The First Craving
In Sugarplume Hollow, sweetness was not a flavor. It was the weather.
It drifted through the trees in glittering pink fog, clung to the underside of mushroom caps, and gathered in syrupy beads along every fern, vine, and suspiciously cheerful blade of grass. The air smelled of spun sugar, wet moss, warm vanilla, and the faint electric fizz of something that probably should not have been inhaled by responsible adults.
Fortunately, responsible adults rarely visited Sugarplume Hollow.
The place had a reputation.
Children whispered that the flowers hummed lullabies to your teeth. Bakers said the dew could frost a cake if collected before sunrise. Old hunters swore the squirrels had unionized after discovering caramel. And every grandmother within twelve villages warned that no one should ever follow the rainbow glow past the peppermint brambles, because cute things in the Hollow were almost always the beginning of a lawsuit.
At the very center of that impossible little pocket of forest lived the creature responsible for most of the rumors, all of the property damage, and one very uncomfortable incident involving a bishop, a marmalade tart, and three weeks of uncontrollable tap dancing.
It was called the Sprinkletoad.
Not officially, of course. Scholars had tried to name it something more dignified. Confectibatrachus prismatica was proposed by a professor who had never met it and therefore still believed dignity could survive contact with reality.
The locals preferred the name that made sense.
The Sprinkletoad was small, round, gleeful, and covered from nose to haunch in tiny bright candy-like beads that shimmered in every color the eye could tolerate before filing a complaint. Its belly was soft and glossy, its toes were plump little bubble pads, and its eyes were enormous golden orbs full of wonder, hunger, and the kind of poor impulse control usually seen in toddlers holding permanent markers.
It did not croak.
It giggled.
That was the first problem.
The second problem was that anyone who heard it giggle immediately wanted dessert.
Not a polite little craving, either. Not a delicate “perhaps one biscuit with tea” situation. No. This was a full-body craving. A soul-deep, jaw-aching, dignity-melting need for frosting, jam, honey, pie, candied nuts, sugared pears, cream puffs, chocolate bark, pudding, custard, and anything else that looked even remotely like it could be eaten without a spoon if shame was no longer a factor.
Most people assumed the craving was merely the natural result of seeing the Sprinkletoad. It looked like dessert had grown legs and made several questionable lifestyle choices. But the truth was worse.
The craving spread.
And on the morning of the Buttermoon Festival, it finally reached the village of Brindlewick.
Brindlewick was a tidy little town on the edge of Sugarplume Hollow, best known for its crooked chimneys, judgmental geese, and one bakery so famous that people claimed they could smell its cinnamon knots from two valleys away. The bakery was called The Rolling Pin & Regret, which had begun as a joke and slowly become a legally accurate business description.
Its owner, Maribelle Crumb, was a woman of immense talent, terrifying elbows, and absolutely no patience for nonsense before noon.
That morning, she was preparing the first batch of Buttermoon buns when she heard a sound outside the back door.
“Hee.”
Maribelle froze.
The dough in her hands sagged.
“No,” she said to the empty kitchen.
“Heehee.”
“Absolutely not.”
Something soft bumped against the door.
Then came a wet little slap.
Then another.
Then an enthusiastic squeak, followed by the unmistakable sound of a creature licking the door hinge.
Maribelle closed her eyes.
She had been warned about this.
Everyone had.
Do not feed it. Do not pet it. Do not name it. Do not let it near powdered sugar. And above all, do not allow it inside a bakery unless you are prepared to explain yourself to the insurance guild and possibly a priest.
The Sprinkletoad giggled again.
Maribelle’s stomach growled so violently that a spoon fell off the counter.
“Damn it,” she whispered.
She opened the door.
The Sprinkletoad sat on the step like a dropped festival decoration that had gained consciousness and a criminal record. Its golden eyes widened. Its mouth opened in a delighted grin. Every sprinkle on its body seemed to sparkle with anticipation.
