Chapter 2
TWO
DAHLIA
By seven, the bakery was open, and the first rush had begun.
Dahlia moved through the morning on autopilot, restocking display cases, charming pastries with intention, smiling at regulars who needed that smile more than they needed the comfort croissant they were actually buying.
Mrs. Patterson, whose husband was in the hospital again.
Joshua Mallerin, who’d lost his job last month and was pretending he hadn’t.
Marlene from the post office, still grieving the dog that had died six weeks ago.
Dahlia knew all of them. Knew what they needed before they asked.
That was her gift. Her curse. The thing that made her indispensable and drained in equal measure.
The bell above the door chimed at nine-fifteen, and chaos incarnate swept into the shop.
“I need your help.” Junie Reed-Castellan—wild red hair, freckles, and an energy that could power a small city—collapsed against the counter. “My stabilization potion is doing the opposite of stabilizing. It turned Leo’s coffee into a frog.”
Dahlia handed over a clarity cookie without being asked. “A living frog or a frog-shaped coffee?”
“Living. It hopped into his briefcase.” Junie bit into the cookie. Her focus went slightly distant as the charm took hold. “Oh. Oh. I forgot the wormwood. I keep forgetting the wormwood.”
“You need a checklist.”
“I need a brain that doesn’t run in seventeen directions at once.” Junie leaned against the counter. “Did you hear about Bran Ursa?”
The subject worked as a distraction. Junie’s attention shifted to gossip-hungry curiosity. “Sue cornered Leo at the bank yesterday. The whole sleuth is in crisis mode. And the grandson—” She leaned in. “Apparently, he’s some bigshot corporate guy in Seattle. Hasn’t been back in years.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“The Ursa men leave.” Junie recited it with the cadence of a town legend. “It’s in the blood. His father did the same thing—abandoned the sleuth, ran off with some human woman, never came back.” She polished off the cookie. “Think the grandson’s the same?”
Dahlia thought about the territorial dispute Sue had mentioned. About Magnus Ironwood buying up land, making claims. About her bakery sitting on a boundary line that suddenly felt far more precarious than it had yesterday.
“I don’t know what to think.”
The bell chimed again. Avine Bell-Vance swept in, all innkeeper efficiency and easy smiles. “I need two dozen assorted for the inn. We’ve got a group coming in from Portland this afternoon.” She kissed Dahlia’s cheek in greeting.
“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 surge had 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.