Chapter Three: The Pie Contest Mishap

The morning sun spilled over Rivermoor in lazy golden beams, painting the cobbled streets with warmth. The town smelled of fresh bread, sizzling sausages, and just a hint of wet stone.

Abbie inhaled deeply. “Ah, Rivermoor. Nothing like a good morning to make you feel… busy.”

Mona snorted. “Busy, or chaotic? Hard to tell the difference.”

They weaved through the market, dodging squabbling hens and carts piled high with produce.

“Did you hear about the Baron’s pie contest?” Mona asked, eyes sparkling.

Abbie grinned. “Of course! The baker says it’ll be the best one yet. Which means flour everywhere, and—” she paused dramatically “—maybe even flying pies.”

Mona laughed. “Flying pies? I can already see the headlines: ‘Maidens Witness Pie Acrobatics.’”

Abbie rolled her eyes, though she was smiling.

“You’d read that, wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

By the time they reached the Baron’s estate gates, the air smelled like cinnamon, apples, and chaos. A small crowd had gathered, murmuring and pointing at the bustling kitchen.

“Look at this mess,” Abbie whispered, eyes wide.

“Mess?” Mona scoffed. “This is pure, organized chaos. There’s method to it… maybe.”

Bakers rolled dough, sifted flour, and shouted over one another. The kitchen was alive with motion and tension, and the maidens, careful to stay out of the way, observed it all.

Abbie whispered, “We should take notes for posterity.”

Mona tilted her head. “Posterity? Or gossip?”

Abbie smirked. “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

Suddenly, a tray of cherry pies wobbled dangerously on the counter. A kitchen boy tripped. One pie went flying.

Abbie froze.

It landed at her feet. Perfectly.

She stared at it. “I… did not catch that on purpose.”

Mona pointed and laughed. “Of course not. Purely accidental heroics!”

The kitchen erupted. Sir Cedric, the Baron’s cousin, stormed in, fuming. “Who ruined my cherry pie?!”

Abbie and Mona ducked behind a barrel.

“Maybe we should leave,” Abbie whispered.

“Too late,” Mona said.

The Baron himself entered, sniffed the air, and nodded gravely at each baker. “A pie is like a story,” he announced. “Every ingredient matters, and every bite should be memorable.”

Abbie whispered to Mona, “A story? He really means it.”

Mona smirked. “Then I hope the story is good. Otherwise…”

They ducked just in time as a baker slipped on spilled sugar. The pie tipped, teetered on the edge, and miraculously landed upright. The Baron clapped once. “Excellent! Precision under pressure!”

Abbie whispered, “I… didn’t know pies could survive gravity and chaos.”

Mona shrugged. “Rivermoor’s magic. Don’t question it.”

After the contest ended, the town buzzed with gossip. Bystanders whispered about flying pies, the Baron’s reactions, and—of course—the mysterious girls observing everything.

Abbie sighed. “I think Rivermoor may be addicted to chaos.”

Mona grinned. “And to us. Don’t let it go to your heads.”

Abbie tilted her head. “It won’t. Mostly.”

They walked home, baskets full, stomachs rumbling, and minds still replaying the morning. Somewhere behind them, a cat leapt onto a windowsill, perfectly aware that stories, pies, and whispers would always find the right audience.

Mona nudged Abbie. “So… tomorrow, market again?”

Abbie raised an eyebrow. “For gossip or pie?”

Mona smirked. “Both.”

They laughed together, strolling through the golden morning streets, as Rivermoor continued buzzing with life—and maybe, just maybe, a little chaos waiting for the next story.

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