“You,” Maribelle said, pointing a floury finger at it, “are not coming in.”
The Sprinkletoad blinked.
Then it hiccuped a tiny puff of pink sugar dust directly into her face.
Maribelle inhaled.
For one glorious second, she saw the universe.
It was shaped like a cream horn.
When she came back to herself, she was standing in her own kitchen with the Sprinkletoad on the counter, three trays of buns cooling beside her, and a wooden spoon in her hand dripping with butter glaze.
She had no memory of inviting it in.
She did, however, have frosting on her chin.
The Sprinkletoad stared at her.
Maribelle stared back.
“This is how scandals start,” she said.
The Sprinkletoad giggled.
Across the street, bells began ringing.
At first, Maribelle thought it was the festival chime. Then she realized the bells were coming from the apothecary, the cobbler, the schoolhouse, and one deeply confused goat wearing a decorative harness. The entire village seemed to awaken at once, windows flying open, doors creaking wide, people stepping outside in slippers and nightcaps with the same dazed expression.
Hungry.
Not breakfast hungry.
Dangerously hungry.
Mayor Pippit appeared in the square wearing his ceremonial sash over his sleeping shirt. “Citizens,” he called, trying to sound official despite the fact that his left slipper was shaped like a duck. “Remain calm. There is no cause for—”
He stopped.
He sniffed.
His eyes drifted toward the bakery.
“Is that butter glaze?”
Maribelle slammed the shutters.
Too late.
The village moved.
People came from every lane and alley, not running exactly, but shuffling with terrible purpose. The butcher, who had once publicly claimed he did not care for sweets, was licking jam from a spoon he had apparently brought from home. The schoolteacher walked stiffly forward while muttering multiplication tables and the word “strudel.” Three children dragged a laundry basket full of stolen apples behind them and hissed at anyone who came too close.
Maribelle bolted the front door.
The crowd pressed close.
“Open up, Mari,” called Mayor Pippit. “We only want one bun each.”
“That is a lie,” Maribelle shouted.
“Two buns each.”
“Still a lie.”
“A reasonable number of buns to be determined by committee.”
Behind her, the Sprinkletoad made a happy chirping sound and stuck its entire face into a bowl of glaze.
Maribelle turned slowly.
The creature lifted its head. Glaze dripped from its chin. Its sprinkles pulsed brighter.
Outside, the crowd groaned.
Not with pain.
With longing.
That was when Maribelle noticed the first transformation.
Old Mrs. Fenwick, who lived near the well and complained professionally, had pressed her face to the bakery window. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth hung open. And along her cheeks, tiny specks of color had begun to appear.
Red.
Blue.
Yellow.
Green.
Sprinkles.
Maribelle felt the blood drain from her face.
“Oh no.”
Mrs. Fenwick blinked, noticed her reflection in the glass, and screamed.
Then she paused.
She licked one sprinkle from the corner of her mouth.
Her expression changed.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s lovely.”
Within minutes, Brindlewick descended into exactly the kind of chaos people later describe as “unfortunate” when what they really mean is “we all lost our minds and someone tried to marry a pie.”
Sprinkles bloomed across cheeks, noses, elbows, ears. The craving intensified with every giggle from the Sprinkletoad, and the Sprinkletoad, being an emotional little idiot, giggled constantly because everyone was paying attention to it.
The blacksmith smashed open a jar of honey with a horseshoe.
The schoolchildren built a barricade of stolen pastries and declared independence.
The town clerk began writing emergency dessert permits on napkins.
Mayor Pippit tried to restore order, but halfway through his speech he ate the wax seal off an official proclamation and then apologized to no one.
And at the center of it all, Maribelle Crumb stood in her bakery with one hand on her rolling pin, the Sprinkletoad perched on her flour bin, and the terrible realization that the creature was not merely causing cravings.
It was making people sweeter.
Literally.
