Winter was gone. The cold banished and city gently cleansed by cool rains. The day had been dreary but as the night closed in, the mildly inclement weather left a trail of slights scents to invigorate the senses. Damp vegetation, for one. The stale warmth of air conditioning, for another. Petrol fumes jetting from a car. The shot of a vape, lingering in the sharp air.
Or another session of the Harvest King's baking and bread making experiments.
Edna's was open despite the hour; the kitchen lights aglow; windows wide open to let out the heat and let in the cooling, vaporous, air.
Anatole waited upon Seraphina Orianna while he carved a determined and recalcitrant flapjack (Oat Slice) sfree of a baking tray (the tray died, buckled and twisted. Too much honey, syrup or something. The Harvest King would never know - he was going to eat it before he worked out the truth).
A pot of tea stewed on the table. Breads, butter and preserves formed an honour guard.