Cookies & Curses – Chapter 4
Bake It ’Til You Make It
The bakery woke before Hazel did. She knew it by the faint, floury exhale drifting through the space, a scent impossible yesterday because she had not left any dough out. An overeager pumpkin had clearly decided the morning needed a head start.
Hazel rolled out of her make-shift bed, toes finding the floor. Stretch, vertebrae applause, five push-ups. Control reported for duty with a bicep salute; Chaos flexed back, already lobbying for breakfast. She tucked scattered hair into a tight bun and raced forward.
The kitchen was candle-lit, though she had extinguished every taper last night. On the prep table sat a mound of dough shaped like a squat sun, cross-scored, glowing faintly.
Pip hovered above it, vine-arms akimbo, whistling an off-key jig.
“Did you,” Hazel began, measuring each word, “wake up my ingredients in the middle of the night?”
Pip bobbed anxiously. “Not exactly waking! More like… gentle encouragement?”
“Unauthorized flour fermentation,” Hazel said, voice still gravelly with sleep.
Pip spun, smile lantern-bright. “Dawn Brioche. Needed a warmer rise, so I HUMMED at it.”
She poked the dough—perfect bounce. Annoyingly perfect. “You hummed this yeasty flour awake?”
“Humming accelerates gluten JOY,” Pip said, as though quoting scripture. “With harmonics!” Pip spun, trailing spectral light. “Very specific frequencies! Learned them from the last baker! He wasn’t very good at rising times, either!”
Despite her irritation at the unauthorized fermentation, Hazel couldn’t deny the promising aroma: butter, honey, possibility. Instead of a dressing-down, she opened the front window a crack; the crisp autumn dawn slipped inside. Market Row was just beginning to stir—shopkeepers sweeping stoops, delivery carts rumbling over cobblestones, the distant sound of the clock tower chiming five.
“Next time,” she said, “leave a note telling me what you’ve been doing.”
“Sticky note OR frosting note?”
“Any note that isn’t metaphysical yeast telepathy.”
“Roger, CAPTAIN.” Pip executed a little bow.
Hazel rubbed her temples. It was far too early for this.
A rap sounded at the front door—three brisk knocks, followed by throat-clearing. Hazel’s heart performed a brief flutter as she wiped her flourless hands on a clean towel. The sun wasn’t even fully up; who would be calling at this hour?
“Storefront hours begin at eight,” she called, crossing the shop.
The knocking increased. “Civic inspection!” announced a voice with the resonance of someone who practiced important declarations in the mirror.
“What kind?” Hazel called out nervously.
“On-site verification for provisional food-magic licensing!”
“Hide,” Hazel whispered urgently to Pip. “And stay hidden.”
The pumpkin’s eyes widened before he zoomed behind a flour sack, his glow dimming to barely a flicker.
Hazel straightened her apron, tucked a stray hair back into her bun, and opened the door to reveal a tall, thin, man with a stiff posture made stiffer by an immaculately pressed uniform adorned with brass buttons that caught the early morning light. His mustache—a marvel of architectural precision—sat perfectly centered above his mouth in a determined line.
“Greetings.” He tipped his cap exactly fifteen degrees. “I am Constable Percival Thaddeus Grimsby.” He stood like an exclamation point someone had hammered into the cobbles. Hat squared, mustache shining. “And as I said, I am here for your inspection.”
“So early?” Hazel asked.
“Punctuality is the cornerstone of civic order, Miss Burn.” He stepped inside, his polished boots making deliberate taps against the floorboards. A brass measuring ruler protruded from one pocket, and a massive keyring jangled from his belt like a warden’s trophy. “I understand you’ve applied for a Provisional Food-Magic License with Intent to Distribute?”
“I have.” Hazel gestured to the spotless kitchen. “As you can see, all preparations are underway.”
Grimsby extracted a clipboard from somewhere within his coat—a gesture Hazel recognized and secretly approved of—and began a methodical inspection. He measured counter heights (“Thirty-six inches precisely, well done”), checked ceiling clearance for magical discharge (“Minimum of eight feet required, you have eight feet two inches, acceptable”), and examined each window for proper ward placement (“North-facing apertures require triple seal configuration, I see you’ve implemented quaternary—unusual but compliant”).
Throughout his inspection, Hazel noticed him occasionally glance toward the flour sack where Pip hid, followed by a slight twitch of his nose. On the third such glance, he withdrew a lacy handkerchief from his breast pocket and delicately dabbed at his nostrils.
“Is there,” he asked with careful dignity, “a gourd on the premises?”
“Only a decorative pumpkin,” Hazel admitted, gesturing vaguely. “Um… Seasonal accent.”
“Ah.” Grimsby’s mustache quivered.