Mrs. Fenwick’s hair had taken on the soft pink sheen of spun sugar. The butcher’s beard glittered with coarse sugar crystals. The cobbler’s fingers looked suspiciously like candied almonds. A toddler sneezed and produced a small puff of powdered sugar that made three adults cry with envy.
Maribelle backed away from the window.
“You,” she said to the Sprinkletoad, “are a curse with toes.”
The Sprinkletoad burped.
A single rainbow sprinkle popped out and landed on the counter.
Maribelle stared at it.
The sprinkle twitched.
Then it grew legs.
Very tiny legs.
“Nope,” said Maribelle.
The sprinkle skittered across the counter.
The Sprinkletoad gasped in delight and chased it, knocking over a sack of flour, two cooling racks, and Maribelle’s last remaining hope for a normal morning.
Outside, the crowd began chanting.
“Buns. Buns. Buns. Buns.”
The chant spread through the village square, low and rhythmic and deeply embarrassing.
Maribelle tightened her grip on the rolling pin.
She had survived three oven fires, six festival rushes, a yeast shortage, and the Great Scone Debate of last winter, which had ended in bruises and a municipal ordinance.
She was not about to be defeated by a glittering frog with snack-based sorcery.
“Listen to me,” she said, crouching until she was eye-level with the Sprinkletoad. “You are going to stop giggling.”
The Sprinkletoad smiled.
“No giggling.”
Its cheeks puffed.
“Don’t you dare.”
Its whole body trembled.
Maribelle pointed the rolling pin like a weapon.
“I swear on my grandmother’s sourdough starter—”
The Sprinkletoad exploded into a giggle so bright and sugary that every jar in the bakery rattled.
Outside, the villagers howled.
Inside, Maribelle’s vision blurred pink.
Her stomach clenched.
Her hands shook.
She wanted cake.
No.
She wanted all cake.
Every cake.
Cake as a philosophy. Cake as a political system. Cake as revenge.
She staggered backward, clamping one hand over her mouth. Her skin prickled. A warmth spread across her cheeks. She turned toward the polished copper kettle hanging by the stove and saw, reflected in its curved surface, the first tiny constellation of sprinkles appearing along her jaw.
For the first time in twenty years, Maribelle Crumb felt real fear.
Not because she was changing.
Not because the village was turning into a walking dessert tray.
But because deep inside her, beneath the panic and fury and professional baker’s pride, a tiny traitorous voice whispered:
You know what would fix this?
More glaze.
Maribelle looked at the Sprinkletoad.
The Sprinkletoad looked back, glowing like a confectionery omen.
Then somewhere beneath the bakery floorboards, something ancient, hungry, and long asleep sniffed the sugar-thick air.
And woke up.
The Sweetness That Stared Back
The first thing Maribelle Crumb did was slap herself.
Hard.
“No,” she muttered, gripping the edge of the counter as her vision swam in shades of frosting and poor decisions. “We are not becoming a dessert cult today.”
The Sprinkletoad clapped.
Actually clapped.
Its sticky little toe-pads made soft, obscene popping sounds as they met, and it beamed at her like she had just performed a particularly impressive trick instead of fighting off a psychological collapse brought on by a sentient candy grenade.
“Stop encouraging me,” Maribelle snapped.
Outside, something shattered.
Then came laughter.
Not the Sprinkletoad’s giggle—this was deeper, louder, and threaded with a kind of manic delight that made the hairs on Maribelle’s arms stand up.
She risked a glance through the shutters.
It had gotten worse.
Much worse.
Mayor Pippit was now shirtless, sash askew, attempting to negotiate pastry distribution with a wheel of cheese he insisted was “clearly in charge.” The schoolteacher had abandoned multiplication tables in favor of passionately arguing with a croissant about destiny. The butcher had discovered that his left forearm now resembled a perfectly glazed ham and was having a very complicated emotional response to it.
And the sprinkles…
They were spreading.
