The busiest stretch of Rainford Street was home to Laurel House, a bakeshop with a reputation that reached far beyond the cobblestone quarter. The proprietress, Audrey, was as lovely as the pastries she sold. The scent of her fresh-baked goods drifted through the streets, sweet enough to draw customers from villages away.
Years ago, Cassian had gifted her over a dozen bakeries across the region, giving her more than enough experience to master the craft. Now, by a twist of fate, she had built her own shop into something truly remarkable.
Every morning, a line of customers wound past her door before she even opened. By evening, every last tart and biscuit was sold out. She would close up shop, retreat to her courtyard garden, tend her flowers and herbs, then spend the rest of the day play
