Margot turned toward Ray. He still held the empty glass, slowly rotating it as though to swirl wine that no longer existed. His smile felt almost apologetic. “No evidence was found against Ephraim or his children. But, yes, even at the time it was fairly widely believed that he murdered his brother, along with his brother’s family, and buried them somewhere on the land. Ezra had no reason to leave without saying goodbye to his neighbors. And most agreed that Ephraim wouldn’t have moved into his brother’s home unless he was certain he wasn’t coming back.”

Margot nodded and returned to the photos. She was trying to appear sanguine about it. As though the knowledge that she’d inherited the land because of a familial homicide didn’t get under her skin like a sickening, crawling insect.

“Ephraim built the business up further,” Nora said. “The wine increased in popularity and value, beginning to earn a reputation even overseas. But misfortune seemed to chase Ephraim. He had ten children in total. All but three of them perished before their thirtieth birthday.”

“The seventeen hundreds weren’t an easy time,” Ray acknowledged. “But bad luck seemed to fall especially heavily on Ephraim. Some of his children died from diseases. Others, from accidents around the estate. Machinery malfunctions. Trampled by the family horse. Drowned in the creek. Each year seemed to bring some heavy news, until Ephraim himself perished, by falling—or jumping or being pushed, the details were never clear—into one of the vats used to ferment wine. He wasn’t found until the following morning, by which time he’d drowned.”

“That’s him,” Nora said, and Margot followed her finger to another illustration. It depicted a clean-shaven man standing in front of a house. The same house from the background of the first drawing, Margot thought, except the building was larger and the tree was missing. This illustration looked as though it may have been privately commissioned; the lines were cleaner and tighter, and swabs of pastel color had been applied to give it life. She met the man’s hard, blank eyes and had to look away.

“That was done the year before his passing, when he was fifty,” Nora said. “From there, the estate went to his son and then to his son. Each generation has stayed on the land, renovated the home, and expanded the business. And now we’ve finally reached you.”

Dozens more frames ran along the wall. Margot followed them, watching the images turn from illustrations to black-and-white photographs and then, finally, to color. Some images had been taken inside the winery, showing the family stirring the vats of fermenting grapes. Some were taken in the cellar, with rows and rows of dark barrels stacked up behind the posed men and women. She watched each new generation change them subtly. The addition of deeper complexions, Mediterranean features, thickly curling hair, all blending together to form Margot herself.