Not just across skin anymore, but through it. Beneath it. Tiny flecks of color pulsed faintly under the surface, like constellations trapped in syrup. People scratched at them, licked them, admired them, whispered to them.
One man had begun introducing his elbow to strangers.
“It’s pistachio-adjacent,” he said proudly.
Maribelle slammed the shutters shut again.
“This is escalating,” she said, because stating the obvious was the only thing keeping her from screaming.
The Sprinkletoad, now halfway submerged in a bowl of whipped cream it had absolutely no permission to access, made a thoughtful “mmm” noise.
Then it sneezed.
A fine mist of powdered sugar erupted into the air.
Maribelle inhaled it before she could stop herself.
Her knees buckled.
“Oh… oh that’s criminal,” she whispered.
For a moment, everything felt warm. Safe. Delicious. The world softened at the edges, like it had been dipped in honey and left to rest. The panic dulled. The chaos outside became distant, almost charming.
It’s not so bad, the traitorous voice purred. Everyone’s happy.
“Everyone is not happy,” Maribelle growled, slamming her head lightly against the nearest cabinet. “Everyone is losing structural integrity.”
The cabinet tasted faintly of cinnamon.
She licked it.
She froze.
“We are not licking the furniture.”
The Sprinkletoad giggled again.
Maribelle whirled. “You are the problem.”
The Sprinkletoad blinked, then slowly—almost thoughtfully—turned its head toward the floor.
Maribelle followed its gaze.
The flour scattered earlier had begun to shift.
At first, it looked like a trick of the light. A subtle ripple, a faint unevenness in the powder. Then the ripple deepened. The flour mounded slightly… then sank… then rose again, as if something beneath it were breathing.
Maribelle’s stomach dropped.
“No,” she whispered.
The floorboards creaked.
Something underneath them pressed upward.
Not violently.
Curiously.
Like a sleeper stretching after a very long nap.
Outside, the chanting shifted.
“Buns. Buns. Buns—”
“More.”
The word slipped into the chant like a wrong note in a familiar song.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t shouted.
But it was heard.
Every voice faltered.
Then, one by one, they repeated it.
“More.”
“More.”
“More.”
Maribelle stepped back from the floor.
“That’s new,” she said, which was perhaps the least helpful observation she had made all day.
The Sprinkletoad hopped closer to the shifting flour, its body shimmering brighter, sprinkles pulsing like tiny warning lights that had been thoroughly ignored.
“Do not engage,” Maribelle said.
The Sprinkletoad leaned forward.
“Do not lick it.”
The Sprinkletoad’s tongue peeked out.
“I swear to every baked good I have ever loved—”
The floor broke.
Not shattered. Not exploded. It simply… opened.
The wood parted like soft dough, peeling back in slow, deliberate folds. Beneath it, there was no cellar. No dirt. No stone foundation.
Only a vast, glossy surface that shimmered in shifting shades of amber, gold, and deep, syrupy red.
It looked… wet.
Alive.
Hungry.
Maribelle took another step back.
“That,” she said, “is not up to code.”
The surface pulsed.
Then it spoke.
Not with a voice, exactly. More like a sensation—a slow, creeping thought that slid into the back of the mind and made itself comfortable.
Sweet.
Maribelle’s teeth ached.
The Sprinkletoad froze.
Every sprinkle on its body dimmed for just a moment.
Then the thought came again.
Sweeeeeet.
Outside, the villagers echoed it instantly.
“Sweet.”
“Sweet.”
“Sweet.”
Maribelle pressed her hands over her ears. It didn’t help.
The thought was inside her now, curling through her mind like caramel in hot milk.
More.
The surface beneath the floor rippled again, rising slightly. A shape began to form—not solid, not fixed, but suggestive. A curve. A ridge. Something like a mouth, if a mouth had been designed by someone who had only ever heard rumors of teeth.
The Sprinkletoad made a small, uncertain chirp.
