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forward to grab a loaf, clear, solid, normal. The teenager’s reflection shows

something else. Too many joints in the arms. Fingers that bend wrong. I blink

and it’s gone, just a kid in a beanie counting out crumpled bills.

A tall, rugged man in a worn flannel shirt steps up to the counter, his hand

tight around a striking woman’s. I recognize him—Jack Ford, the ex-rescue

worker who lives out on the edge of the estuary. But I’ve never seen the woman

before. She has pale, luminous skin and intense silver eyes that seem to pierce

right through me. Her fingers, ending in delicate, glassy claws, click softly

against Jack’s palm.

She inhales deeply, her silver eyes narrowing as she studies my face, and then the bread.

“Deep magic,” she murmurs, her voice a strange, harmonic resonance that vibrates right in my chest. “Shadow and sorrow. You have been claimed, baker.”

Jack gently tugs her arm, though he doesn’t look surprised by her intensity. “Easy, Nerida. We’re just here for the food.” He looks at me, offering an apologetic, exhausted smile. “We’ll take half a dozen croissants. Whatever you have left.”

I bag the pastries, my hands trembling slightly as Nerida’s silver gaze tracks my every move. Jack hands me the cash, but as Nerida takes the brown paper bag, the scent of deep, freezing ocean salt and ozone washes over the counter, cutting right through the smell of my yeast.

“Feed him well,” Nerida whispers, a knowing, predatory smirk touching her lips before Jack leads her back out the door.

The teenager steps up to the counter. “Do you have more croissants in back?”

“I can check,” I say, but before I can move, Mr. Chen speaks up.

“I’ll take a whole loaf, unsliced.” He taps the glass near the sourdough with a thick, knobby finger.

The woman from the couple leans in, her cat-like eyes reflecting the light. “What’s in those scones?”

“Cranberry,” I manage, my hands already moving to grab them.

“I’ll take four.”

I bag them. Ring her up. The teenager pays in cash that smells faintly of moss and earth. Move to the next customer.

A witch I recognize from the farmer’s market is studying the remaining cinnamon rolls. Her familiar, a scraggly black cat, perches on her shoulder. Behind her, someone short and stocky with leather work gloves pushes in. Probably one of the goblins from the metalwork shop on George Street.

By 7:15, my display case is half-empty. I’ve sold more in thirty minutes than I usually do by noon. My head feels light. Dizzy. Like I might float right off the floor.

The line keeps growing. By eight, it’s out the door and down the sidewalk. By eight-thirty, I’m pulling the last tray from the back and apologizing as people peer into the nearly empty case. The business suit woman returns with three coworkers. The construction workers bring their foreman.

Mr. Rodriguez pushes through the door just as I’m wiping down the counter. He’s one of my regulars, always orders the same thing. Sourdough, unsliced, every Tuesday and Friday like clockwork.

“Morning, Kaia.” He moves to the counter with that easy smile of his. “Heard you had quite the rush today.”

“Sold out, actually.” I grab the last whole loaf from the back shelf. “Good thing I saved yours.”

“You’re a saint.” He pulls out his wallet.

I ring him up on the register, then reach for the bag. The chrome side of the espresso machine catches my eye as I turn. Mr. Rodriguez is standing right there, leaning against the counter, but the reflection shows empty space where his shoulder should be. Just the counter. The wall behind him. Nothing else.

I blink. Look at him then back at the chrome.