Image Description: A warm, golden-toned illustration in a storybook style. Four silhouetted figures walk along a winding path through a sunlit forest: a woman (Lady Biscotti) walks beside a large, sturdy Labrador–Retriever (Biggie), while a man (Sir Dunkalot) walks alongside a smaller fox red Labrador (Indy). The scene glows with soft amber light. Floating above them in the sky is a custard cream biscuit with a raspberry swirl in the centre. In the background stands a crumbling stone chapel framed by tall trees, giving the setting an enchanted, mysterious feel.
Chapter Four: The Biscuit That Shouldn’t Be
Morning sunlight filtered through the canopy as the biscuit detectives followed the faint trail of raspberry crumbs deeper into the woods. Lady Biscotti walked ahead, her ever-ready camera hanging from its strap. She paused suddenly — not for a clue, but to study a velvet-soft bracket fungus growing from the side of a fallen log. “Look at this beauty,” she murmured, crouching carefully.
With calm precision, she adjusted her focus and framed the shot, capturing the fungal detail with the same care she applied to all her investigative photography. Evidence, nature, mystery — it all mattered equally.
Biggie gave a low, grumbling moan — the sound he always made when he thought lady biscotti had taken more than enough time taking photos of all kinds of things like fungi, plants or flowers, it was his way of saying, “I’m bored now can we move on please”.
“Alright, alright,” she chuckled. “We’ll move on.”
Sir Dunkalot followed behind in his worn leather jacket, looking around warily. “Feels like we’re being watched,” he muttered. Indy padded silently beside him, sniffing the earth with purpose, tail twitching.
As the path curved, they came upon a hollow lined with mossy stones. In the centre sat something strange — a circular, slightly rusted biscuit tin.
Lady Biscotti crouched immediately. “It’s… it’s a Family Circle tin. But older. Much older.”
She traced the raised shapes around its edge — ten biscuits, carefully embossed in a circle: shortbread, jam ring, bourbon, custard cream, chocolate chip, malted milk, digestive, nice, pink wafer, and a party ring.
Sir Dunkalot took a cautious step forward, but Indy suddenly stopped in his tracks, ears alert.
Lady Biscotti turned slowly. “Did you hear that?”
The undergrowth rustled. A soft shifting of twigs. Then silence.
Biggie’s nose twitched. He let out a curious whuff and tilted his head toward the trees.
Then — quietly, gracefully — they emerged.
Figures with upright bodies and robes of moss and bark. Their heads, however, were unmistakable: rounded caps in shades of brown, cream, and orange, dotted or smooth, some wide, some narrow. Their faces were gentle, with thoughtful eyes and kind expressions — unmistakably mushrooms.
Sir Dunkalot blinked. “Mushroom Men. Actual real live ones.”
Lady Biscotti stepped back instinctively, her eyes wide with wonder.
The tallest figure spoke, his voice soft and echoing slightly, like leaves brushing together. “We mean no harm. You’ve found what we call the Sealed One.”
Another stepped forward with a polite nod. “We are the Mushroom Men of Misilanina. This tin has rested here longer than we can remember.”
Chanterelle gave a graceful bow. “We prefer to stay hidden, but sometimes the jamlines draw our attention to something important.”
Lady Biscotti slowly lowered her camera, softening into curiosity.
Shiitake gestured toward the tin. “It pulses sometimes — when jamlines shift. And once… it shimmered when a recipe was read aloud nearby.”
“A recipe?” asked Lady Biscotti, her voice suddenly sharp. She rummaged in her satchel and pulled out a crumpled slip of paper, old and flour-dusted.
“I found this behind the vinegar bottles in the kitchen weeks ago. I thought it was just for some strange bake, but look…”
She read aloud: “Ten companions, crisp and true, Form the ring to pass you through. Add the scroll to see your time, And follow jamlines’ secret sign.”
Portobello’s cap bobbed. “That’s the prophecy! You’ve found the scroll!”
Sir Dunkalot rubbed his chin. “So… what, this tin’s a… time machine?”
Shiitake nodded gravely. “A vessel. But only when the key is complete. Ten true biscuits. No crumbles. No fakes.”
Biggie groaned as Sir Dunkalot reached toward the lid. He stepped between them and the tin, ears like tea towels flapping in the wind, biscuit pouch jangling.
Lady Biscotti smiled. “Don’t worry, Biggie. We’re not forcing it.”
She gently opened his pouch — inside, three pristine Family Circle biscuits they’d gathered during past cases: a bourbon, a shortbread, and a jam ring. She hadn’t known why she kept them until now.
“Seven more to find,” she said quietly. “And then the recipe goes in.”
Indy sniffed the tin. The faintest shimmer of jam-coloured light pulsed from its rim. He tilted his head, then barked once — sharp, alert, knowing.
Lady Biscotti looked again at the tin, then at her team.
“We’re not just chasing a rogue fruit anymore. We’re on the trail of time itself.”
Sir Dunkalot gave a low whistle. “And it’s sealed in a biscuit tin. Blimey.”
She turned back to Shiitake. “What happens once it’s opened?”
“It expands,” he said. “Just for a moment. Long enough to step inside.”
“And then?”
“Then it shrinks again… and leaves.”
“To where?”
Shiitake looked at her, eyes serious. “Wherever the recipe tells you.”
Lady Biscotti stood tall, adjusting her scarf.
“We’ll find the rest of the biscuits. And then, we’ll see where the jamlines lead.”
And with that, the detectives left the Sealed One behind — for now — and followed the raspberry trail once more.
A rogue was still loose. A mystery still unsolved. But something far bigger had just been baked into their lives.
To be continued…
Blind Man Makes 