Even as the words escaped, Margot knew how wrong they sounded. The prospective owner of a winery, and she refused to partake in her sole product.

One of Andrew’s eyebrows rose, but he made no comment. If Kant felt anything, he didn’t show it. He made to turn aside.

“Don’t throw it out,” Andrew said. Kant passed the glass to him. Andrew tipped it back, draining the liquid, then put the glass back on the tray, his tongue lapping the taste off his lips even after he’d swallowed. “Damn. That’s, what? The equivalent to a week of my salary?”

“Maybe more,” Kant said.

Andrew chuckled, his voice soft, nearly inaudible. “It really is worth it.”

They made no attempt to question her choice, and Margot was grateful. Maybe they thought she’d had a problem with addiction or maybe he believed her refusal was for religious reasons.

In truth, she drank most kinds of alcohol. Vodka, spiced rum, and cocktails were all fine. She didn’t like the taste of beer but she could still tolerate it.

Wine, though, turned her stomach every time. Even the sight of it made her queasy.

“Is the wine that expensive?” Margot asked. She was feeling lost again. Too small, even in that cramped room, wrapped in the heavy blanket of shadows. The previous night, she’d imagined she might actually be capable of taking on everything that the estate entailed. She was starting to feel that she’d never before been so deluded.

“It is.” Kant rested one heavy hand on the nearest cask. “We age it for five years before bottling. Two bottles are auctioned for charity. They fetch low six figures. The rest are sold to private collectors. Billionaires. People who require the very best, price ignored.”

“The other wines have varying prices, but nothing like the dead tree line,” Andrew said. “The bottles from the regular cellar are bought by locals, restaurants, and tourists. I take a few home myself. But these six casks are special. And they can’t be replicated. The wood is over two centuries old and from a single specific tree. We can make a finite amount of each batch, and that’s all that’s available.”

Earlier that morning, Kant had said many people in town still found the winery morbid. Margot now understood why. It was one thing to plant a business on top of a hill that was once designated for executions. It was another to still use the wood to create wine that would be sold and consumed.

Wine that, apparently, was valued above all others. Wine that couldn’t be reproduced in any other barrel.

The damp, icy air stung her throat with each breath. Margot turned aside, trying not to let her discomfort show on her face.