About like Sydney’s spirits at the moment. But if nothing else, she could do this. And hopefully by the time Maggie awoke from her nap, there’d be a treat awaiting her. She propped the card atop the recipe box and moved to the fridge, knowing she’d find butter on a shelf inside the door. She’d seen a lemon or two on the windowsill over the sink, peeking between the leaves of Maggie’s overgrown plants.

As for the rest of the ingredients for the crust—the pantry.

She’d never seen a pantry like the one attached to Maggie’s kitchen. More of a cellar, really. A narrow door led down four rickety wooden steps. She’d been down here multiple times on Friday and Saturday last week as she helped Maggie bake for the Autumn Market. Which is how she knew what direction to tiptoe in the dark, where to find the string dangling from the ceiling that would turn on the light.

The click of the pantry door latching shut sounded at the same time as pallid light cast around the small space, and cool air seeped through the sleeves of her cotton shirt.

Shelves lined all three walls of the pantry, packed with canned goods, baking supplies, and other nonperishables. The crust called for flour, and she might as well grab powdered sugar for the filling and topping while she was down here. Had the recipe included white sugar, too? She reached for it just in case.

Canister of flour tucked under one arm and the rest of the supplies cradled in her other, she retraced her steps. With her hands full, she’d have to grab the light later. She’d be lucky to get the door open at the top of the stairs without dropping anything. As it was, it took balancing everything just right to free her hand to grab hold of the knob.

But wait, why wasn’t it turning?

She twisted. Harder. Another jiggle.

Bother. She bent to lower her armload to the narrow step behind her and tried the knob again, pushing as she turned this time. “What in the—”

The door flung open just as she pushed against it again, sending her weight flailing forward, and then, as she overcorrected her balance, swaying backward, a gasp flying from her lips.

Two arms shot forward to keep her from tumbling down the stairs, but when her foot hooked on the flour canister, she went toppling forward once more. She heard the clink of the flour rolling down the steps just as her head hit a solid chest. Flannel.

Neil. Of course. Because if ever she was going to find herself incapable of opening a door, he’d be there to see it.

She jumped away from him. “Sorry, I—” Her foot landed on the bag of powdered sugar, her stability shifting all over again.