The Mallow family didn’t agree on much, except that every recipe needed a pinch more.
That morning, Fluffletown’s sky had turned the colour of raw dough – soft, waiting, uncertain. Marmie stood by the window, stirring her tea with a slow, tight grip. “Storm’s coming,” she said. “I can feel it in my spoon.”
Crumb was already clambering onto the cupboard roof, holding both his wooden spoons high like lightning rods. “We’ll catch it!” he shouted. “We’ll bake it right into the bread!”
Down below, Chef Mallow folded his arms across his flour-dusted apron. “It’s not the storm I’m worried about,” he muttered, watching a flicker of golden light dart from the clouds toward the distant hills of Florendelle.
He picked up his biggest spoon. “It’s what’s chasing it.”