Page 4 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Apple Valley was given its name for a reason. It has the ideal soil, weather, and climate for (you guessed it) apples. It’s always been strange that only pears flourish on our land, while our neighbors can never grow any of their own, a fact that has garnered whispers and stories. Some people claim my great-great-grandfather had a feud with a neighbor and, out of spite, my ancestor pulled up every apple sapling in reach. Other people say we Reids grow pears because we have a flair for novelty and anything dramatic. And once, in an ice cream shop, I saw a girl point at my uncle and whisper to her mom about the ghost who inhabits a felled apple tree. Yet whenever I repeat these stories to Uncle Martin, he only tweaks my nose and winks before Val barks out that microclimates do weird shit.

“Other than that,” I press, letting my feet swing. “Even more than that.”

On the next arc of my legs, Logan’s foot catches my ankle. Doesn’t let go. “I can only think of one other thing that makes this place remarkable.”

My scalp tingles. “Oh?”

He nods slowly. All the heat in my body has gathered at the point where Logan’s foot is hooked around my ankle. A butterfly wanders between our noses. Its wings catch the light with an iridescent sheen before it trips upward toward the dark canopy. And I have this feeling of infinite expansion, like maybe I could hang, suspended, in this moment forever.

“Want to hear a secret?” Logan asks, foot still unmoving, like we’re just accidentally holding on to each other, neither of us fully aware of the contact.

Even though I can barely think about anything else.

“Always,” I whisper.

“This job—building the barn for your uncle this summer—it’s supposed to be an apprenticeship. My parents want me to follow in their footsteps. Start working with them. Become a carpenter, too.”

“Is that the secret?”

He shakes his head. “The secret is I’m going to leave.”

I watch him, half perplexed and half mesmerized by the reverential way he’s talking about wanting to do the exact thing my mother is forcing on me. “When?”

“After we finish this fall. I’m turning eighteen in a couple of weeks. Though I don’t know exactly where I’ll go. Portland, maybe? Seattle? I’ve found these communal living places for artists. I want to see if I can get someone to let me trade woodworking labor for room and board.”

“You want to be an artist,” I say. “Like for real.”

His mouth lifts into a smile. “Or at least rage-erase something other than fruit trees.”

The tiniest part of me feels confused by the idea that Logan would want to leave this beautiful, perfect place. But another, much bigger part of me is awed by this forming picture of him: a boy with the hands of a carpenter, the heart of an artist, who will soon have the freedom to break away from the limits imposed by his parents. Grounding himself in the life he wants.

But maybe I consider it for too long because Logan releases my ankle. “You think that sounds like a bad idea.”

“No,” I insist. “I think that sounds like a remarkable idea.”

His lips part before spreading into another smile, this one full and eager. It gives me a kick of pleasure as a second butterfly lands on the trunk between our faces. Its wings are transparent, but for a series of black geometric lines edged in auburn and silver. It’s beautiful, like a scrap of heart-shaped stained glass.

“That’s no sawfly,” I whisper as the butterfly flits upward.

We tip our faces to follow its flight. And let out twin gasps.

Above our heads, a sea of tiny wings ripples, pulsing open and closed. They’re cascading over the branches and leaves, winking in every possible color and pattern: bright streaks of cerulean, stripes of seafoam green, whispers of harvest gold. Their antennae dip and rise, punctuated occasionally by sudden flutters.

“Oh my god,” I say. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“Never.” Logan’s voice is tinged with awe.

I reach up as if to brush the closest pair of wings with my fingertips. They are far too high, but the movement still disturbs a few of the creatures perched on the trunk.

Suddenly, they all take flight. Wings beat in a flurry that scatters across the leaves. In the next breath, we’re surrounded by a shimmering, swirling mass—a vortex of color that runs and falls like kaleidoscope glass. I shouldn’t be able to hear them, yet the rustle of wings roars like far-off ocean waves as the cyclone spins and morphs.

Eyes wide, Logan reaches out. A butterfly perches on his open palm. It’s the most unusual one I’ve seen yet, with electric-blue wings rimmed in flecks of silver. He lifts it toward me as his lips unfurl in an unbridled smile.

And that smile? It’s just as beautiful as the iridescent wings.

His full, round lips. The way his mouth folds around the edges. The glow in his eyes. It’s…

“Remarkable,” I whisper.