“My Lady. And… guest,” he says, his accent clipped and faintly French, every syllable precise. “I am Etienne. I oversee the vineyards and cellars of the Bleeding Court.”
Something about him makes my skin prickle. Maybe it’s just because he’s a bit colder than Marilla and Albert were. I get the feeling that Hanna and I are a chore—a distraction from his usual routine. But there’s nothing I can do about that and anyway, don’t people tour vineyards all the time? I don’t know why it would be such an imposition.
“We’ll try not to take up much of your time,” I say.
“That’s exceedingly kind of you, as we dislike wasting time around here,” he snaps. “Come with me, if you please. Our tour commences now.”
“Did he just say we’re wasting his time by being here?” Hanna hisses indignantly to me.
“Sure sounded like it,” I murmur back.
“Rude,” is Hanna’s assessment—and I agree.
Etienne, the sommelier doesn’t appear to notice our whispered conversation. He leads us along the rows, gesturing briskly as he speaks.
“Here we cultivate the Nocturne grape—high tannins, grown in soil with elevated iron content. Over there, the Emberleaf varietal—notice the thinner skin. And beyond that?—”
He launches into acidity levels and mineral content and fermentation techniques, his voice droning, his tone clearly implying that we should be impressed.
I try to pay attention. I really do, but I notice Hanna lagging behind.
She’s wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders hunched, her face pale beneath her freckles. Her eyes keep flicking around, as if she expects something to step out from between the vines.
“Hanna?” I murmur, falling back to walk beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, auburn curls bouncing.
“I don’t know. I just feel… strange. Cold.”
Concern spikes through me.
“Do you think you’re coming down with something?”
“No,” she says slowly. “It’s… it’s a feeling I get sometimes at work. Almost like someone is watching me.”
I glance around. The vineyard stretches empty in every direction.
“But there’s no one here but Etienne the snooty sommelier,” I murmur under my breath.
“I know,” she whispers back. “I can’t explain it. I just feel weird.”
We reach the tasting area—a long, rustic wooden table set beneath a canopy of vines. Wheels of cheese rest on slate boards. Bottles stand uncorked, glasses already poured.
Hanna seems to relax a little once we sit. The food helps. The wine helps even more and soon both of us begin to feel looser.
The sommelier remains distant, refilling glasses without asking, his gaze sharp and assessing. The pours are heavy—generous to the point of excess. I tell myself to slow down, that I’m a lightweight, but when I lift my hand to refuse the next glass, he ignores me completely.
“Nonsense,” he says sharply. “You must try this one. It is a regional favorite—the Passion Wine.”
“Passion Wine?” I echo, feeling pleasantly fuzzy.
“Yes,” he says, his sharp eyes glinting. “For it makes much passion within. Now taste and see what I mean.”
He pours nearly a full glass and fixes me with a look so intense I feel oddly compelled to drink.
The wine slides down smooth and warm, blooming through me like firelight. Heat pools in my nipples and curls low in my belly. It’s not unpleasant—far from it—but it’s strong.
A little while later, Hanna shifts in her seat.
