The bakery smelled like warm butter and expensive coffee, and the people inside it had never once thought about where either came from. Grace Holloway had been on her feet since four in the morning. She moved between tables the way water moves — quietly, without complaint, filling cups before anyone thought to ask. Her uniform was pressed. Her ponytail was tight. The circles under her eyes were the only thing she hadn’t been able to iron out. The Gilded Crumb sat on the corner of Marchmont Street, all polished marble and crystal chandeliers and the kind of cinnamon warmth that made people feel they deserved to be there. The clientele came in from the law offices and investment houses on either side. They wore watches that cost more than Grace’s monthly rent. They ordered in half-sentences and expected complete understanding. She gave it to them. Every time. Table seven…

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