Welcome to A Pocketful of Dragons, a delightfully heartwarming cozy fantasy no-spice romance full of new beginnings, adorable dragons, and delicious baked goods.
I’m posting this first chapter as a sneak peek.If you like this and want more, I’m launching a preorder Kickstarter campaign Monday morning at 9AM EST (Monday, September 14th, 2026) for a super early access to an illustrated, digitally signed version of the book. Ebooks, paperbacks, and hardbacks will all be available, along with the rest of my books, and some other cool stuff.
Hope you enjoy this sneak peek!Chapter 1
The kitchen in the Morand Bakery had grown unbearably hot. Kayla Silva wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her dress and deftly finished rolling out the pie crust on the flour-covered table before her.
That warmth had been quite welcome early this morning when the chill fall wind had made everyone anxious to hurry inside the bakery and set to work. But now as they neared the end of the day, too much heat had been retained inside. She’d have to tell one of the apprentices to cross the wide, roomy kitchen, with its gleaming wooden floors, and throw open a window at the back.
Frankly, Kayla was surprised Mrs. Morand, the bakery’s owner, had not already done this. A short, plump woman with steel gray hair and sharp brown eyes, Mrs. Morand was forever pulling a fan from her pocket and fanning her round face as she roamed the bakery.
Kayla cast a glance toward the door that separated the kitchen from the shop at the front of the bakery. A few snatches of laughter and excited conversation floated through the open door. Mrs. Morand must be busy at the front.
Another glance around the kitchen told her that all of her fellow bakery workers currently had their hands in some form of dough or another. She blew out a breath. The window would have to wait until someone’s hands were free.
With a smooth gesture born of long practice, Kayla used her rolling pin to lift the wide circle of pie crust and drape it over the pie pan waiting to her right. She gently pressed the crust into place inside the pan and carefully spread a handful of smooth river stones across the bottom to serve as pie weights. The stones would keep the bottom of the pie crust level while it baked.
This pie was destined to be part of a decadent concoction involving whipped cream and the last of the late summer berries Mrs. Morand had procured from the bottom of the mountain. Kayla did not envy the apprentice who would be whipping the cream later in a bright, shiny copper bowl.
Humming to herself, she curved the pie crust over the edges of the pan and trimmed the excess with a knife before using her fingers to flute the edges in a beautiful decorative pattern. There. That was the last one. She looked with satisfaction at the other seven pie pans sitting on the left side of her table, waiting to be carried to the ovens, and then dusted her hands off and went to open a window.
Around her, the usual mayhem continued. Alisa and Rosalie, two of the journeyman bakers, were forming loaves of wheat bread, while a third, Moira, was forming even rows of dough that would become fluffy yeast rolls, destined for the more well-to-do tables in their small mountain town of Candela.
Morand Bakery saw brisk business no matter the season, but baked goods were particularly in demand when the air turned crisp in the mountains and everyone’s appetite seemed to sharpen and increase. Normally, the bulk of the bread baking was down very early in the morning, well before most people were even out of bed. But in the winter, they baked bread later in the day as well.
Kayla pushed open both halves of the glass window at the back of the kitchen, and a cool, welcome breeze streamed into the kitchen. She closed her eyes briefly as it kissed her face, including the deep scar that curved from the bridge of her nose across her right cheek.
The scar that was the main reason she’d been relegated to the kitchen when Mrs. Morand first hired her. Even if Kayla had wanted to work with people (which she did not) the master baker had concluded that her appearance was, unfortunately, more of a hindrance than a help.
Thankfully, Kayla had thrived in the kitchen. Pastries, pies, breads, and cookies of all kinds took shape beneath her capable hands—and Mrs. Morand had been quick to capitalize on that fact. Kayla had quickly climbed the ranks from apprentice to journeyman baker to pastry maker.
“You understand pastry dough better than anybody else in this bakery,” Mrs. Morand had remarked one day, shaking her head. “Including me.”
She’d also told Kayla before that her baking would likely be the thing that netted her a husband one day, because once he tasted her pies, her face wouldn’t matter.
Kayla suppressed a wince at the memory. She knew Mrs. Morand had meant well, but her words had felt more like a slap across the face. Just one more reminder that the only thing people saw when they looked at her was that scar.
Looking back, it had been such a silly thing, really. When she was nine, her older brother Julien had been teasing her about not being able to climb trees as well as a boy. Just to prove him wrong, she’d climbed much higher in their favorite oak tree than she should have.
She had succeeded, but on the way down she had slipped and fallen, gashing her face open in the process. Their mother had used her greatest skill as a seamstress to stitch the wound closed, but there was was only so much she could do.
The scar remained, an ever-present reminder of childish pride.