It took one hesitant step backward.
Then the surface surged upward.
A tendril of glossy, syrup-like substance stretched from the opening, slow and deliberate. It did not drip. It reached. It extended toward the Sprinkletoad with unsettling purpose.
Maribelle grabbed the nearest thing—unfortunately a baguette—and swung it like a club.
“Back,” she barked.
The tendril paused.
It quivered.
Then, insultingly, it licked the baguette.
Maribelle recoiled. “Rude.”
The Sprinkletoad, apparently interpreting this entire interaction as a game, giggled.
It was a small giggle.
A nervous giggle.
But it was enough.
The surface beneath the floor surged.
The tendril snapped forward—not violently, but eagerly—and brushed against the Sprinkletoad’s side.
For a split second, everything went very, very still.
The Sprinkletoad blinked.
The tendril shimmered.
Then the color spread.
From the point of contact, the glossy amber substance shifted—brightening, sparkling, erupting into tiny, vibrant flecks of color.
Sprinkles.
The tendril shuddered.
It pulled back sharply, recoiling as if burned.
Too much.
The thought was different this time.
Strained.
Overwhelmed.
Maribelle’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” she said slowly. “You don’t like it when things get… complicated.”
The Sprinkletoad tilted its head.
It puffed its chest.
It wiggled.
Then, with the confidence of a creature that had never once considered consequences, it hopped forward and planted both front feet directly onto the glossy surface.
“NO—” Maribelle lunged.
Too late.
The moment the Sprinkletoad made full contact, the entire surface convulsed.
Color exploded outward.
Not gently. Not gradually. Violently.
Sprinkles erupted across the amber expanse like a riot of joy that had been locked in a basement for centuries and finally found the door.
The surface writhed.
Too sweet.
Too bright.
Too—
The thought fractured.
Outside, the villagers staggered.
The chant broke.
Some collapsed to their knees. Others clutched their heads. A few simply sat down and began quietly sobbing into their own elbows, which now tasted faintly of caramel and regret.
Maribelle grabbed the Sprinkletoad and yanked it back onto the counter.
“You absolute menace,” she breathed.
The Sprinkletoad beamed.
Behind them, the surface began to settle.
The sprinkles faded.
The glossy amber returned, smoother now, slower.
Watching.
Thinking.
Balance.
The word pressed into Maribelle’s mind like a thumbprint.
Too much sweetness… breaks the hunger.
Maribelle blinked.
Then she looked down at the Sprinkletoad.
The Sprinkletoad looked up at her, glittering with chaotic innocence.
Outside, the village groaned as the cravings ebbed… but did not disappear.
Maribelle’s lips curled slowly into something that might have been a plan.
“You,” she said, poking the Sprinkletoad’s soft, sprinkle-covered belly, “might be the solution.”
The Sprinkletoad hiccuped.
A single sprinkle popped out and landed on her nose.
Maribelle crossed her eyes to look at it.
She smiled.
It was not a reassuring smile.
“And that,” she added, “is deeply concerning for everyone involved.”
Behind them, the thing beneath the bakery sank back into the unseen depths, unsettled for the first time in a very, very long while.
The Recipe for Disaster (and Possibly Salvation)
Maribelle Crumb had a plan.
This alone was terrifying.
Not because she was bad at planning—on the contrary, her plans were typically efficient, precise, and ended with perfectly browned crusts and a modest profit margin. No, what made this plan terrifying was that it involved a sprinkle-covered creature with the impulse control of a dropped cupcake and a sentient hunger pit lurking beneath her bakery like an unpaid bill with teeth.
“We’re going to fix this,” she said, tying her apron tighter like it was armor.
The Sprinkletoad saluted.
It was unclear how it knew what a salute was, but it did it wrong and proudly.
“First rule,” Maribelle continued, grabbing bowls, sacks, jars—anything that wasn’t actively trying to lick her back. “You only giggle when I say so.”
