There are few things more dangerous at Moonwell Manor than an object everyone believes they already understand.

The recipe box had spent years being described in perfectly respectable terms: old, useful, carefully preserved, and full of the sort of handwritten instructions that assume a competent cook will know what “a little” means.

It should have been harmless.

Instead, by the time Sylvia Goodwin arrived, the cards had begun refusing to stay where they were put.

Some carried crossed-out measurements. Others had different names written in the margins. A few disagreed with the official Moonwell household book entirely. And every midnight, the box seemed to develop a fresh objection to whichever version had just been declared correct.

Lila had learned not to take that sort of behavior personally.

Sylvia had not.

Which was unfortunate, because the Recipe Box appeared to have opinions about editors.

By evening, Moonwell Manor smelled of apples, butter, cinnamon, and professional disagreement.

Sylvia had tested two versions of the same recipe. Aaron had stopped twice over details in the box’s construction and declined to call either one unimportant. Lila had three household records open on the table. Midnight had stolen a pat of butter and was showing no remorse whatsoever.

And still, one question refused to settle.

Why had a family so determined to preserve its traditions kept so many different versions of the same thing?

At eleven fifty-nine, Sylvia placed the disputed cards back inside the box.

At midnight, something moved.

Not enough to explain anything.

Just enough to make everyone stay in the kitchen.