I had now completely lost my bearings. The wine cellar, I knew, extended underground well beyond the Castle walls. Reportedly it contained twenty thousand bottles and was so extensive Prescott’s sommelier used a golf cart to traverse its many aisles. Supposedly every bottle had been chosen because it was one of the best, and there were no fillers. The value was somewhere in the millions of dollars.

We stopped in front of another door that looked sturdy and unyielding, from an era when the Castle occupants might have needed to reinforce every entrance, ensuring they were protected from potential enemies. Ironically next to the door was a state-of-the-art keypad that flickered to life when Prescott touched it and keyed in a code. I was standing near enough to see it flash on the display before disintegrating into a set of asterisks: HTWSSTKS.

Probably a mnemonic for a phrase that meant something to him. A series of heavy clicks sounded, as tumblers fell into the right places and the door silently swung open.

Once again Prescott indicated that I should go first.

I hesitated, a flash of panic in case the moment I walked through the doorway he’d key in his “Close Sesame” passcode, abandoning me inside. He had sidestepped the question about the dungeon, just as he had avoided telling me why he’d brought me here. But of course nothing of the sort happened and he followed me into the room.

Dim lights brightened automatically as though we were in a theater at the end of a performance. It was all I could do not to gasp. The “little renovation” had transformed the tasting room from a 1920s jazzy Prohibition-era hideaway with Tiffany lamps, lighted mirrored shelves filled with crystal glasses, acres of marqueted paneling, and a plush, comfortable sofa with matching chairs surrounding a tiled fireplace into an austere room of carved stone that reminded me of a medieval French château. White pendant lights hung from the vaulted barrel ceiling and in the alcoves, twinkling like stars. Rows of wine bottles lying in clear Lucite wine racks so they looked as if they were floating formed an undulating wall that separated the bar from a seating area. An arched door had been left ajar so I could see into the wine cellar itself where row upon row of dark, gleaming bottles lined the walls until they vanished into the inky blackness. If there had been music playing, I would have expected a Gregorian chant.

“So, do you like it?” Prescott asked. “All the stone was quarried here on the property. I brought in master stonemasons to do all the work … master stonemasons. The best.”

Prescott only worked with the best of the best.

“It’s … spectacular. Nothing at all like the way it looked before.”