Kayla hated it. She hated that it was the first thing people noticed about her. She hated the way people stared, their attention caught on the scar marring what had once been a pretty face.
Before his death in a logging accident, Kayla’s father had always told her that she was still beautiful, and that true beauty did not lie in the perfection of one’s face. He had tried to assure her that someday she would meet a young man who loved her for who she was.
She wanted to believe him, but her life since then had taught her otherwise. Society valued beauty. Society valued perfection, or at the very least, normalcy. And Kayla, with that terrible scar on her face, did not fit either of those ideals.
With so many beautiful flowers to choose from, what man would choose the flower with a damaged petal?
Her mother assured her that people didn’t even see the scar once they grew accustomed to it. She tried to tell Kayla that she only saw her beautiful daughter.
Kayla appreciated the effort, but she did not fully believe that either. Yes, the women she worked with at the bakery had grown used to her face, but she still caught the occasional startled look. Worse were the looks full of pity.
If she could travel back in time and persuaded her younger self not to climb that tree, Kayla would do it in a heartbeat.
Of course, that thought always led to a more prosaic one. The other moment that had changed her life was the day her father died. If she could pick only one moment, she would go back in time and warn her father about that tree.
But alas, one could not go back in time. One could only continue to go forward, like line of icing piped onto the surface of a cake, leaving a bright ribbon in its wake.
Kayla gave herself a mental shake. She tried not to dwell on these things—after all, she could not change any of them—but sometimes her thoughts wandered.
Pie crusts, she told herself firmly. You have pie crusts to bake.
And cookies to bake and a mountain of other things besides.
Pivoting on her heel, she strode back to her table and the pie crusts waiting to be baked.
***
More than one woman had sighed in relief at the welcome breeze wafting through the kitchen.
“Thank you, Kayla,” Moira called out cheerfully. “That feels delightful.”
Kayla cast a smile in her direction. “You’re welcome.”
She then carefully slid her eight pie crusts one by one into the ovens and then glanced around the kitchen.
“Nora,” she called out to one of the more experienced apprentices. “Please keep an eye on these while they bake.”
“Yes, Miss Kayla,” Nora replied, casting a sharp look at the clock that hung on the other side of the kitchen.
Kayla propped her hands on her hips, surveying the oven. These berry and cream pies were in high demand, but the pumpkin crop was due any day now, and she was quite excited to soon switch to making those instead. She loved the smell of pumpkin pie, with its blend of cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon. Those spices were sometimes hard to come by in Candela, but well worth the extra expense.
While the pie crusts baked, Kayla turned her attention to her next task: baking the several batches of spice cookie batter she’d made earlier that morning. Briskly, she crossed the kitchen again and opened the door at the back of the bakery that led into their cold pantry. It occupied the northwest corner, which was the coldest part of the building, particularly in the winter months.
Rows and rows of shelves lined the walls on all sides, holding everything from jars of butter to pastry dough, to racks of pies cooling before they could be moved to the front of the bakery and sold. Kayla heaved the huge wooden bowl containing the spice cookie batter off of a shelf to her left and returned to the kitchen.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Liza, one of the apprentices, had begun lighting the lamps that were positioned at strategic places around the kitchen to provide maximum light. At this time of day, the bakery lay in the shadow of the mountain and the daylight fled fast.
Kayla did not mind. The lamps lent a warm golden glow to the kitchen that she quite enjoyed. They brought to mind cozy warmth and reminded her of curling up on the hearth when she was growing up.
She lost track of time as she rolled the aromatic spice cookie batter into balls, dipping each one into sugar before she lined it up on a baking sheet. As soon as she filled a tray, Liza whisked it away to bake the cookies. The delicious smell of the spice cookies blended with the rich homey scent of the rolls and the bread, and Kayla gratefully breathed it in.
It was only when she scraped the last of the cookie batter from the bottom of the wooden bowl that Kayla realized that the other women had begun to clear their various workstations in preparation for the end of the day cleanup. She straightened, arching her back and rolling her shoulders, before smiling at Liza, who was picking up the last tray of cookies.
“Thank you. I think that’s the end of it for today.”
Indeed, her tasks were now finished. The apprentices would stay longer to wash the last of the dishes and wipe all of the tables, as well as transfer the fresh baked goods to the front of the bakery for the last several hours Mrs. Morand remained open, but Kayla and the journeyman bakers were free to leave.
It had been a good day, but Kayla felt the length of it now. She was ready to go home and curl up by the hearth with a bowl of stew and a cup of steaming hot tea while she listened to her mother tell her the latest news.
But first…she glanced toward the storeroom door to her left, where a basket with several loaves of bread waited for her. She had several deliveries to make.