There must be thousands of bottles in here.
I take a tentative step into the room, admiring the bright labels and immaculate rows. I suspect I’ve stumbled upon another of Alaric’s “distractions”. From the way he swirled his wine last night, I have him pegged as a wine guy.
Patrick was a wine guy, too. He swilled and snorted and sniffed every glass someone handed to him, and loved to impress people with his knowledge of crop projections and obscure New Zealand vineyards. People thought he was brilliant but honestly, it all seemed a little unhygienic to me. He would flip out to see this collection. I bet these bottles are allold and expensive.
No, I’m not thinking about Patrick, or the fact that since he dumped me I’ve become a “wine girl” – as in, drowning my sorrows with a £9.99 bottle of plonk more evenings than not, just so I can get a full night’s sleep.
I’m drawn to a rack of bottles in the corner beside the door. They’re all red wines, and each one is nestled within what appears to be a temperature-controlled sleeve. The gaps in the rack indicate that someone has been enjoying these wines. I remember the glass of red dangling from Alaric’s long fingers yesterday evening, and I wet my lips for reasons that I don’t want to think about.
I’m curious about him. That’s all this is.
I step towards the shelf and draw one of the bottles from its protective sleeve. A light on the sleeve blinks red. I peer down at the bottle. The label is like nothing I’ve ever seen before – it’s written in what appears to be French, and covered in stamps and wax seals and maker’s marks. It looks far older than anything in Patrick’s collection.
I pull out another bottle, expecting to see a similar old style, but this label is modern – a dark garden of blood-red roses on a black background. It’s also written in a language I don’t recognise, and none of the markings make sense for what little I know about wine?—
“Ms Preston.”
I whirl around, shocked by the harshness of the voice.
Reginald whips the bottle from my fingers before I drop it.
“Reginald, you startled me. I was looking for a plate?—”
“I don’t think you should be in here.” Reginald slides the bottle back into its sleeve and settles it lovingly into its cradle. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but some of these bottles are quite old, and my lord is very particular about his wine. I’ll show you where we keep the crockery. Will you be starting work shortly, or do you wish to return to bed until Lord Valerian rises?”
As Reginald talks, he herds me towards the door, his gaze flicking back to the red wine bottles, eyes narrowing in concern. I know I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t understand what it is.
“I can’t sleep anymore. I’ll need more than a day to adjust to Lord Valerian’s nocturnal schedule,” I babble. In the kitchen,Reginald shows me a narrow door near the stove that leads to the scullery where I find shelves filled with delicate, dust-covered china. “I’m glad you found me. I need to place an order for some shelves and containers. If you can get me set up on the castle wi-fi, I’ll do that and then I’ll get started in the ballroom. Lord Valerian can join me when he wakes up.”
“Very well, Ms Preston. I shall leave you to your breakfast. The castle network is named ‘LAN Helsing’, and the password is ‘cantstakeme’, all one word.” He pauses when he sees my expression. “Lord Valerian’s humour. He was most aggrieved at having to install the internet, but now he cannot live without it since he discovered he can order art supplies without having to set foot in a store.”
I can’t help but smile. “I believe it.”
“Write me a list and I’ll order anything you require.” Reginald’s eyes flicker over me. “And perhaps when you see Lord Valerian this evening, don’t mention that you were in his cellar.”
“Okay. I won’t.”
Reginald hurries away. I load my plate with food, but as I sit down to eat it, I find that I’ve lost my appetite. I peer over my shoulder at the scullery and the hidden door to the wine cellar.
What did I just stumble upon?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WINNIE
Mum: Would you believe that Ken picked up one of my boxes of magazines from the front walk and put them out in the recycling! How DARE he! It was a box of TIME issues I’ve been saving for you because I know how much you love the articles on archaeology. And now they’re gone forever! To make it up to you, I bought you another sundress.
“My lord, you have a visitor!” Reginald yells over my music.
Alaric’s head snaps up from a box of locomotive wheels he’s sorting. He has a piece of cobweb stuck to his unruly dark curls. “Reginald, if this is your attempt at a joke, I’m not amused.”
“I’m a little amused,” I say, turning down the volume on my Get Shit Done playlist. “Why would a visitor be a joke?”
“Lord Valerian doesn’t have visitors at the castle,” Reginald explains. “Apart from delightful London organisers with appalling taste in music. But I’m afraid these visitors are quite insistent on seeingyou. It’s the police.”
Why are the police here?
My mind immediately swings to a memory of five years earlier, when the police showed up at my flat to explain to me that my mother’s hoarding, her screaming fits at the neighbours, and her reluctance to let council inspectors into her home, constituted anti-social behaviour. Has something happened to my mother?
