I parked around back and unlocked the back door. The first whiff rolled over me. Cinnamon. Warm flour. The sharp, green snap of vanilla. Not the cheap stuff, but the three-decade-aged brew Maeve swore could knock sense into the dead.
And behind all that, stubborn as weeds, was mint.
Spearmint, not wintergreen. Someone had chewed gum in here yesterday evening as we were closing, and the stink lingered. Odd, it was a bit long for it to linger. I winced. That stuff interfered with our magic and our senses. Not a huge deal for humans, but Caden hated the sharp sting. My head buzzed with it. He pushed past it anyway, hunting for something sweeter beneath the citrusy burn. A note he didn't fully remember, but missed.
I took refuge in muscle memory. Hands in flour, water in the bowl, my own rhythm waking up as I kneaded the dough. I liked the way my hands moved faster than my thoughts. There was comfort in the push and stretch, the way bread came alive if you treated it right.
The bread didn't care about moods or gossip. Thekitchen just wanted me to pay attention. And maybe not burn the place down.
Maeve had left everything in its place. Clean aprons starched and hung in a row. Rolling pins stacked by size. The old stone hearth was waiting to be coaxed back to life. There were photos on the wall, all of them crooked from the last time someone dusted.
And on the shelf above the register, twelve of my own carved animals stood watch. Maple, walnut, driftwood. Some tiny, like a raccoon family. Some of the deer were big enough to use as bookends if you didn't mind getting stabbed by antlers every time you took down a cookbook. The old-timers who came in for coffee always asked how long it took to make them. The truth was, they took less time than socializing. I liked to give them away when it felt right.
I finished shaping the first batch of dough, squinting through the vanilla haze. I could still smell mint, lurking under everything. That knocked Caden sideways.
Find it.
I humored my dragon and did a little digging. I should know to trust him by now. Sure enough, I found a small wad of chewing gum stuck to the side of one of the garbage cans.
I made quick work of cleaning it up and headed back to the kitchen.
Thanks.
Caden appreciated the removal of the mint gum.
The oven hummed. The heat felt good after the outside chill. I lined up cinnamon rolls like soldiers, doused them in extra brown sugar, and loaded the trays before Maeve showed up. She always claimed her sense of taste was better than mine, and it was, and if she picked up on the mint in anything baked here, she'd start a whole lecture on bakery hygiene that would last until closing.
Next, timers. Set them all. Triple-check, because the one time I got distracted and left a sheet in too long, I'd heard about it for months.
Despite the routines I'd developed over the last eighteen months of being back in Laurel Gap and working at the bakery, my head was somewhere else. The dough in my hands went slack.
Caden growled. He was uneasy. Most days, he only woke up if something needed defending or if there was free food on offer. Today, he'd spent the whole flight watching the roads. Looking for threats. I couldn't shake it, either. Like sitting in a waiting room, half expecting the phone to ring with news I didn't want.
I tried to focus on kneading. The dough stuck to my palms, so I floured the counter and kept moving.
After a while, the yeast worked its magic, and the next batch went in the proofer. I checked the time. Sunrise was still an hour off.
The bells on the back door jingled. It was just Maeve, bundled up in a fluffy sweater and her usual half-apron, hair already caught up in a tight bun.
"You in here, cousin?" she called, not bothering to check before whipping a towel in my direction. "Because if you are, consider this your warning, I'm not starting the week with scorched bread."
I ducked, but not fast enough. The towel snapped my elbow.
"Hey, easy now," I protested. "No casualties yet."
Maeve stalked over to the prep bench, eyeing my work like a sergeant inspecting recruits. "Mmm-hmm. If I find a single crumb of char, I swear?—"
"Not even close," I insisted, chin up. "We're strictly golden-brown this morning."
She snorted, but the gesture was pure affection. She always covered it with tart teasing.
Maeve checked the timers, took one deep sniff, and made a face. "Is that mint? I thought we scrubbed it out last night."
I raised both hands. "I found a wad of gum."
She eyed me. "It is your turn to clean it up."
"Yep, and I already did." No witch or dragon enjoyed cleaning up mint. Even if she couldn't shift to dragon form, it still bothered Maeve, too.
