“Those of us who stay on the estate live back there,” Kant said, motioning to a grouping of small homes—some two-story but most single—near the back of the cluster. His hand shifted toward a larger stone building close by. “And here’s where we ferment the wine.”

“Does…” Margot frowned, trying to pick her words in a way that wouldn’t leave her sounding ignorant. “Do you grow the grapes here? Or, uh, buy them?”

“Ground’s not so good for growing. We take in the grapes, press them, mix them, ferment them, distill them, and bottle them.”

They were approaching the main building. There was already life inside, Margot realized. Lights glittered through narrow, paned windows, occasionally blocked by the movements of bodies beyond.

“Most of the crew is here,” Kant said. “Told them to be ready to meet you.”

The doors to the winery were massive and arched, made of solid, dark wood. They reminded Margot of church doors, even down to the black, ornate hinges that whined as Kant shoved an arm into one of them to force it open.

Margot had a split-second glimpse of movement before the crisscrossing bodies abruptly fell still. Any conversations cut out. More than a dozen expectant faces turned toward her.

The work area was below the door; three broad steps led down to a stone floor, which was occupied by clustered machinery Margot couldn’t name and enormous steel tanks. Bodies filled the spaces between the machinery, some holding crates, frozen midtransport, and others with their arms full of paperwork. The heightened entrance made Margot feel as though she were standing on a podium, overlooking an expectant audience.

Kant scratched his fingers across his scalp, pushing loose strands of hair away from his eyes, then let his arm drop back to his side. “Everyone, this is Margot Hull. Owner.”

It was a perfunctory introduction, and the gap of silence following it left Margot reeling. She tried for a smile and raised one hand in a tentative greeting. “Hi.”

Public speaking had never given her more than a moderate dose of anxiety before. But there was something about the way the countless eyes had fixed on her that was desperately uncomfortable. There were too many faces, and they began to blur together, unreadable. She didn’t know these people, but they knew her. And they were sizing her up, using these first few seconds to build an impression of her that she might never fully shake.

She was overdressed, Margot realized with a mortifying jolt. She’d put on clothes that would be considered professional where she came from, but that was a city, and this was the country. She didn’t look in control, like she’d hoped. She looked clueless. And that was shamefully reflective of the truth.