Image Description (cover image): A warm, richly textured illustration shows a glowing Family Circle biscuit tin floating at the centre of a swirling vortex. Around it spin various baked goods — jam tarts, bread rolls, cinnamon buns, shortbread fingers — all being drawn into the jamline spiral. The colours are rich reds, oranges and golden yellows, with a nostalgic, storybook feel. At the top, the words “Something’s Wrong with Time” appear in cream lettering. At the bottom, the title reads: “A Crumble in Time.”
Chapter Three – The Ration Riddle
The jamlines hummed, low and urgent, something was wrong.
Back inside the tin, the lights had dimmed to a raspberry pinkish/red. The scroll from the previous jump still glowed faintly, as if reluctant to fade.
Lady Biscotti tapped the compass. “It’s already locked in a destination.”
Sir Dunkalot glanced at the readout, which was just a spinning jam smear. “Where are we going?”
Biggie and Indy sat quietly, unusually still. That was never a good sign.
The tin jolted once, twice — then whooshed sideways like a biscuit caught in a mixer.
They landed hard.
The lid creaked open with a hiss of damp air and coal smoke.
The street outside was grey and quiet. A few bicycles rattled past, and above them, a siren wailed faintly in the distance — not an air raid, but something stranger, like the city itself was sounding an alarm for something it had forgotten.
Lady Biscotti stepped out. “This is Norwich again. But earlier. Wartime, I think. 1940s.”
She glanced around. Bunting hung loosely over shuttered windows. A delivery cart trundled past stacked with loaves of bread, its driver wrapped in layers and frowning at the sky.
A girl passed them carrying a ration book, holding it close like a treasure. Lady Biscotti peered at it as she walked by.
Then froze.
“Did you see that?”
Sir Dunkalot followed her gaze. “The book?”
“The biscuit section,” she said. “There wasn’t one.”
Biggie gave a low growl.
They followed the girl to a local shop — Curl Brothers Grocers — and stepped inside.
The shopkeeper was muttering under his breath as he sorted ration slips. “Flour, eggs, butter, sugar… sugar again… jam ration… oh, what in the name of marzipan is this?”
Lady Biscotti stepped forward. “Excuse me — what’s the problem?”
He blinked at them. “No idea, love. These books are missing entries. Can’t find any record of biscuits or buns. Not a crumb.”
Sir Dunkalot leaned over the counter. “You’re telling me that in wartime Norwich, there are no biscuits on record?”
“That’s just it,” the man said. “I remember queueing for a Bourbon. Back in ’42. Fought a man off with a carrot for it. But now…” He held up the ration book. “Nothing.”
Lady Biscotti looked grave. “This is bad. This isn’t just forgetting a recipe — this is the erasure of memory and record.”
She turned to Sir Dunkalot. “If the jamlines are stripping food history from ration books, the damage could ripple through the entire timeline.”
“What do we do?” he asked.
She pulled out a small device from her coat pocket — a crumb detector. It lit up immediately, pointing to the back of the shop.
They followed it through a beaded curtain and into a storeroom filled with sacks, tins, and a rusted filing cabinet.
Lady Biscotti opened the top drawer. Inside was a ration slip dated 1943:
“Emergency Bourbon Allocation – high morale item – only to be issued on Cup Final days.”
Sir Dunkalot whooped. “Told you they were important!”
“More importantly,” Lady Biscotti said, “it means the biscuits were here. Until recently. This is another jamline rewrite.”
The tin pulsed again from outside.
Lady Biscotti folded the slip and tucked it into her notebook. “We’re not just chasing crumbs anymore. We’re racing to catch them before they’re lost.”
Sir Dunkalot reached for the tin controls.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said. “Your biscuit privileges are still on thin ice.”
Biggie barked once in agreement. Indy wagged his tale.
The jamlines shimmered.
Another jump awaited.
Blind Man Makes 