The town of Mulra had forgotten the sound of rain. Dust gathered in window tracks, sheep stood like questions in empty paddocks, and every loaf in Della’s bakery came out with a crust as pale as morning sand.
Della’s grandmother had once said that clouds followed strong smells. Desperate enough to try anything, Della warmed butter, honey and a fistful of cracked black pepper until the whole bakery breathed smoke, spice and sweetness. The scent slipped beneath the door and climbed into the hot blue sky.
By afternoon, a dark cloud sat above the roof like a curious cat. Then another arrived. Rain struck the tin awning, the street hissed, and the first customers in weeks ran in laughing. Della served pepper-honey buns to everyone who dripped on her floor. Nobody knew whether pepper had called the rain, but each dry season after that, the town asked her to bake the weather back.