Clover Emberly had six days until the Baker's Crown, and her oven could bake exactly twelve honey-tarts at a time. The judges wanted forty on the tasting table, warm, matched in color, matched in crumb. She stood in her narrow shop in Lichenspire and did the math again on the flour-dusted counter. Four batches. Four different crusts. Four chances for the panel to mark her down and hand the crown to the shop two doors up, the one her mother used to say she'd beat before she turned thirty. Clover was twenty-nine. She had sunk her last coin into butter and good cinnamon, and the little iron oven in the corner ticked at her like it knew. She pulled on her coat and walked to the guild yard, where old kilns and broken ovens sat in the weeds. A round-bodied robin with a red breast hopped along the top of a cast-iron double-hearth, the kind bread-makers used before the guild switched to newer models. The bird cocked its head at her. Clover cocked hers back. The double-hearth was scorched but sound, wide enough for forty tarts in one pull. The yardkeeper wanted three silver and a promise she'd haul it out by nightfall. She counted her purse twice, paid him, and hired a cart. By dusk the old hearth sat in her shop, taking up the space where her display case used to stand. She had one oven big enough now. She also had nowhere to show her breads to customers, no coin left for the week's flour, and six days to bake her way to the crown before the rent came due.

Clover woke at dawn to a sound like a rusted hinge screaming. She followed it to the pantry and found a red-breasted robin perched on her empty flour shelf, feathers puffed to twice its size. It had built a nest of twine and dust in the corner. When she stepped closer, the bird shrieked at her, sharp enough to make her cover her ears. She backed out and shut the door. Then the first customer of the morning walked in for a loaf. The bird shrieked through the wall. The customer turned and left. Two more came, and two more left. By midmorning she had counted five lost sales, and every one of them was flour money she did not have. Clover thought about a broom. She thought about a sack. Then she looked at the nest again and saw three pale eggs tucked in the twine. She set the broom down. She cut a strip of yesterday's stale crust, softened it in milk, and laid it on the shelf near the nest. The bird shrieked. She backed away and waited. It ate. She did this four times, closer each round, until the robin let her stand in the doorway without noise. Then she took an empty crate, lined it with a flour sack, and slid the whole nest inside while the bird watched from the top shelf. She carried the crate to the small window above her worktable and set it on the sill, where sun fell all afternoon. The robin followed, hopped in, and settled on the eggs. Clover propped the window open a hand's width so it could come and go. The pantry went quiet. She opened the shop door. A woman came in for rolls and stayed to buy two. A baker from down the street stopped to watch the bird on the sill and bought a bun she did not need. By closing, Clover had thirty-one copper on the counter — not enough for four batches of flour, but enough for one. She poured it into a jar and looked at the six days shrinking to five. The bird on the sill tucked its head under its wing. Clover picked up her coat and went to find someone who would front her the rest.