“I’m afraid I suffer from an unfortunate sensitivity to spectral squash varieties. Medical condition. Most inconvenient during harvest season.”
Hazel bit back a smile. “How unfortunate.”
“Indeed.” He sniffed once, then returned to his checklist with renewed vigor. “Market Row merchants must know how to contribute traditional pie for the Feast of Thanks festival. Participation mandatory to foster communal spirit.”
He slid her a form: FLAVOR DECLARATION.
Hazel accepted the form, scanning its intricate requirements. Categories ranged from “Heritage Fruit (Single Origin)” to “Experimental Savory (Committee Pre-Approval Required).” At the bottom, in foreboding small print: Failure to submit an acceptable entry may result in permit suspension until next calendar festival.
“I see,” Hazel said, mind already recalibrating. “What about something else?”
“No quiches. Last time someone tried that, it was a total disaster.”
“So pie, of course, nothing else like say… cookies?” she said nervously. She’d planned to build her reputation on cookies, but clearly, tactical flexibility was required.
“Pie and pie alone is our oldest and most sacred tradition. If you can’t make a pie for submission, don’t bother staying here.”
She scanned the list again, her stomach knotting. Traditional pie meant traditional expectations, and Hazel had spent most of her adult life perfecting dungeon rations and intimidation tactics, not flaky crusts. “Would a spiced apple pie be considered traditional enough?”
He hesitated, eyes narrowing at her. Hazel met the scrutiny head-on. Years commanding goblins had taught her not to blink first.
Finally, he sniffed—half appraisal, half residual allergy. “Spiced apple is Category Three, Approved Classics. A solid choice for a newcomer.” He paused, mustache twitching in what might have been approval.
“The tasting committee meets at noon today for preliminary assessments. You would need to present your entry then for provisional acceptance.”
“Noon today?” Hazel repeated, mentally calculating proofing times, oven temperatures, and cooling curves.
“Of course.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Excellent.” Grimsby made a precise check on his form. “Assuming your pie meets basic standards and contains no persuasive enchantments above Grade Two, your provisional license should be approved by end of day.”
Grimsby surveyed the room once more, then sneezed for emphasis. “Overall, satisfactory. Provisional license remains active pending pie evaluation.”
Hazel inclined her head. “Thank you, Constable. I won’t let you down.”
“I shall see you at noon, Miss Burn. Town Hall, Room Seventeen, Pie Assessment Chamber.” He clicked heels, produced a pamphlet titled THE FESTIVAL OF THANKS PARADE ROUTE AND YOU!, and handed it over. “Study float dimensions for possible future business submission too. Good day.”
She escorted him to the door. Outside, pigeons clustered. Grimsby leveled a finger. “Public thoroughfare, move along!” The birds scattered, then regrouped in a neat line. He saluted them, sneezed again, and strode off.
Door latched, Hazel exhaled so hard the hairs in her bun fluttered, feeling like she’d just achieved critical failure on a Persuasion check.
A moment later, Pip burst from behind the flour sack, trailing spectral dust, eyes droopy. “SORRY I may have made him sniffle A BIT.”
“Unavoidable.” She patted his rind. “Besides, we passed—mostly.”
“But did you HEAR?” he exclaimed, bouncing from shelf to shelf in agitation. “Pie! Not cookies! Crisis! Calamity! Complete change of culinary course!”
“I heard,” Hazel said, already rolling up her sleeves. Control and Chaos flexed in anticipation. “And we’re going to bake the most structurally sound, technically perfect apple pie Puddlewick has ever seen.”
“PIE TIME?” Pip brightened instantly.
“Pie time,” she echoed, though her brain buzzed with variables: crust ratios, enchantment spectrum, council politics. She had planned for cookies but didn’t see why those couldn’t translate to pie, and she had several recipes to follow from various market folk to go off of and maybe a bit of dungeon assistance too.
She turned to the proofed brioche dough. “First, let’s get you shaped and into pans. Then, we strategize.”
The brioche went into the oven as the sun cleared the horizon. While it baked, filling the shop with a buttery aroma, Hazel extracted Tome-Three from its hiding place beneath the floorboard. The storm-leather book fell open to a page titled “Truth in the Crust: Lies and Pies of Intent and Integrity.”
“Perfect,” she murmured, scanning the recipe with the focus of a general reviewing battle plans.
Pip hovered nearby, his glow dimmed to a respectful amber. “I could HELP with apple peeling? I’m very good at hovering near KNIVES without causing accidents! Usually!”
Hazel considered the spectral pumpkin. Despite his chaotic nature, he had proven useful during pantry organization. And time was of the essence.
“Fine,” she decided. “You supervise apple rotation. Ensure even peeling distribution. No unnecessary commentary.”
