Image Description.
A vintage style like a classic sci-fi book cover. The background features a swirling, deep orange and brown vortex, reminiscent of a galaxy or black hole made of biscuit crumbs and tea stains. Suspended in the spiral are various classic British biscuits: a pink wafer, a jam tart, a Viennese whirl, a digestive, a shortbread finger, and others — all orbiting a central object like celestial bodies.
At the center of the spiral is an old-fashioned metal biscuit tin labeled “Family Circle” in retro red and gold tones, slightly tilted as though being sucked into the vortex.
Above the whirlpool of baked goods, bold cream-colored text reads:
“SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH TIME”
Below the swirling tin, in large bold lettering:
“A CRUMBLE IN TIME”
Chapter One – The Crumble Begins
The biscuit tin rattled, inside the swirling jamlines of time, the Family Circle tin drifted through crumb space glowing gently, a quiet hum beneath its lid. The interior was as cozy as ever: biscuit pouches hanging on hooks, a jam-powered compass blinking in one corner, and the soft scent of sugar and nostalgia in the air.
But something was wrong.
Lady Biscotti tapped the side of the jamline viewer — a saucer-shaped window set into the wall of the tin. Normally it showed a trail of biscuit-shaped stars or the next destination coming into focus. Now it glitched and flickered, like jam on the boil.
“There,” she said. “Look at that.”
Sir Dunkalot leaned in. Biggie and Indy joined her at the edge of the saucer, peering in.
The viewer showed an old photo — but not one stored inside the tin. It was a live ripple of memory. The Norwich Biscuit Museum. A crowd of crumbs. A statue of the first custard cream.
Then suddenly the statue disappeared.
Lady Biscotti frowned. “That’s my memory. I stood by that statue. I gave a speech at the opening. That was real.”
She opened her satchel and pulled out the actual photograph — black and white, taken years ago. But in the photo too… the statue was missing. Her own arm hung in mid-air, as if resting on nothing.
“That’s not possible,” she whispered. “The jamlines are rewriting history.”
A low rumble rolled through the tin.
The jamline viewer flared red.
“Brace yourselves,” Sir Dunkalot warned, grabbing the biscuit rail.
The glow inside
the tin dimmed. A strange pop! echoed from the corner where the jam-powered compass began spinning wildly. Then — with a sudden jolt — a scroll flew out from a compartment labelled “Emergency Crumbs Only” and landed neatly at Indy’s feet.
He sniffed it. Growled softly.
Lady Biscotti unrolled it. The parchment shimmered with faint raspberry residue. The words were uneven, scrawled in fruity ink:
“Crumbs are not where they were. Beware the sponge that was never baked. Find the fête that wasn’t. Begin again.”
Sir Dunkalot scratched his head. “Sounds like a glitch in the jamlines.”
“Or someone’s pulling the threads,” said Lady Biscotti.
Biggie gave a low groan and pressed a paw to the side of the tin.
It shuddered.
The jamline viewer began to swirl again — not a new destination, but a tangled knot of crumb-shaped portals, all pulling at once. Through the glass, they could glimpse flickers of different times and places: a village fête, a jam kitchen, a pastry war, a motor race…
“We’ve got a problem,” Lady Biscotti said. “The jamlines are unravelling.”
The tin gave a final tremble and with a whoosh of sugared air, everything went raspberry-pink.
And then… stillness.
Somewhere outside, in a quiet alley near a forgotten bakery, a lid creaked open.
Blind Man Makes 