Margot turned to get another look at the space. While the cellars had been grand, this room felt small and narrow and imperfectly built. It had likely been a project by the home’s original owners, dug out and put together with their own hands.

“Despite appearances, this is perhaps one of the most valuable rooms in the winery.” Andrew indicated the six barrels arranged opposite them. “These darlings account for more than 30 percent of your annual income.”

Margot frowned. The room she’d just come through held hundreds, possibly thousands, of barrels. She knew wine could vary in price—sometimes by a lot—but it was hard to imagine what could make this vintage so much more expensive than all the others.

“You remember what I told you about the old oak tree,” Kant said, and Margot felt her heart skip a beat.

“He turned it into wine barrels.” She carefully moved toward them. Now that she was looking for signs of age, they were abundantly visible. The wood was lighter than the oak in the main cellar—older, dryer. The wood’s grain had pronounced texture.

The oak. The gallows. Hundreds of bodies breathed their last while suspended from this wood.

It had been changed—sawed and whittled and reformed until it was unrecognizable. But it still remembered, she thought.

She reached a hand forward to touch one but caught herself. She was being superstitious again, but this time, she didn’t chide herself for it. Trapped belowground in a lantern-lit room with two near strangers and the barrels of the dead, a little superstition felt wise.

Then Margot remembered the comment about this room contributing a third of her income and recoiled. “You still put wine in them?”

“Yes.” Andrew, candlelight flickering across his glasses, moved to stand beside Margot as he admired the barrels. “Each batch ages for five years. And the result is incredible. It wins international awards and nearly every blind tasting it’s entered into. Critics sing praises for its rich tones and complexity. Our other wines are good, mind you; they’re handmade from excellent grapes and nurtured with care. But this line is famous.”

Kant stepped forward. He’d taken one of the wineglasses from the desk. A spigot was attached to the far-left barrel, and he released it, pouring a small amount of wine in the glass.

“We’re very close to bottling this batch,” Kant said. “Here. It’s what your family is known for.”

Margot froze, staring at the glass held with unexpected dexterity in his rough hand. A tablespoon of vivid red liquid swirled in its base, heavy, leaving streaks of crimson where it washed across the glass. She stared, fixated. It was beautiful. And sickening. A vision that promised hedonistic delights and horrors in a single taste. She pulled back, her shoes scuffing over the stones as she retreated from the temptation. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t…drink wine.”