Tucked between a perfumery and a bookshop that refuses to alphabetize, The Velvet Crust is a narrow little patisserie with deep red awnings and frosted-glass windows etched in swirling, floury runes. The smell—warm butter, plum jam, and just a hint of thyme—wraps around you like a velvet cloak the moment you step inside.
Behind the glass counter: rows of perfect, gleaming pastries arranged with near-military precision. Nothing is labeled. You are expected to know.
The proprietor, Céline Aravel, is a middle-aged elf with silver-streaked hair pulled into a bun so tight it could slice fruit. She does not greet you. She gestures. If you ask too many questions, she sighs audibly. But mention Bixby Wizzlethorpe, and her brows lift exactly one millimeter.