The bakers have two loaves and one argument. The guild warden—flour on him like snow that means business—holds a weight.

“Assize of bread,” he tells you, because you are the sort of child who appears when rules are being waved, and he puts the loaf on the scale while he talks. “When grain is dear, the loaf may be smaller. When grain is cheap, the loaf must be honest-heavy. We do not get to invent a miracle bun. Law of loaves. Kid-sized version: cheating the weight cheats the town, and then the hallmoot cheats you back with a fine.”

A younger baker looks hunted. The loaf on the scale is a little light, or the grain-price board is a little wrong, or both, which is how squabbles breed.

Dame Keld’s wool world and this bread world are cousins: quality, marks, the right to sell. You are not a baker. You are a miller’s apprentice, which means you live next door to their panic.

“Take it to court if you like politics,” the warden says. “Take the oven-iron to the smith if you like the hinge that actually broke, which is half this noise.”