“Supervision only! NO commentary! Absolute SILENCE!” Pip zoomed to the apple basket, his excitement belying his promise of quiet.
Over the next two hours, Hazel worked with military precision. The whisk scooted across the bench, eager to assist.
Apples were peeled, cored, and sliced into perfectly uniform crescents. Spices were measured to the quarter-teaspoon.
“That’s it,” Hazel encouraged, watching the dough come together. “Nice, gentle incorporation. No overworking.”
Pip, despite his vow of silence, couldn’t contain himself. “You’re doing amazing!” he whispered to the dessert. “Such beautiful lamination potential! Your hydration ratio is perfection!”
Surprisingly, the encouragement seemed to help. The crust rolled out smoothly, draping into the waiting pie plate with cooperative ease. Hazel’s fingers crimped the edges into a pattern of precise, even peaks.
She recognized a tightness under her sternum—anticipation tinged with fear. She had to succeed.
Apples tossed with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a pinch of something from the mysterious herb packet that had appeared under her door were stirred, the mixture took on a subtle glow, similar to the brioche but with a warmer, golden tone that suggested truth and comfort.
“Honest pie,” she murmured, remembering her mother’s words about intention in baking. “Show them who we really are.”
The lattice top went on with architectural precision, each strip measured and placed to allow optimal steam release while maintaining structural integrity.
“Oven, three-seventy-five,” she told the hearth. Flames obliged.
While the pie baked, Hazel managed to knock out the parade paperwork and float guidelines that Grimsby had left behind, filling in each field with her neat, blocky handwriting.
Every few minutes the whisk buzzed out of its jar to brush egg wash on the lattice. Pip hovered by the window, occasionally tracing fog hearts on the glass.
At forty-five minutes, the pie emerged bronzed and bubbling. Hazel set it on a wire rack. Aroma flooded the bakery—sweet, bright, with a subtle fizz that hinted at bold conversation around long tables.
She opened the window wider; cool breeze curled steam out to Market Row, where early shoppers paused, noses twitching. A child pointed; her guardian smiled and mouthed, “mmmmmm, is that pie?” Hazel gave a polite wave. Word-of-mouth marketing: newly achieved.
“Cooling time,” Hazel declared as she paced, restless.
From above the oven, a squeaky hinge announced the loft door opening. Hazel frowned; she hadn’t heard steps. Then a squirrel—tiny, russet—poked its head over the stair, bushy tail flicking.
“NEW CUSTOMER!” Pip gasped.
The squirrel chattered, hopped onto the counter, and pointed at the pie with a dramatic paw. Hazel blinked. Wildlife rarely gave menu feedback.
“I don’t speak squirrel,” she said.
The creature chattered again, more insistent, then produced a miniature parchment from under its collar. A union delegate? She accepted the scroll.
Scrawl read: “Greetings, Baker. We smell pie. Will trade three acorns, one polished river pebble for slice. – Squirrel Syndicate.”
Hazel bit back a laugh. “Barter economy alive and well.”
Clipboard note: establish nut-for-crumb loyalty program.
“Tell your syndicate,” she addressed the squirrel, “the pie is council property until noon. Afterward, negotiable.”
The squirrel considered, then nodded—if quick head bob counted—and scurried off, mission relayed.
Pip sighed dreamily. “Communal goodwill rising faster than brioche.”
“Let’s hope the council agrees.”
Eleven-fifteen: pie cooled. Hazel boxed it in a charmed carrier that maintained temperature yet suppressed aroma.
She grabbed her coat. “Look after this place while I’m gone to Town Hall.”
Pip saluted but hovered near the cider barrel. “I’ll hold down fort. Whisk and I will, uh, cross-index new frosting and sprinkle inventory.”
Hazel eyed him. “No unauthorized customers.”
“Promise,” he promised.
Leaving the bakery, she inhaled courage and autumn in equal measure. Market Row bustled—merchants stacking items, a fiddler practicing parade tunes, children rehearsing turkey dances less coordinated than enthusiastic. Hazel navigated through, mindful of the carrier’s precious honesty.
Town hall rose in the square, brick and ivy, bell tower slicing clear sky. She climbed steps, nodding to secretaries she’d never met but might one day bake birthdays for.
Room Seventeen, the Pie Assessment Chamber, proved to be a solemn space with high windows and a long oak table. Three figures awaited her: Constable Grimsby, a silver-haired woman with knitting needles tucked into her bun, and a rotund gentleman who smelled faintly of yams.
“Miss Burn,” Grimsby announced, “presenting her Category Three entry for preliminary assessment.”
