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It was the last likely place a vigilante would have been expected to strike. After all, most crusaders of the night didn't stalk sweet shops. But this one, did. Gwenevere clung the delicate caramel-colored shingles of the Old Quarter bakery, every skill her old master had instilled within her mustered up for this most important of tasks. Shielded by the shadows of a well-placed street sign, she went to work. Her lockpicks raked and popped each of the front door's pins firmly in place--the promise of something sweet touching her famished tongue almost too much. Garrett had always maintained his strict rules about her consumption of sugar; kno