The layered butter dough had been resting in the cold cellar all the last day of harvest and overnight. She rolled the chilled dough into a rectangle and sliced it, the same way she had for her last success. But instead of cutting it into triangles to roll into buttery half-moons, she cut rectangles, and then turned to the parcel of chocolate.

  Even in the cold cellar, the scent tantalized. She chopped it roughly, and laid sweet-smelling twigs across the sheets of dough before she rolled them up.

  The dough was soft and buttery and held together like a perfect confection of magic. But it still had to rise, and she had to check the oven. And maybe nap, before everyone outside woke up and started demanding their first loaf.

  The fire sprite was still lying in the hottest part of the fire. She reached past it to check the temperature, and its black, beady eyes latched onto a smear of chocolate on her wrist.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get your share,” she told it.

  The oven was heating up nicely. No need to speed things up with the lightstick today. She tucked it idly into her belt.

  Runa settled into the big chair and rested her eyes for a moment. Something bit her finger.

  She glared down at Nobody. It glared back.

  “That wasn’t just a moment, was it?” she asked it.

  “BLOP.”

  “All right, all right.” She stood and stretched, and—yep, those crackles in her neck and the ache in her lower back weren’t the pains of only napping in the chair for a moment.

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  The loaves were ready to put in. She began the familiar rhythm of her mornings, balancing baking time with the need to get more loaves through the oven than she’d ever had to manage before.

  They didn’t expect the bread to all be ready before they woke up, did they?

  She peeked outside. The campfires had died down, but most people were still asleep, bundled in blankets beneath the cool grey sky.

  What a strange festival, she thought. Or maybe not strange. How would she know? Ever since she moved to these parts, she spent more time in the Cauldron than out of it. Maybe Sollus Gate had its own version of this. Maybe Pothollow and Dawdledale’s harvest festival was less strange than other ones.

  But if they weren’t up yet…

  She checked on her dragon moon rolls. Perfectly risen, each scroll of soft dough gently encircling a centre of delicious chocolate.

  Leave them too long, and they would over-rise. It would be a crime to risk them, really.

  She put them in the oven, and her new home filled with the smell of fresh pastries and melted chocolate.

  The dragon moon rolls came out of the oven flaky and golden. Runa transferred them to a rack to cool.

  “There won’t be enough for everyone,” she mused out loud. The fire sprite blopped at her, and she nodded. “One for you, that goes without saying. One for me and one for Severine—I’d better hide them before someone else comes in and strongarms the rest away.”

  She was half a breath from launching herself up into the attic before a moan of mingled pain and annoyance told her exactly who was breaking in through the roof.

  “Ow-w-w,” Severine complained, her voice filtering through the ceiling. Runa huffed a breath of laughter and knocked on the trapdoor.

  There were more thuds, more complaints, and Severine pulled the trapdoor open.

  “I get the feeling the baker’s meant to be trapped in here alone, sweating over a hot oven,” Runa pointed out.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not here to ruin the festival by helping.” Severine tilted her head. Her hair fell over her shoulders in glossy waves, the tips almost touching Runa’s face. “I’ve spent enough nights sleeping on the cold ground, it isn’t special anymore. So I thought I’d sneak a nap inside and creep back out before anyone else wakes up.”

  She leaned down and Runa’s nostrils filled with the woodsy, floral scent of the perfumed sachets Severine stored her clothes with, and the sweet smell of cut wheat, and the salt and smoke of the day’s work.

  Severine’s smile widened. “Care to join me-—”

  The sound of metal singing against metal drowned out her words.