Hazel placed the pie on the table with the ceremonial care of someone delivering a royal decree. The lattice caught the light from the high windows, casting a honeyed glow across the polished wood.
“Spiced apple,” she stated. “Traditional technique with balanced sweetness and structural integrity.”
The committee leaned forward as she cut the first slice, revealing a perfect cross-section of layered apples suspended in a glistening filling that neither ran nor congealed. Steam carried the scent upward, enveloping the room in warmth and truth.
The first bites melted frowns. The silver-haired woman closed her eyes in quiet appreciation. The yam-scented gentleman made a sound usually reserved for religious experiences. Even Grimsby’s mustache twitched upward at the corners before he regained his composure.
“The committee will now deliberate,” he announced, though his tone lacked its earlier severity.
The deliberation consisted of meaningful glances and appreciative nods. After what seemed a formality rather than a genuine debate, Grimsby cleared his throat.
“Miss Burn, your entry meets traditional standards while demonstrating technical proficiency.” He shifted awkwardly in his seat. “I should note that you look like you could snap me like a twig, and yet your pastry demonstrates remarkable delicacy.”
Hazel blinked, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned by this assessment.
“Er, that is to say,” Grimsby continued, flushing slightly, “your provisional license is approved.” He produced a stamp and brought it down on her application with perhaps more force than necessary. “You may commence operations effective immediately, subject to standard trade hours and magical containment protocols.”
“Thank you, Constable,” Hazel said, accepting the stamped license with the gravity it deserved. “I look forward to contributing to Puddlewick’s culinary landscape.”
The return to her bakery should have been triumphant. Instead, Hazel opened the door to find miniature pandemonium.
Flour dust hung midair like milky fog. The whisk pinwheeled overhead, trailing sugar. Pip zoomed in frantic circles after four squirrels—including the delegation from earlier—were attempting to abscond with her bakery tins. Most alarmingly, a splash of spilled cider was creeping dangerously close to the floorboard hiding Tome-Three.
For a moment, Hazel felt the old instinct rise—the call to the Triune, the urge to summon power that could freeze miscreants in their tracks. She pushed it down, reaching instead for the diplomatic skills that had served her well for decades.
Hazel inhaled to four, channeling years of boss-monster poise. She climbed a stool, whistled sharply. Squirrels halted, tins clattering.
“New terms,” Hazel announced, voice firm but not unkind. “Return all bakeware immediately, and I will provide pie trimmings at four o’clock daily. Violation of bakery peace will result in permanent suspension of crumb privileges.”
The squirrels conferred in hurried chittering before carefully setting down the bakery tins with surprising care and offering what appeared to be apologetic salutes.
“And everyone here,” Hazel continued, “will help restore order and clean up!”
What followed was a masterclass in crisis management. Pip, wearing an upturned ladle as a makeshift helmet, directed dust-removal operations. The squirrels, eager to redeem themselves, helped sweep crumbs into neat piles. The whisk dove into sudsy water and assisted in wiping down surfaces with surprising efficiency.
Within thirty minutes, the bakery gleamed once more. The hidden grimoire was safely dry, the floors spotless, and even the windows had acquired an extra shine from the concentrated cleaning effort.
Hazel stood in the center of her domain, permit in hand, surveying the results with satisfaction. Control was pleased with the successful inspection and completed forms; Chaos approved of the squirrel treaties and improvised crisis management.
Pip sagged against a jar of anise. “Diplomacy: SPECTACULAR.”
The whisk had settled back into its jar, but it rattled faintly.
Outside, Market Row bustled with afternoon activity. Inside, her bakery stood ready—clean, organized, and officially licensed, despite the minor crisis.
You have been reading Cookies & Curses...
The most dangerous threat to a retired Dungeon Boss wasn’t a hero wielding a sword. It was the infuriatingly optimistic apothecary elf next door who believed her bakery needed a little more chaos.
Hazel Serenella Burn fled her past to open Burn & Batch in the cozy town of Puddlewick. No monster mobs. No adventurers. Just precisely measured magic.
Then she accidentally unleashed a batch of Truth Cookies that caused the Great Cookie-Quake, sending the town into emotional chaos.
Suddenly, her bakery is suspended by the rigid local constable. Her only hope is Oswin Reed—the warm, intuitive elf who sweeps the flour off her floor without asking and insists that letting go is good for the soul. To save her fresh start, Hazel has to team up with Oswin to heal the town’s baking divide.
Working side by side with him was supposed to be strictly business. She didn’t plan on his gentle support breaking down her carefully constructed walls. Or the way he looked at her like she wasn’t a monster at all.
If she can’t learn to let go of her need for absolute control, she’ll lose her desperately needed fresh start. But trusting Oswin might be the most dangerous—and delicious—risk she’s ever taken.
