“All oak barrels,” Kant said as he closed the door behind them. “Some modern places use metal, but we’ve always been more traditional here.”

Margot took a hesitant step into the room, both hands clutching the purse’s strap as though it were a lifeline. The lighting was dramatic, highlighting sections like a spotlight while the ground between was absorbed by the heavy damp and dark. Margot took one more step forward to put herself under one of those lights. It felt safer there. As though the shadows were somehow alive. As though she would be consumed by them if she let her guard drop for even a minute.

“Kant…” She struggled to find words, but everything felt inadequate in the face of the place’s scope. “How many barrels are there?”

His glance seemed to carry some empathy. “It looks more drastic than it is. The whites age for only a short while, but the reds can be here for years. A lot of these barrels are just putting in their time until they’re ready.”

Many had dust gathering on them, she realized. While the floor was kept swept, time had been allowed to settle onto the oak.

Moisture made the air thick. The ground was dry as far as she could see, though many of the stones had been stained. Spilled wine, she knew, although in the dim spotlights it could as easily be spilled blood.

Kant moved forward again, and Margot once more followed, shirking away from both the pillars and the barrels, fighting with every step to keep the quiet panic from rising over her.

The room had a weight to it. The great arched pillars held the ceiling up, but, at the same time, it seemed to sag toward her, as though it were slowly but inexorably crushing down the supports as it pressed toward the ground. The further they traveled, the worse the sensation became, until Margot could almost feel it pressing onto her shoulders, forcing the stale, scented air from her lungs.

And then they were at the opposite doors. She clung close to Kant—too close, near enough to hear his breathing as he unlocked the doors—as she waited to be let through.

At her back were hundreds of barrels. Identical, dark, clustered in stacks of five. They were oppressive. The stains on the flagstone floor felt less like remnants of an old history and more like a warning.

Then the door opened with a click, and Kant stood back to let her through.

Margot held her coat tight across her chest as she entered another passageway. She’d expected it to lead up, but instead, it carried her straight ahead. The walkway held no lights, but an open door at its other end was a beacon leading her forward.

“Go ahead,” Kant said.