The Sprinkletoad nodded.
Then immediately giggled.
Maribelle closed her eyes.
“We’re going to pretend that didn’t happen.”
Outside, the village had reached what could generously be described as a “simmering collapse.” The frenzy had dulled, thanks to the brief sprinkle-overload incident, but the cravings still lingered—sharp, needy, and just controlled enough to make everyone deeply aware of how badly they wanted something they probably shouldn’t have.
Mayor Pippit sat on the fountain edge, chewing slowly on what appeared to be a candied shoelace while staring into the distance like a man reconsidering every decision that led him here.
Mrs. Fenwick was calmly braiding her own spun-sugar hair while humming something unsettlingly cheerful.
The butcher had wrapped his glazed arm in cloth and was refusing to make eye contact with it.
Progress, technically.
“Balance,” Maribelle muttered, pacing her kitchen. “Too much sweetness breaks the hunger… but not enough, and it spreads.”
She glanced at the floor.
It was closed again. Seamless. Innocent.
Lying.
“So what we need,” she continued, grabbing a sack of flour and dumping it into a bowl with unnecessary aggression, “is controlled sweetness.”
The Sprinkletoad tilted its head.
“Not chaos sweetness,” she added, pointing at it. “Measured. Intentional. Weaponized.”
The Sprinkletoad’s eyes widened.
It liked the word “weaponized.”
“We’re making something,” Maribelle said, cracking eggs with sharp, decisive motions. “Something so perfectly, overwhelmingly sweet that it overloads whatever that thing is under my floor without turning the entire village into a walking dessert tray.”
The Sprinkletoad clapped again.
“Yes,” Maribelle snapped. “This is a baking problem now. Which means it is my problem. Which means it will be solved properly or I will personally fistfight reality.”
She worked fast.
Butter melted. Sugar poured. Cream whipped. Honey drizzled. Ingredients came together in a furious, almost aggressive harmony. The air thickened with scent—warm, rich, intoxicating.
The Sprinkletoad watched, entranced.
Every so often, it leaned forward, ready to “help,” and every time Maribelle shoved it gently—but firmly—back.
“You are the secret ingredient,” she said. “Not the assistant.”
The Sprinkletoad puffed up with pride.
Outside, the villagers drifted closer again, drawn by the smell. Not as frenzied as before, but still desperate. Still craving. Still just one bad decision away from licking the town hall.
“Almost there,” Maribelle muttered, pouring the batter into her largest pan—a wide, deep thing usually reserved for festival cakes and extremely poor judgment.
She slid it into the oven.
Then she turned to the Sprinkletoad.
“Alright,” she said. “Now you.”
The Sprinkletoad blinked.
“Controlled giggle,” she instructed. “Small. Focused. Into the batter. Not at me. Not at the walls. Not at the general concept of existence.”
The Sprinkletoad inhaled.
Its cheeks puffed.
“Gentle,” Maribelle warned.
It nodded.
Then it giggled.
Soft.
Precise.
Targeted.
The air shimmered.
The oven door rattled slightly.
Maribelle held her breath.
“Again,” she said.
The Sprinkletoad giggled again.
The scent intensified.
Outside, the villagers swayed but did not surge.
“Good,” Maribelle said. “Again.”
They repeated the process—giggle, stir, wait—until the kitchen itself felt like it was humming with something more than heat. Something heavier. Something deliberate.
Finally, Maribelle yanked the oven open.
The cake inside glowed.
Not metaphorically.
Actually glowed.
Soft gold light pulsed beneath its surface, like it had swallowed a sunset and was deciding what to do with it.
“That,” Maribelle said, voice low, “is either brilliant or a mistake of historic proportions.”
The Sprinkletoad gave her a thumbs-up.
It still did it wrong.
“We’re about to find out.”
She lifted the cake—carefully, reverently—and carried it to the center of the bakery.
