The Bakery The Rowan boys eased the heavy door shut and blinked into the pale gold of morning. Cherrybrook Lane was already stirring to life. Slants of sunlight peeked between crooked rooftops, setting shutters aglow and turning every drifting mote of dust above the road into a tiny flake of molten metal. The lane itself—wide enough for two wagons to pass, if the drivers were feeling generous—was mostly hard-packed earth scarred by generations of iron-rimmed wheels, with ragged islands of slick cobblestone fighting to peek through. Somewhere ahead, the blacksmith’s hammer rang out against iron. Clang. Clang. Clang. The clear notes carried on the cool air. A lumbering wagon creaked past, its driver’s head lolling as a patient bay horse plodded forward. A few yards on, a cluck of indignant hens rose from behind a garden gate. A woman peered from an upstairs window, flung out a rug, and a puff of dust billowed down the street. Luca coughed, waved a hand. The woman waved back. “Sorry,” she replied in a friendly voice. The rug vanished, leaving the morning air thick with echoes of horses—warm hay, worn leather, and that unmistakable livestock tang. Then something sweeter drifted in: fresh-baked bread. Lorenzo came to a halt. The bakery’s windows steamed with warmth, and beyond the open door floated the sumptuous scent of just-turned loaves, cinnamon, melted butter, and sugar that made all four boys slow their steps. Luca nudged him. “Don’t.” Lorenzo inhaled deeply. “Dad said to check the bakery.” “You’re thinking pastries, not hex mice.” “I was not.” “You’ve got pastry face.” Lorenzo rolled his eyes. Express and Ezio took up the chant: “Pastry face!” “Definitely!” Lorenzo scowled and changed direction. Luca sighed and followed. The bell on the door chimed a pleasant tone as Lorenzo pushed the door open. Inside Mrs. Taylor’s bakery, warmth radiated from the stone oven, hushing the boys’ footsteps. Golden trays of rolls rested on a rack. Cabinets held jars of shimmering jams. Flour dust lay in snowy drifts on the counters. “Morning, Mrs. Taylor,” Lorenzo called. Mrs. Taylor—broad-shouldered, flour smudged from her apron, up one arm and across her cheek—lifted a roll. Butter drooled over its side. “Good morning, Lorenzo.” “My father thinks there’s a runaway hex mouse. Have you seen anything odd?” She spread her hands, eyes darting to the flour sacks, then to the ovens. “No… God help me, I hope not.” “May I look around?” “Please.” She stepped aside, wiping hands on her apron. Lorenzo ducked beneath tables, peered behind sacks, nudged chairs—but only found a broom hiding shyly under a chair. A sudden hiss caused Lorenzo to spin towards the door. Ezio had dropped to all fours, back arched, ears flat, eyes huge as he stared under the oven. Beside him, Express crouched, dragonish shoulders low, tail twitching, a thin wisp of smoke curling from one nostril. “Oh no,” Lorenzo whispered. “What?” Luca whispered back. “Stop them,” Lorenzo hissed. Luca moved to intercept the two, but too late, Ezio and Express lunged together. A bolt of purple raced from under the oven. “SQUEAK!” The hex mouse shot across the floor, fur rippling with violet light like a storm trapped in its pelt. Sparks leaped from its whiskers. Ezio darted after. He slid beneath a table, sending it toppling onto a rack of sweet rolls. Mrs. Taylor shrieked, “MY PASTRIES!” Ezio rose from the slide, changed direction, and clipped a chair with his hip; a tray of cinnamon buns were sent tumbling. The mouse swerved. Ezio spun. Express kept barreling forward—WHAM!—straight into the counter, sending three pies flying like cannonballs. “No!” Lorenzo watched them arc through the air. One splatted fruit-side down. One cracked open against the floor. The third—an apple pie—landed square on Luca’s head. For a breathless moment, Luca stood frozen, a rosy-bruised pastry bonnet perched atop him, filling dripping down over his blindfold of crust. Ezio bounded past. Luca wiped jam from his eyes. “DON’T DESTROY MY SHOP!” Mrs. Taylor screamed. The mouse bolted behind flour sacks. Ezio dove after it, and Lorenzo saw sacks begin to topple. Express barreled into Ezio; the sacks teetered; then with a thunderous whoosh, they crashed. A cloud of white dust exploded, swallowing everything. Lorenzo raised trembling hands. The world had vanished in flour. Coughs and crashes rattled inside the storm. A hiss, a squeak, a furious roar—then Mrs. Taylor’s voice from beyond the storm: “Oh my heavens, my bread, my rolls! “We’ll clean it after school!” Something bumped Lorenzo’s ankle. He scooped at empty air. “Got you!” “Let go of me,” Luca grumbled. Lorenzo released him. The chaos raged for another frantic five minutes. Then—silence. Flour drifted like ghostly snow shafts through the sunbeams. Lorenzo waved his arms. “Luca?” “Here.” “Can you see them?” “No,” Luca replied. Lorenzo squinted. Two pale figures emerged: Luca, Ezio, and Express—white as ghosts, soggy flour sagging from their clothes. Then a sudden soft, “Murph… murph.” Lorenzo froze. The shape in front of him was exactly the triumphant Ezio: chest up, tail curved, whiskers twitching. Ezio blinked. “Murph.” From Ezio’s jaws dangled a purple tail. “No!” Lorenzo rushed forward. “Don’t you dare swallow him!” Ezio backed away, tail clamped in his teeth. Lorenzo seized it. Ezio pulled. The tail stretched. “Ezio! Open your—” Eventually, with monumental reluctance, Ezio unhinged his jaw. Out plopped the soggiest, angriest hex mouse Lorenzo had ever seen, dripping saliva. It twisted, glaring at Ezio. Express licked his lips. The mouse squeaked in furious betrayal. “I know,” Lorenzo murmured. “He was going to eat you.” Lorenzo snagged an empty preserve jar from under the counter, dropped the mouse in, and snapped the lid shut. Immediately, purple light pulsed across the glass. The mouse stamped its paws, glaring outward. Lorenzo tucked the jar under one arm and turned to Mrs. Taylor, who stood amid the wreckage—flour-dusted ovens, toppled racks, ruined bags of flour strewn like fallen soldiers. “Can you keep it until after school? My dad will come for it.” Mrs. Taylor looked from the glowing jar to her ruined bakery, sighing. “You are coming back after school. You’re cleaning this. And those two are banned forever.” Ezio’s ears drooped; Express’s wings sagged, “Now get out!” Finished Mrs. Taylor. The boys dashed down Cherrybrook Lane toward the schoolhouse, leaving little white tracks behind them.