Chapter 10

“Are you sure about this? I don’t like breaking in.” Ben’s brow furrowed.
Ben and Vika stood on the porch of the Cherry Ridge Historical Museum, which used to be a farmhouse. This time of year, it was only open two days a week and it was closed, the windows dark. The last of the cherry blossoms clung to the trees nearby. Unlike the tree in the orchard, they were blooming right on time.
“You have a key,” Vika reminded him.
“That I lifted from Eileen’s desk,” Ben replied. “We should have just asked her.”
“Maybe, but she would have wanted to come with us,” Vika said. “And she definitely wouldn’t let us take anything if we find something of Dahlia’s. Besides, we’ll be in and out and then you’ll return the key.”
Ben hesitated. Then he sighed and unlocked the door.
It wasn’t breaking in if you had a key, right? Vika pulled him inside and the latch clicked behind them. Inside, it was cool; the heat was turned way down. She breathed that old wood and paper smell she loved.
They stood still for a moment, listening.
Nothing.
Ben stepped past her into the hallway. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Where do you think…”
“The basement is this way.”
The hallway stretched ahead, dim even in the ambient light leaking through the windows. Glass cases lined the walls displaying tools, photographs, and carefully labeled artifacts from Cherry Ridge’s agricultural past. At the far end of the hall, a mannequin in a pale dress and a lace veil watched over a series of black and white pictures of the rolling hills of the apple orchard. A basket of fake apples sat at her feet.
A wooden placard beneath it read, “THE ORCHARD BRIDE - Local folklore claims the spirit of a murdered bride wanders the spring orchards searching for her lost love.”
Vika stopped. “Unbelievable,” she muttered.
Ben followed her gaze and shook his head.
They scanned the photos for anything of Dahlia or Misha, but the photos were too recent.
Behind them, somewhere deeper in the museum, a clock chimed once. Both of them flinched.
Ben turned immediately, indicating a red exit sign near the back hallway. “The archive boxes should be downstairs.”
Vika tore her eyes away from the mannequin. It didn’t even look like Dahlia.
“Good,” she said. “Let’s go find them before I add vandalism to our breaking and entering rap sheet.”
The staircase creaked under their weight. The sound seemed to echo through the empty building. At the bottom, Ben reached for the switch.
The lights flickered on, revealing a long, narrow room with rough stone walls and a low ceiling. Wooden shelves lined the walls. Boxes, old farm tools, chairs, and old loose knick-knacks overflowed from the shelves, leaving barely any room to walk.
It was overwhelming. She assumed Eileen would have had everything cataloged. Vika didn’t know where to begin.
“Let’s see,” Ben murmured, scanning the shelves. “If there is something of Dahlia’s here, it’s probably buried. Let’s start in the back and work our way forward.”
Vika agreed and they split up.
As they made their way through, Vika realized there was a method to the mess. Most of what was cluttered in the basement were props and decorations, things used for displays and put outside in the summer. The historical artifacts were labeled and stored in neat, acid-free boxes by date and owner.
That seemed more like Eileen.
They moved faster now, scanning the boxes, tracing the dates back to the early 1900s. Ben brought down a box and set it on a small worktable.
“I couldn’t find anything marked Vale, but there is this box marked Cunningham from just after the fire.”
Vika stepped closer as Ben lifted the lid.
Inside was an ornately carved wooden box, several plastic sleeves and bags containing bundles wrapped in fabric and separated by tissue paper. Ben carefully lifted the lid of the wooden box. Vika hoped to see documents, but there were only pictures of unsmiling Cunninghams and an old pocket watch. The only thing of interest in there was a newspaper clipping of the orchard fire, but they’d already read it.
“Nothing new,” he murmured.
Vika was already unwrapping one of the cloth bundles. The cloth was a scarf with a beautiful embroidered V on the corner, among the floral edging. She held it up to Ben, who grinned back at her.
Inside was a pair of worn leather gloves, a delicate gold chain with a hanging teardrop pendant, and a hatpin. Nothing they could use for the spell.
The next bundle was smaller.
Vika untied the string and something soft slid into her palm. A sachet. Worn thin with time with an apple blossom stitched into the corner.
Her breath slowed.
Careful, she loosened the drawstring and wrinkled seeds spilled into her hand.
Ben went completely still.
“What?” she asked. He was staring at the seeds as if he expected them to sprout.
He reached out slowly. “May I?”
She tipped the seeds into his palm.
“These came from the original orchard,” he murmured.
“How can you tell?”
His eyes drifted toward the low basement ceiling as if he were seeing something beyond it.
“They have to be. Sometimes farmers saved seeds from their strongest trees,” he said. “To duplicate those qualities in new seedlings. They called them mother seeds.”
Vika leaned against the table. “Can we use them?”
Ben opened his hand again, studying the tiny seeds.
“Trees hold memory in their rings, their roots of everything they’ve lived through. Seeds carry the pattern of the tree they came from. So, these would carry the history of the orchard. It would be a connection from Dahlia to the orchard today. So, to answer your question, yes, these will be helpful.” Ben grinned at her, excitement making his eyes sparkle.
He slipped the sachet into his pocket. “Let’s get out of here.”
They moved quickly, re-wrapping, resetting the boxes and putting everything back the way they found it.
By the stairs, Ben clicked off the light and darkness swallowed the room.
The steady thump of footsteps overhead stopped them on the stairs. Vika straightened, holding her breath as she listened.
A floorboard creaked. Her eyes met Ben’s. He was standing like a statue, eyes wide.
Someone was moving through the museum.
The door to the basement opened.
Ben grabbed Vika’s hand. Her body went rigid, but his hand was warm as his fingers wrapped around hers. He pulled her back into the clutter. They ducked behind a gaudy red sleigh, paint chipped along the edges.
The basement door creaked open. Light spilled down the stairs.
Vika held her breath.
A beam of a flashlight cut through the dark, sweeping across the room.
It passed inches from them.
Ben’s hand tightened around hers. For a moment, she thought about pulling her hand free, but it was kind of comforting to know he was there.
The light flicked across the shelves, the tables and the boxes they’d searched.
After what seemed like forever, the footsteps retreated back up the stairs. The door creaked shut.
Vika and Ben sat in the dark, pressed against the side of the sleigh listening to the footsteps walk the museum overhead. She was conscious of his hand in hers and how close he was. Close enough for her to smell his woodsy, herbal scent mixed with french fries.
He squeezed her hand.
Above them, footsteps crossed the floor, paused. Then, the door slammed, the sound making Vika jump.
She slid her hand out of Ben’s. They waited until they were sure there was nobody upstairs and got out of there.