“Everyone,” she called, her voice cutting through the lingering haze outside, “if you value your teeth, your dignity, and your general ability to function as a human being, I need you to step back.”
They didn’t.
“Of course you don’t,” she sighed.
She set the cake down.
Then she looked at the floor.
“Come on,” she muttered. “You wanted more.”
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the floor opened again.
Slowly.
Hungrily.
The glossy surface rose, stretching toward the cake with unmistakable interest.
Sweet.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Maribelle said.
The Sprinkletoad bounced anxiously beside her.
“Now,” she whispered.
The Sprinkletoad inhaled.
Then it giggled.
Not small this time.
Not controlled.
Everything it had.
The sound burst through the bakery like a sugar-charged storm.
The cake responded instantly.
Light flared.
Color erupted.
Sprinkles—thousands, millions—exploded across its surface in a blinding, joyous riot.
The glossy entity surged forward.
It consumed the cake.
And for one terrible, perfect moment…
Everything stopped.
Silence.
Stillness.
Then the reaction began.
The entity convulsed.
Violently.
Its surface fractured into impossible color. Sprinkles burst outward, embedding themselves into the amber mass like tiny anchors of chaos.
Too much.
Too bright.
Too—
The thought shattered.
The entity recoiled.
It collapsed inward, folding in on itself, retreating beneath the floor like a tide that had finally realized it had overcommitted.
The bakery floor slammed shut.
Hard.
Outside, the villagers staggered.
The cravings snapped.
Not gone—but broken. Manageable. Human again.
Mrs. Fenwick blinked, touched her face, and fainted politely.
The butcher unwrapped his arm, stared at it, and whispered, “We’re not talking about this.”
Mayor Pippit stood slowly, removed his sash, and handed it to a nearby goose.
“I need a nap,” he said.
Inside the bakery, Maribelle leaned against the counter, breathing hard.
The Sprinkletoad flopped onto its back beside her, exhausted and delighted.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Maribelle glanced down at it.
“You,” she said, “are still a problem.”
The Sprinkletoad smiled.
“But,” she added, after a pause, “you’re a useful problem.”
The Sprinkletoad beamed.
Outside, the village slowly began to recover—confused, sticky, and deeply committed to pretending none of this would ever be mentioned again in polite company.
Maribelle pushed herself upright.
“Right,” she said. “We’re setting rules.”
The Sprinkletoad sat up eagerly.
“No entering the bakery without permission.”
It nodded.
“No uncontrolled giggling.”
It hesitated… then nodded.
“No licking structural elements.”
It looked offended.
“And absolutely no—”
The Sprinkletoad hiccuped.
A tiny sprinkle popped out… and landed on the floor.
It twitched.
Then it grew legs.
Maribelle stared at it.
Very slowly, she looked back at the Sprinkletoad.
The Sprinkletoad gave her a sheepish grin.
Maribelle inhaled.
Exhaled.
Then she picked up her rolling pin.
“We are adding more rules.”
Somewhere beneath the bakery, far below sight and reason, the thing that had once been hunger shifted uneasily in its sleep—now threaded with something new.
Something bright.
Something chaotic.
Something that giggled.
And in Sugarplume Hollow, where sweetness was never just sweetness, that was probably going to be a problem later.
But for now…
It was manageable.
Bring a little beautifully unhinged sweetness into your world with The Sprinkletoad of Sugarplume Hollow—the chaotic little legend that turned an entire village into a dessert-based cautionary tale. Whether you want to admire its glittering mischief as a framed print or metal print, cozy up with the madness on a fleece blanket, or let it lurk suspiciously on your couch as a throw pillow, this candy-coated menace is ready to invade your space. Prefer something interactive? Piece together the chaos with a puzzle, send a little sweet trouble via a greeting card, or slap some mischief anywhere it doesn’t belong with a sticker. Just… maybe don’t let it near your kitchen. History suggests that ends poorly.
