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JUNIPER
The numbers refuse to cooperate.
I notice the bakery ledger spread across my desk and add the figures for what has to be the fifth time this morning, and the answer doesn't change — apparently repeated disappointment still counts as consistency.
A sigh slips out as I set down my pen and rub my forehead, because outside the office window Sweetbell Bakery looks busy enough to seem healthy.
Customers drift in and out, the display cases are stocked with pastries, and the scent of cinnamon rolls and vanilla fills the air. Anyone walking through the front door would think everything is fine, and I spent years making sure people thought exactly that. Unfortunately, numbers are harder to fool than people.
The bell over the front door rings, and a moment later Ollie sticks his head into the office.
"Please tell me you're not staring at bills again."
"I'm not staring at bills," I say, and his gaze drops immediately to the ledger.
"You're staring at bills."
"I'm actively fighting them."
"Looks like they're winning," he says, and I point my pen at him. "You're one comment away from cleaning frosting bags for a week."
"Worth it," he says, grinning, and the smile almost pulls one from me. Almost. Ollie notices — he always notices — and his expression softens.
"How bad is it?"
I glance back at the ledger and the answer catches in my throat. The winter season should have been difficult but not devastating, yet ingredient costs rose and utility costs rose and repair costs rose while orders dropped — not dramatically, not all at once, just enough to hurt month after month, like watching water drip steadily into a boat and realizing you're running out of buckets.
"We'll be okay," I reply, as Ollie leans against the doorway.
"I didn't ask that."
No. He didn't. I turn away first, because if I meet his eyes he might recognize how scared I am, and if Ollie gets worried the entire bakery gets worried, then Daisy gets worried, then my mother gets worried, then half of Maple Hollow gets worried. I already have enough problems without becoming one.
“Don't make me lie to you, Ollie,” I exhale as I halt the calculator in my hand. “You know the truth, don't make me say it,”
“I want you to actually,” he replies.
The front bell rings again and Ollie glances toward the shop, and a minute later he calls back that the mail has arrived. I step out just as he places a small stack of envelopes on the counter, and my attention lands immediately on the silver seal stamped across one of them. Every ounce of humor evaporates.
"No," I say, and Ollie follows my gaze.
"Oh," he replies, and the single syllable says everything. Magical Commerce Council. Again. I grab the envelope, break the seal, and unfold the letter, the words blurring briefly before settling into focus.
Official Notice, Anonymous Complaint, Review Request, Potential Inspection. I shut my eyes for a moment, and when I open them the letter is still there.
"Another one?" Ollie asks quietly, and I hand him the paper."You've got to be kidding me," he says, scanning the page. "They don't even say who filed it."
"Anonymous," I say.
"Again."
"Again." Anger simmers beneath my skin — not explosive anger but the exhausting kind, the kind that settles into your bones after months of fighting battles nobody else can see.
The bakery is clean, my permits are current, my records are accurate, and I've followed every regulation, yet complaints keep appearing and every investigation costs money and time and stress, things I already have dangerously little of.
The bell by the door jingles and Daisy enters carrying a bucket of flowers, and one look at my face makes her smile disappear.
