September arrived with a crispness that signaled the start of the harvest. The estate became a whirlwind of activity. Workers swarmed the vines, the air filled with the scent of crushed grapes and the noise of machinery.
Bram was in his element, his sternness now directed at the efficiency of the crop. He was a general leading an army, his voice booming across the fields. Sophie followed him everywhere, a silent shadow in a simple dress and boots. She had found a strange peace in the routine, in the way she could anticipate his needs before he even spoke them.
One evening, after the final load of grapes had been delivered to the press, Bram led Sophie down into the cellar. The air was cool and damp, the smell of fermenting juice heavy and sweet.
He stopped before a new barrel, the wood
