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Back Gallows Hill Save as PDF
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The frame held an ink illustration. Margot doubted it would be an original; from what she could tell, it had been photocopied and enlarged to show the details. Age stains bled across the image.

In it, a family stood ahead of a massive, twisting oak tree, its branches bare. In the center were a husband and wife, the husband clad in a coat that went to his boots and the wife in stays and long skirts. Four children stood to the sides: two boys and two girls, ranging from early teenagers to young adults.

Margot’s eyes were drawn to the wife. The illustration, though intended to be a realistic representation of the family, lacked detail. A few strokes implied the eyes. A line for the mouth. The artist had captured the wife’s hair, though. Strands of it sailing free from the headscarf intended to hold it down. Windblown, Margot had thought in the shed. She hadn’t been able to see the woman’s face at the time, but now she stared into the illustration’s barely represented eyes, fixated by the black pits.

“Tell me about them.” Her words cracked. She hated the edge of desperation that was creeping into her voice, but Nora didn’t hesitate to oblige.

“Ezra Hull and his family moved into the still-forming town of Leafell to seek better prospects,” Nora said, admiring the image with narrowed eyes. “Ezra had always wanted to own land and so, when Gallows Hill was put up for auction in 1761, he bought it with an inheritance he had received from the sale of his late father’s estate. The asking price wasn’t high. Very few others bid, and Ezra turned his remaining money toward building a home for his family.”

“The same house I live in now,” Margot guessed.

“A much smaller version of it.” Ray leaned across the counter, forearms rested on the old wood. “It’s had a few renovations. But at its core, yes. What you have now is built around the original floor plan.”

“Ezra Hull chose to use the hill to age wine. Many people in town predicted the business would fail.” Nora moved to another frame. This one held an ancient deed to the property, cracks forming in the parchment where it had once been folded. Margot struggled to read the smudged-ink cursive. “People didn’t look too kindly on the hill, and the town was small. At that time, wine was a very different business. The wealthy and the aristocracy would have their bottles imported from France. Local-made wine was rare and usually bad. But for Ezra, it worked.”

She moved to another frame. This one contained a label, carefully mounted on card stock. The wine’s name was handwritten, along with a year: 1768. Above that was an early version of the twisting oak tree logo, faded from age.