blended seven-year-old pinot noir. Madame knew it, too, as her perceptive eyes watched for the reaction.
Gerda took the wine into her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed slightly as her tongue slid back and forth, tasting. An average customer sipping the wine for the first time would commonly raise his brows in surprise at this point and remark about its uncommon smoothness. A connoisseur would sniff and then describe the robust and complicated layers of velvety plums, smoke, and currants on the tongue. But the self-proclaimed vine witch said nothing. Not in words anyway. Yet her face betrayed that first moment of insecurity one feels when they know they’ve been outdone. If she could have spit it out, he believed she would have spewed the contents on the rug. She swallowed instead, as if it were a tadpole in her mouth rather than one of the finest wines ever produced in the valley. He was witnessing the taste of envy.
Du Monde, on the other hand, approached his wine as a man forced to take his medicine. But as he swallowed, his tongue most certainly pressing against the soft palate in his mouth to be sure of what it had just tasted, he sheepishly avoided looking at his wife, as if he’d just been caught kissing another woman. He did, however, glance at Madame, who confirmed his suspicions with the slight upward flick of her eyebrow.
“One of Château Renard’s finest vintages, madame.” Du Monde raised his glass in a gesture of admiration. He took another sip, nodded approvingly, and then set his glass down. “Thank you for serving this particular wine. In truth, it makes what I’m about to propose even more significant.”
Madame straightened, holding her head at a tilt. Jean-Paul, too, tensed slightly, drawn in by the curious phrasing.
“Monsieur Martel, as I’m sure you are aware, I am a businessman as well as a winemaker.” He paused to formulate his next words. “Perhaps providence stranded me outside your door today. You see, I remember this vintage distinctly. It bested my first solo entry in le Concours des Vins. That was the first time I understood what it meant to create something truly magnificent and have the world take notice. And, if I may be brutally honest, it may have been the last time Château Renard produced such an exquisite vintage.”
“Bastien . . .” The word came out as a growl of warning in Madame’s throat.
“Monsieur Martel, you are a lawyer by trade, if I’m not mistaken. A man who understands the art of negotiation.”
“Please, call me Jean-Paul.”
“Of course. Now that we have shared wine, we can be direct with one another. You have been in the wine business for three years, have you not? And in that time you have had, shall we say, three years of disappointing harvests.” Du Monde gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Surely we can agree it is not a forgiving trade for the novice.”
Jean-Paul squirmed in his chair, wishing to defend his efforts at the vineyard but knowing in his heart the man across from him was telling the truth. He only wished the wife didn’t stare at him so intently. He swore he could feel her thoughts pressing in on his own.
“And,” Du Monde continued, “I have it on good authority there is a law firm in the city that would eagerly like to see the return of one of its brightest associates.” He paused to see if his compliment had landed. It had. “So, given the balance of one against the other, I have a proposition for you.”
Du Monde finished delivering his proposal, and the room went silent except for the sound of Madame’s glass hitting the table.
CHAPTER TEN
Elena crept up the stairs mindful of every creak underfoot. She hadn’t been in the attic since her return, but it was the farthest away she could get from the others without climbing on the roof. She opened the door, and the stagnant air swirled as if for the first time in years. Only a few bars of weak light filtered in through the vents under the eaves, giving the space an abandoned feel. The odor of wet wood met her as she pressed a hand against the exposed ribs of the angled ceiling to avoid hitting her head. A leak in the roof tiles perhaps. There was little money to spare for house repairs, but it was beyond her talents to stitch rotten wood back together. She set her star chart and astrolabe down