This morning the gingerbread shop lined its little people along the cooling rack, each with a paper umbrella no bigger than a petal. They stood in a polite row while the icing finished shining, and nobody moved until the glaze had been properly greeted.
We asked at the kiosk why the window stayed empty until ten. The baker wiped sugar from her sleeve and said the tray is the usher. "They bow to the icing first," she told us. "Then they nod to the pan. Only after that do they take one step onto the glass." A note in the compliment book read: the smallest fellow waited longest and still had the neatest buttons.
By evening the umbrellas were dry, the row had advanced exactly one pace, and the street could finally see them. A day later a neighbor brought a drop of lemon for shine. The baker set it at the edge of the pan; the nearest gingerbread person tipped his umbrella, which everyone took as permission to look.