His words were supportive, but there was something about the way he spoke—no anticipation, no intrigue—that left Margot feeling that he was only going along with the plan because she wanted to, not because he believed it had any merit. She frowned at where her hands clutched the blanket to her chest. “My parents already tried cameras, didn’t they?”

“Mm.” He dipped his head in a slow nod. “Couple times.”

“And?”

“They all died before they caught anything. But you could always try again. You might have better luck.”

“If I’m going to stay here for any length of time, even another week, I need to do something.”

“You do,” he agreed, then indicated her empty cup with a twitch of his hand. “Can I get you more to drink?”

“No. Thanks, though.” It was beginning to work in increments: the hot drink inside, the blanket around her back, and the open oven door nearby were slowly, achingly bringing sensation back to her limbs. All of the aches and bruises, dulled by numbness, were reemerging too, and Margot flinched when she rolled her shoulders.

Kant gathered the mugs and took them to the sink. “If you’re set on staying, then, would you still like me to show you around the winery?”

“Oh! Right.” She’d forgotten that this was the morning she was supposed to learn about the business. Margot glanced through the open archway, toward the effigy in the other room. Anything to get her away from the house for an hour or two sounded like an improvement. “Yeah. I’d like that, thanks.”

“I’ll sort this while you get ready,” Kant said, turning on the taps, and Margot belatedly realized she was still wearing her pajamas. “Meet me back here when you’re ready to go.”

13

Margot dressed quickly. Her room was chilled, and every second she spent inside it robbed more of the warmth she’d gained in the kitchen. Though her movements were hurried, her selections weren’t. This would be the morning she met the business’s employees. Her grandmother had been a firm believer in first impressions, and that was something Margot carried with her.

She picked dark clothes—the warmest skirt she owned and a top that ran high around her collarbones to mask the scars. The jacket from the wake went on top. When she clipped her hair back, she allowed herself a thin smile. It was understated but professional. She looked like she knew what she was doing, and although that was a stark contrast to how she actually felt, appearances could carry a person far.

Margot slung her bag over her shoulder and moved back down the stairs to meet Kant. With daylight aiding her, the path to the stairs was easily found. She still wasn’t certain how she’d become lost the previous night.