Page 103 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

But Val was right, which means that if there’s a way to save my farm’s future, it lies not in the supernatural, but in the mundane. It’s in that office where antique desk drawers overflow with overdue bills. And maybe, it’s in Logan’s offer from the truck. Another loan—this one bigger than I’ve ever had before.

There’s only one way to find out.

The next morning, fog drapes over the orchard like sparkling gauze and I brew a pot of coffee so strong it burns the backs of my eyes. I douse it with pumpkin spice syrup before filling my favorite mug and tiptoeing into the office. The first ledger is spiral-bound, with neat rows and columns across pale green pages. Across them, my uncle’s nearly unreadable scribbles transition to Liv’s precise handwriting. I run my thumb along a column of their notes and, instead of pushing the feeling away, I let my chest burn with everything this brings up. Loss. Hurt. Anger.

When those emotions pass on their own, I get to work.

I dump out the cardboard box full of bills and sort them into piles. I fire up my cashbook—the sole part of this accounting system that’s actually on a computer—only to discover it’s woefully out of date and riddled with holes. So, I start over from scratch, filling in what I know about prices and expenses. When I reach too many dead ends to count, Val stops by to pour two mugs of tea and alternates between squinting at Martin’s handwriting and Liv’s, guessing what they could have meant by some notation or another.

Hours later, I’ve made only a dent, but my eyes are crossing and my back feels permanently hunched, so I emerge, rubbing at a knot in my neck, but resolved to start again tomorrow. In the dining room, I find Logan at the wide antique table. The table runner is rolled neatly to one end as he steers a pencil across paper.

“Hey,” I say.

He looks up from his page, lips hitching in that familiar crooked smile. It’s been easier to come lately, I’ve noticed. I like that.

“Did you figure anything out yet?” he asks.

I rub at my cheek. “Not yet. But at least I’ve started.”

I wonder if Logan will ask me again about the money, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes the chair back next to him, and I sink to a seat, peering at his open sketchbook.

“You’re drawing,” I observe.

He tips up the page so we can both examine the sketch. It’s not like the apples or mountains I remember from his teenage years. More abstract than still life.

“What is it?” I ask.

He drops the page and plucks up his pencil again, rolling it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. “I’m not sure yet.”

In the afternoon, we meander through the rows with steaming mugs, carefully avoiding the honeybees chasing from clover to clover. Ostensibly, I’m out here to check the pears for progress, but I don’t need to pull out Val’s old pressure gauge to know nothing has changed since yesterday.

Instead, I let myself really see this place.

The trees lean toward one another, their branches arching into tunnels where the air smells of blossoms and honey. Between the limbs, motes hang in the sunlight, but not like ordinary dust. They shimmer and slowly drift, frozen like far-off stars. When I swirl my hand through the glimmering cloud, the motes startle, scattering in delicate arcs that curve around my fingers and twirl back into place. It’s another tiny miracle, a moment of magic so subtle I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been looking for it.

My uncle would have loved it.

I lean against Logan’s shoulder and let myself feel that, too.

The next day, when I emerge from the office, I don’t find Logan hunched over his sketchbook. In fact, I don’t see him again for hours. It’s not until late that evening, when I’m curled on the couch, that he strides through the door, sweat rimming his collar and dirt smudged around his beard.

Without a word, he crosses the room to the couch and lowers his mouth to mine. I catch his neck and he hauls me up the stairs. We both plunge into the shower, water running his sweat-slicked chest clean. Our mouths fuse together and my heart feels like it’s shearing in half and remaking itself.

That night, a pack of coyotes wanders onto the land. Frantic cries spike the moonlit air as I curl into Logan’s chest. His fingers twist in my hair. My lips glance against his jawline, and, suddenly, our movements become both involuntary and deeply deliberate. My fingers find his waistband. His hands lift my nightdress.

And when he pushes into me, we are two mirrors reflecting each other: an endless feedback loop of fragility.

“What does it feel like?” I ask with my next lungful of air.

Logan shifts and smooths a hand down my collarbone, fingertips glancing down my spine. Then he draws me deeper into him, and I gasp as his breath warms my skin, pulling me taut.

“Like being made new,” he whispers against my throat.

“Like I’ve been asleep,” he says into my hair.

“And now,” he breathes into my heart, “I’m awake.”

We kiss, and it’s everything.