Page 76 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Icy balls accumulate in the grass in a nearly instant blanket. Wind roars across the trees, violently stripping them of their leaves. Hail scores my face as I lift my eyes toward the branches still loaded with my precious, unpicked pears. Some of the few that the crystals haven’t yet taken.

Hail will mark the rest of my fruit.

Hail will ruin my crop.

Hail is a death sentence.

Pears rattle on their stems. My chest quivers, then heaves. It’s too much. I can’t hold on anymore.

A sob escapes my throat. Shivers rip through me in waves as ruthless as the wind. Tears loose from my eyes, soaking my cheeks and mixing with the elements until I don’t know what belongs to me and what once belonged to the sky. I fumble for Logan. He engulfs my hand with his, squeezing me back as my knuckles turn white from the pressure and the cold.

The hail is taking it all.

Everything that’s left.

Logan tugs me into his chest.

My knees buckle. I go limp in his arms, clutching at the slick, wet fabric of his raincoat. The hail drives harder, slashing my skin with the same viciousness that’s marking my fruit.

I cling to him as I sob. And let go.

Chapter Eighteen

Sometime later, I manage to extract myself from a shivering fetal position and, despite Logan’s protestations, journey back to the barn. I’m not eager to rejoin the guests—my velvety dress now has the texture of wet papier-mâché, my cheeks are stained with mascara, and the hail is still actively tearing at my fruit—but this is my fundraiser for my orchard. I need to be there.

Only, I don’t get past the door.

Val takes one look at me, glares at Logan, and says, “Get her to bed.”

He cups my elbow even as I stay rooted to the spot. “I should help.”

“You’re a wreck,” she says. “And there’s nothing more to do.”

Honestly, it’s a relief. Despite all my practice, I’m not sure it would have been possible to summon a smile.

So, I cling to Logan’s arm as we make our way back across the muddy grass. Once we’re inside, he wraps me in a starchy towel. Rainwater drips from my hair as he helps me step into a pair of sweatpants and then thick wool socks. I peel off my sticky dress with his eyes fixed to the ceiling, then tug my arms through a dry sweatshirt Logan’s holding out. It’s his, clearly, because it smells sweet and clean and swallows me from shoulders to hips.

He pulls back my bedsheets and the mattress creaks as I sink under the covers, tug a quilt to my chin. The sleet has let up, but I still flinch every time a ball of hail snicks against the roof. I’m cold, too. A deep, sinking chill that’s settled into my bone marrow.

Logan steps back to appraise me.

“I just need to get warm,” I argue to his silent frown.

He hums. “Be right back,” he says and then disappears behind the door.

When he returns, he’s got a mug of tea, the smell of cinnamon and cardamom rising with the steam, and a plate filled with pear desserts. He’s changed out of his suit and into a dry pair of sweats and a T-shirt clinging with his clean smell. He sets the plate on my bedside table, and I wrap my white-knuckled fingers around the warm ceramic mug.

“Better?” Logan asks gently.

I thought I’d shed all my tears outside, but another one escapes my pressed eyelids and drips off the crest of my nose.

Blake and Liv are moving to Apple Valley.

My trees are hurting.

My land is cursed.

I’m fated to a lifetime of solitude.