Some things take years to prove.
Eliza Hartwell came to Millbrook broken, and the village, in its slow and stubborn way, made her whole. She can bake now. She belongs now. She has, at last, stopped flinching at her own reflection in the bakery window.
But the quiet she fought so hard for was never quite what it seemed. The deaths that have shadowed this gentle corner of the Cotswolds were never the accidents of an unlucky village. They were a pattern. And patterns, as any baker learns, are made by a hand.
Gran knew. That is the thought Eliza cannot knead away. The recipe journal, the coded notes, the things the Hartwell women have quietly noticed for generations: none of it was chance. Someone in Millbrook has been watching all along, folding events together with terrible patience, waiting for the loaf to rise.
And now, for the first time, Eliza is close enough to see the hand at work. Which means she is close enough to be folded in.
The reckoning Millbrook has hidden from for a generation is coming to the door of the Hartwell Bakery, and this time it will not knock. Everything Eliza has built will be tested, including the one person she is least certain she can trust to stay.
A village can keep its secrets only so long as no one is looking.
Millbrook is about to be seen.