were pressing your face against my window earlier like a child at a sweet shop."
"I was not pressing my face against anything."
"Your breath fogged the entire window."
"That was atmospheric moisture."
"That was your breathing."
"Prove it."
"You had your hand raised to wipe it clear when I came out."
"Circumstantial evidence."
"You're not in a court of law, Mr. Fletcher. You're in my kitchen, where I'm judge, jury, and executioner."
"That seems like a conflict of interest."
"Take it up with the management."
"You are the management."
"How convenient for me."
Mrs. Whitby senior watched this exchange with increasing delight. "Oh, this is wonderful. Marianne hasn't argued with anyone like this since her husband died."
"Mother!"
"What? It's true. You've been far too agreeable lately. It's unnatural."
"I'm perfectly agreeable."
"You threatened to ban Mr. Martin from the bakery last week."
"He said my sourdough was dense!"
"It was dense, dear."
"It was artisanal!"
"It was a weapon."
"Mr. Fletcher," Marianne said, clearly desperate to change the subject, "hands. Washed. Now."
He washed his hands in the basin she indicated, very aware that both women were watching him with the intensity of scientists observing a rare specimen.
"Now what?"
"Now we make pastry. I assume you know what pastry is?"
"The thing that was recently covering me?"
"That was the finished product. We're starting with ingredients." She began pulling items toward her. "Flour, butter, salt, water. Simple."
"If it's so simple, why do people study for years to become bakers?"
