Page 83 of The Witch’s Orchard

“Of course, a lot of other families did too. Anyway, my mamaw told me the story when I was little. She was sort of our family historian. She knew all the old legends from this region. She said that one winter, long ago, it was colder than it had ever been, and snow turned to ice and froze everything. Everything. People couldn’t keep fires lit—that’s how cold it was. And their food stores ran dry because the winter lasted so long.”

She opens another box and looks inside, then closes it and writes “Tiramisu” on the label.

“But, amidst all of this cold, there was a witch who lived in the woods up above Quartz Creek. She had an apple orchard full of bright green apples that never took a chill and grew all winter long.”

Picturing the apples, bright green, in a landscape of ice and snow, I can’t help but shiver. I take another fortifying bite of streusel.

“One day a young mother took her six starving children up the high climb to the witch’s home. She told the witch that they were starving. That she would do anything to keep them fed.”

She opens another box and inside I see a round white cake topped with beautifully delicate buttercream roses. Shiloh smiles down at the cake and then closes the box and writes on the label: “Rosewater Vanilla.”

“The mother pleaded with the witch,” she says, sticking the label on the outside of the box. “And the witch said that if the mother gave her her two oldest daughters, she and the rest of her children could take all the apples they could carry and that the apples would not wither or rot but would stay bright and fresh until eaten. And the girls would be fed and educated and taught to sing and dance like fairy princesses.”

“She couldn’t refuse,” I say.

Shiloh shakes her head, her eyes downcast and full of emotion.

“It never hit me,” she said. “How awful the story was. I guess it’s different when you’re a mom, what you’d do for your kids.” She lets out a long breath, her hands flat on the countertop. She blinks, shakes her head.

“Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat. “The girls grew into beautiful young women, with the most delicate singing voices in all the mountains. But the witch became jealous of their voices, the attention they received, their radiance.”

She opens another box then closes it, writes, “Sugar Free Chocolate.”

“So she turned them into birds—a robin and a bluebird—and put them into a silver cage. And their songs made her joyous. Until they made her bitter.” Shiloh sticks the label on and then surveys the next cake. “She killed the birds and ate their hearts and took the beauty and youth and songs of her daughters. She married a young huntsman who was taken with her stolen gifts, but, eventually, he discovered her true identity. He tried to kill her, but she turned herself into a crow.”

“Did he ever find her?”

Shiloh shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “She flew into the forest, where every night she tried to sing the very songs she had taught her daughters, only to hear the sound of her ugly crow voice forever and evermore.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know.”

We both look into the next cake box. A mouthwatering orange buttercream rose sits in the middle of a field of white icing and caramel drizzle.

“You haven’t seen Max, have you?” she asks.

“Not since he asked me to find Molly’s killer,” I tell her.

She nods, then sighs and says, “I’ll check in with him tomorrow. After all this festival stuff is done.”

She looks over the boxes, all labeled, and crosses her arms on her chest.

“This is all for First Baptist’s festival?” I ask.

“Yeah. The festival raises money for the church’s food bank, which,whatever I might think of First Baptist’s politics, I can’t argue about feeding hungry people. Now, I just need to load them into the van.”

“You want a hand?”

“You sure you’re finished with all your important PI stuff?”

“Who says I’m done asking questions?”

I help her move the cakes onto a rolling rack and then, as we’re wheeling it out to the van, I ask, “You said you went to First Baptist when you were a kid, right? What was your impression of Rebecca Ziegler?”

“Hmm… She always just… seemed like someone’s strict grandma. The sort of woman who handed out little stockings at Christmas with toothbrushes and mini New Testaments inside.”