Page 1 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

MADDIE

I t’s barely dawn, and The Golden Crust is already alive, humming like a contented cat as it purrs beneath the glow of lanterns strung across the timber beams. The ovens radiate a gentle, all-encompassing heat, wrapping around me in a cinnamon-laced embrace that feels like home in a way nothing else ever has.

Flour dusts my arms, smears across my apron in abstract swirls, and probably streaks my cheek because I keep swiping it absentmindedly, too busy wrestling with batches of dough to care.

“Alright you stubborn little things, rise for me—please—just this once without turning into tragic lumps,” I mutter under my breath, patting the dough with the same affection some people save for puppies.

Through the window, a peachy sliver of sunlight stretches down Harvest Hollow’s cobblestone streets, painting everything in gold. It spills into my shop, illuminating the bustling crowd that’s already queued up for their morning fix. The bell over the door jingles nearly every ten seconds.

There’s a trio of dwarven miners, still dusted in grit from the night shift, teasing each other about who’s getting the biggest tart.

A pair of gnomes stand on tiptoe, bright eyes peering into my glass case like children outside a toy shop, noses nearly smudging the glass.

And an elegantly dressed elf woman sighs over the display with such reverence that you’d think I’d uncovered a lost masterpiece, not arranged a stack of rustic apple galettes.

This is my world. My heart beats in pastries, in yeast rising warm and slow, in the way strangers become regulars and regulars become family.

I’m brushing egg wash over a tray of pumpkin tarts when Mr. Penwhistle the gnome comes scuttling up to the counter, clutching his tiny velvet hat in two hands like he’s afraid it might flutter away.

“Morning, Miss Maddie! Got any of those tarts with extra brown sugar crumble?”

“Of course I do,” I chirp, slipping a still-steaming tart onto a little willow-plate designed just for smaller folk. “Would I let you face the day without your morning sugar rush? Not on my watch.”

He beams, eyes crinkling up, and pays me in a careful stack of coppers. As he leaves, the door jingles again—this time admitting a thin, hawk-nosed half-elf in a pressed sage-green waistcoat, clutching a polished leather satchel like it contains the crown jewels.

His gaze flits around the shop, lingering on the dwarves and gnomes and even the humans bustling in line, before settling on me with a pinched little frown that says he’s absolutely positive I’m about to ruin his entire day.

“Miss Madeline Quinn?”

I swallow, setting down my brush. “Just Maddie, but yes. Can I help you?”

He clears his throat. “I am Caldris Fairleaf from the offices of Goldleaf & Thread. I’ve been tasked with delivering the particulars of your late aunt Hester’s estate.”

The words late aunt Hester still sting. It’s been months since we laid her to rest under a blaze of marigolds, but sometimes I still catch myself looking toward the back door, expecting her to stroll in with muddy boots and a basket of apples.

I smooth my apron. “Of course. Would you like to sit? Maybe try a tart?—”

“I would prefer to conclude this business promptly,” he interrupts with a tight little sniff.

Alright then. Rude it is.

He slides a thin sheaf of parchment across the counter. “Your aunt’s orchard, farmhouse, and all accompanying lands are bequeathed to you in full, provided you satisfy one minor stipulation of the will.”

My stomach does a weird little dance. “Stipulation?”

“Yes,” he says, adjusting his spectacles with deliberate precision. “The property transfers to you only if you enter into a legally recognized marriage contract on or before the thirty-first of October. Otherwise, the estate defaults to your aunt’s secondary heir—Reginald Cartwright.”

The words land like a brick to the chest. I lean on the counter for support, mouth opening and closing. “I—wait. Married? By Halloween? That’s—less than a month. And if I don’t… slimy Reggie gets it?”

Caldris gives a stiff nod. “Precisely.”

“Oh stars above, that pompous toad would turn the orchard into a series of overpriced vacation cottages and call it something unbearable like ‘Cartwright’s Luxury Grove.’”

Caldris doesn’t respond—just packs up his things with a sniffy little grimace and leaves me standing there, palms braced on the counter, heart hammering against my ribs.

The bakery’s warmth turns stifling. I look around at all the faces waiting patiently for their treats, the familiar hum of laughter and chatter, and I suddenly feel like the floor’s about to drop out from under me.

“Married by Halloween,” I mumble again a little later, sitting at one of the small corner tables after the crowd thins. I’m hugging a cup of chai like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

Across from me sits Liora, my best friend and the town’s resident potion-meddler. She’s got cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, eyes like new leaves in spring, and a personality like one long mischievous grin.

“Oh come on, it’s not that terrible,” she says, swirling the contents of her cup, which appear to be glowing slightly pink. “You’ve still got time. Plenty of perfectly eligible bachelors wandering around Harvest Hollow.”

“Like who, exactly? The blacksmith with the unfortunate habit of licking his teeth when he’s nervous? Or maybe old Mr. Harroway, who’s twice widowed and smells like fermented beets?”

She bursts into laughter, then leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You know, you could always aim for someone a little more… imposing. A big orc, maybe. Lots of tusks, solid muscle, minimal nonsense. Good way to keep those developers in line too.”

I gape at her. “A big orc? You mean like Thornak Ironjaw, who barely says two words to anyone and looks like he might snap you in half just for fun? That’s your solution?”

Liora shrugs, smirking. “I didn’t say it was a practical solution. Just entertaining. Besides, I’ve seen the way he lingers outside your bakery windows some mornings. Maybe he likes the smell of your buns.”

“You are absolutely incorrigible,” I groan, hiding my face behind my hands. “And it’s probably just because he likes—bread. Who doesn’t like bread?”

“Maddie.” Liora’s voice softens, and when I peek between my fingers, she’s watching me with a rare seriousness. “You’ll figure this out. You’re the sunniest, most determined person I know. If anyone can pull a miracle out of a half-baked tart tin, it’s you.”

My throat tightens. I try to muster up a smile. “Thanks, Liora. Really. I just… I can’t stand the idea of losing that orchard. Aunt Hester spent her life turning that place into magic, and it’s all tied up with everything I love—apple blossoms in spring, lazy summer picnics, harvest festivals…”

“And pumpkin spice season?” she teases gently.

I let out a strangled little laugh. “And pumpkin spice season. I don’t want to see it bulldozed by some smug elf in fancy loafers who thinks ‘rustic charm’ means imported birch paneling.”

Liora stands, sweeping her long cloak behind her. She squeezes my shoulder with cool, graceful fingers. “Then you won’t. Because you’ll find a way, Maddie Quinn. Even if it means roping in a grumpy orc and feeding him tarts until he says ‘I do.’”

“Stars above,” I groan again, dropping my head to the table with a soft thud.

But when I lift it, the laughter fades, and the bakery feels a little dimmer.

Because for the first time, the dream I’ve been nurturing since I was a flour-dusted girl in Aunt Hester’s kitchen doesn’t feel like a guarantee.

It feels fragile. Like it could slip right through my fingers, no matter how hard I try to hold on.

And that terrifies me.