Page 23 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

She frowns at her boot again, rolling her lips between her teeth. “Go on. But bring them straight down, you hear?”

“Of course.”

“Ali,” Val warns. “I’m not messing around. Do not read those journals without me.”

She has her jaw set in that protective way of hers. It’s the same energy she brought that time I overheard my uncle arguing with a neighbor about a Berkshire pig that had wandered onto our orchard. Even though Martin had been caring for the pig for months—named her Daisy Mae and dressed her up in a hot-pink harness—the neighbor insisted she be returned for “processing.” Martin, floppy hat wobbling with each wave of an arm, tried to argue that he and Daisy Mae had become fast friends! And friends simply do not let their friends be murdered. Just as the neighbor had grabbed the pig by her pink harness and started to tug her away, Val marched up, clapped a steadying hand on my uncle’s shoulder, and planted herself squarely in the neighbor’s path, finger pressed to the man’s chest. She growled out something inaudible. The man’s confident sneer faltered, and he released the pig.

“I promise,” I say, more serious this time. “We won’t read the journals without you.”

The creak of ancient wood fills the silence as Logan and I scale the stairs. The attic smells of earthy musk and something decidedly less pleasant. Mildew? A caked window lets in only a pitiful glow of afternoon light. When Logan tugs on a string pull, the ceiling light flickers alive and casts a yellowish sheen over the towers.

And now I remember why I haven’t been up here since the early spring—in the first few days that Blake and Liv joined me in the house. Blake dove straight into making checklists of everything we needed to do to transform my uncle’s house into ours, and assigned me and Liv with the attic. We skittered up these steps, crashed into each other at the top, and our mouths dropped open.

Then Liv dusted off her hands and said, “Well, this looks like a problem for future us.” We laughed, traipsed back downstairs, and slammed the attic door closed.

Now, they’ve left, and it’s a problem for only me.

I grimace and push off thoughts of Blake and Liv. Unfortunately, I can’t push off what’s staring me in the face. This attic is cluttered and not in a cute way. Narrow paths carve through towers of boxes sagging with mold. Electronics are piled on top of furniture parts—a headboard resting on a desk, chair legs sticking out at odd angles like broken limbs. Dust-covered bins are overflowing with cords and gadgets that belong in a museum.

I’d like to blame the clutter on the four—now five—generations of Reids who lived in this home, but the truth is that my uncle and I have always shared a key characteristic. If a box looks too full or a pile too difficult to sort, we just…don’t.

To my side, Logan’s shoulders are tight, hands stuffed into his pockets. His gaze has snagged on something fluffy and white, which is either an old wedding veil or some kind of nest. I shudder. My brain is screaming at me to run back down those stairs, to leave this entire mess behind.

“Shit,” I say helplessly.

Logan’s mouth firms before he squats in front of a set of boxes wedged between the wall and an antique crib. “What do those journals look like, then?”

I grimace as he lifts a moldy lid. “No, this is so disgusting. You don’t have to do that. I’m not even sure I want to do that.”

He grunts. “I get my hands dirty for a living, Ali. You’re not scaring me off with some old boxes.”

“Moldy boxes,” I correct. “And there are about six hundred places those journals could be.”

Logan’s long fingers work over the contents of his box—chipped coffee mugs interspersed with string lights and plaid bedsheets. When he slides the lid closed, he looks up at me. “Now there are five hundred and ninety-nine.”

I chuckle and feel myself relax minutely.

“Okay,” I say as I lift onto my tiptoes next to him, reaching high for a box precariously teetering atop a tower of junk. “They’re brown leather. With a strap to—Aaargh.”

Something dark splashes down my arm, painting my shoulder and chin and pulling an inhuman sound from my chest. Logan bolts to his feet like I might be in mortal danger, reaching for me just as he notices the sludge on my shoulder.

“Gross,” I say meekly as alarm dissolves from his expression, softening into something more like endearment. I try to squeegee my arm with my fingers, but the ooze is as thick as motor oil. “I told you this is so gross.”

Logan fishes a red handkerchief out of his back pocket and gestures at my wrist. “May I?”

I go still. “You don’t have to.”

But of its own volition, my arm lifts toward him. Logan smiles softly before reaching for me, taking my wrist in his warm hand. His grip is gentle as he starts to lightly dab at the dark liquid.

“Now you’re getting that nice bandana all dirty,” I whisper as he scales my arm with his cloth, picking up droplets from my thumb. The line of my forearm. The crease inside my elbow. I shudder.

He hums as he bends closer, scrutinizing his work. “That’s what this particular bit of material was made for, you know. Cleaning up messes.”

In the feeble overhead light of the attic, his eyes seem darker. The shadow of his beard more pronounced. The rough cut of his jaw and the long line of his throat more angular.

“Still,” I say, “this isn’t the trial run you signed up for.”

He grunts without breaking his concentration.