Gemotions

"The Empress’s Crumble," was what they called it at the bakery down the street. It was Sarah's recipe. She knew the exact ratio of apples to spices, the perfect amount of butter to make the crumble topping that crisp. She felt it, even from a distance, the sweet, buttery smell. It was her recipe. She stared out the window, her mouth a thin line.

Her own cafe was struggling. The lack of customers was painful. She could go over there, make a scene, publicly accuse the owner. She could, but she wouldn’t.

She started to bake. Cinnamon and vanilla enveloped her. She spent extra time arranging her own crumble, a "Sunset Serenade" with a dollop of caramel. She put a fresh batch in the oven. The smell would draw people in, eventually. She was certain of it.