“Of course.” Dahlia began boxing pastries. Comfort croissants, clarity cookies, and a few of the courage cinnamon rolls that had been selling particularly well this week. The surgehad made everything more potent—her charmed baked goods were hitting harder than usual, causing unexpected emotional reactions in customers.
Yesterday, old Mr. Hartwell had eaten one of her comfort croissants and burst into healing tears in the middle of Main Street, sobbing about his late wife while strangers awkwardly patted his shoulder.
She really needed to recalibrate her recipes.
“Theo mentioned the bear situation at breakfast.” Avine accepted the box Dahlia handed her. “There’s some territorial dispute brewing? A boundary claim issue?”
Junie’s focus sharpened. “Wait, that’s why you asked about Bran? Dahlia, does this affect you?”
Don’t make this about me.
“It might. Maybe. I don’t know yet.” Dahlia arranged the display case again, hands needing occupation. “Sue was here this morning. She mentioned the boundary line runs through the shop. Some Ironwood alpha thinks he has historical claims to the land.”
Both women went still.
“Magnus Ironwood?” Avine’s voice went hard. “Theo’s mentioned him. He’s bad news, Dahlia. Old-school bear traditionalist. Believes shifters should stick to their own kind, that integration makes them weak.”
“Fantastic.” Dahlia forced a smile. “I’ll add ‘potential territorial dispute with isolationist bear alpha’ to my to-do list.”
“This isn’t funny.” Junie grabbed Dahlia’s arm. “If he has a legitimate claim?—”
“Then I’ll deal with it.” Dahlia gently extracted herself. “I deal with everything else. Now, don’t you have a frog to catch and a potion to fix?”
Junie opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue.
The bell chimed.
Cassia Gale blew in on a gust of wind that smelled of sea salt and static electricity. Her dark curls crackled with barely contained energy, and her familiar—a storm petrel named Gust—swooped in after her to perch on the nearest display case.
“My mother,” Cassia announced to the room at large, “is going to be the death of me.”
And the conversation shifted. Cassia needed to vent about her mother’s latest matchmaking attempt. Avine needed to discuss the upcoming book club meeting. Junie remembered three more things she wanted to tell Dahlia about Leo’s coffee situation, which had apparently escalated to include a second frog.
From her perch, Marzipan watched with knowing, judgmental focus.
You’re doing it again.
Doing what?
Disappearing.
Dahlia turned away from her familiar’s accusing stare and smiled at the next customer.
THREE
DAHLIA
The afternoon lull hit at three.
Dahlia retreated to her apartment above the shop, supposedly to grab lunch, actually to collapse on her grandmother’s old sofa and stare at the ceiling for five precious minutes of silence.
The living room held her grandmother’s things she’d never had the heart to change. Hazel Moon’s portrait hung above the fireplace—a formidable woman with Dahlia’s coloring and a smile that promised mischief. The reading nook by the window held books Dahlia hadn’t touched in months. Dust gathered on surfaces she never had time to clean.
Her attention drifted to the desk in the corner. To the drawer where she kept the things she didn’t want to think about.
Don’t.
She got up and opened the drawer anyway.
