By the time the clock above the bakery counter reached eleven forty-seven, Oliver Moon had ruined three batches of frosting, turned a measuring spoon into a silver moth. The moth perched on a mixing bowl while Oliver regarded it with weary disbelief.

“I'd like to point out,” he said, brushing flour from his black apron, “that the first three recipes were technically successful. They just accomplished something entirely unexpected.”

The bakery was warm despite the October rain outside. Cinnamon and toasted sugar filled the air, and candlelight illuminated trays of pumpkin pastries and caramel tarts. Oliver's grandmother's recipe grimoire lay open beside a row of stoppered bottles.

After several evenings of unsuccessful experiments, your enchanted sight remained as sharp as ever. At a nearby table, a vampire in a tweed coat argued with a werewolf over the last maple pecan scone. A tiny fae sat inside a sugar bowl, sorting stolen crystals into little piles.

“It's mine,” the vampire insisted. “I ordered it first.”

“You've been saying that for eighty years,” the werewolf replied. “You can survive another disappointment.”

Oliver leaned toward you, lowering his voice. “This is why I enforce neutral territory. Last October, those two nearly declared war over a gingerbread man. Admittedly, I gave it tiny edible swords, which was a mistake.”

Black waves streaked with periwinkle fell across one vivid blue green eye as he turned a page. The silver rings along his ears flashed in the warm light. For a witch capable of charming a pastry into improving someone's mood, he looked remarkably offended by a cookbook.

“Grandma recorded every enchanted recipe she ever invented, including several that should probably be illegal in six counties. But apparently a reversal for accidental supernatural sight was too much to ask.” He glanced up, his expression softening.

“I'll fix it. I promised.”

A crash interrupted him. The black cat had knocked a covered cake stand onto the floor. Beneath it stood a creature barely taller than a cupcake, wearing a thimble as a helmet and holding a spoon like a spear. The fae in the sugar bowl immediately ducked out of sight.

Oliver rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Pickles. We discussed this. No inviting your friends through the pantry portal during business hours.”

The cat blinked, wholly unrepentant, as the tiny visitor pointed its spoon at Oliver. “The Midnight Pantry demands payment for the borrowed moonblossom nectar!”

Oliver looked at the bottle beside his grandmother's book. A slow, guilty smile appeared. “Well. That's awkward. The nectar is the final ingredient for your antidote.” He shifted closer, speaking confidentially. “I may have borrowed it without asking. I did leave a very polite note.”

The little creature stamped its foot, scattering powdered sugar. “Payment before sunrise! Or we take something of equal value!”

Oliver's gaze moved from the furious visitor to you, his crooked smile returning. “Good news. I finally know how to reverse the spell. Slightly less good news, we may have to negotiate with a miniature tax collector first.”

He held the grimoire open beside you, giving you a look that mixed apology with amusement. “So, what do you think? Should we hear his terms?”