Page 58 of Under the Orchard’s Spell
A role in what, exactly?
Obviously, she and Martin were close. Plus, there’s the forget-me-nots. Maybe it doesn’t get more obvious than that.
Was it the same as what happened with Blake and Liv? A friendship that deepened until it crossed a line?
Without my consent, my mind starts replaying Liv’s voice, muffled against a closed door, and words I’ve been shutting out for more than a month. We didn’t mean for it to happen, Ali. It was just so fast. Even through the wood, I could hear the sob caught in her throat. We were going to tell you after harvest.
There, cross-legged on my bedroom floor, with Blake’s watch still charging on the end table and his face still smiling at me from frames on the dresser, I screamed.
And now.
Is it truly possible Martin could have done anything like that to anyone else? That he could be like them?
My uncle was a man who told me hard truths with a wink and a gentle smile. Who would always correct falsehoods, no matter how trivial. Who admitted fault, even when no one would know any better. I once saw him apologize to a hose, for god’s sake.
And what did Lydia mean when she said the orchard “played a role” in what happened between them? Does this have to do with the curse? Is that the secret Val’s been keeping?
Suddenly it all feels too big. The thoughts are so intense I have to force myself to breathe slowly. Get a grip. Try to keep it all from spiraling out of control. Keep myself from toppling over some emotional cliffside.
I glance at Logan. His face is carefully neutral, but his shoulders are hunched, his mouth set tight. One fist is clenched above the table.
Although it’s been fourteen years, we’ve barely been apart for the last week and a half. Maybe that’s why the contours of his body language have come back to me with astonishing clarity, like once-beloved lyrics tripping effortlessly off my tongue. This—bracing, impossibly tight—is how Logan looks when he’s shaken.
I exhale and round the table so I can take a seat by his. Nudge his knee with my own.
“Hey,” I say. “How about we take a walk?”
His face lifts toward the darkened window. “A walk?”
“It usually helps me. To be in the trees.”
He considers, then nods.
After slipping on jackets and boots—I’m still feeling warm enough that I don’t want to change out of my nightdress—we spill out into moonlit grass.
The air is unusually still, like the orchard is holding itself as taut as Logan. As we pick our way into the trees, the crystal pears catch the moon’s silver touch, reminding me of candles flickering in glass orbs. They’d be beautiful, I think, if they weren’t threatening my home.
I need to find some words of comfort for Logan, but all I can think about is my uncle. How entranced he’d be by these pears, glowing with borrowed moonlight. How he’d wink and whisper that the land is special, hinting at the truth that he was clearly keeping from me.
Another secret. Another silver lie.
“How are you doing with all this?”
Logan’s voice cuts into my thoughts and I wheel toward him. He’s walking a few paces away, carefully positioned so our shoulders won’t accidentally brush. But I can still feel the gentle concern in the question.
“Me?” I ask.
He gives me a once-over, as if to quickly reassure himself of something he’s already seen. It’s been like this throughout the last week. His measured half looks, always putting space between our bodies. He’s not wrong to do it, but it still makes me want to grab his hand and force him to look at me properly.
“You have that look,” he says softly.
I touch my cheeks, wondering how they’ve betrayed me. My lips part, ready to stretch into a reflexive smile, but then I think better of it.
“No look,” I say, dropping my hand and the corners of my mouth.
“You don’t have to talk about it. But you can.”
I try to inhale, but the tightness in my chest is making me slightly winded. Or maybe it’s just that I’m walking too fast, like I’m sprinting away from the house and that letter. I force myself to slow. “I want to stay focused on you. What are you thinking about?”
