“He is the lead ranger.”
“Yes.”
“He is responsible for the group.”
“Yes.”
“You’re circling a point.”
“Only because you keep choosing the weakest argument.”
I set my glass down. “Should I ask how much you think you know?”
“Absolutely not. You would dislike the answer, and I’m enjoying the wine.”
Across the terrace, Nick spoke into his radio, his profile turned toward the hills. He looked carved out of function and sunlight. Every line of him belonged to the place in a way I didn't.
And yet his jacket sat on my shoulders.
Alina followed my gaze. “That’s a very official jacket.”
“It was cold in the cellar.”
“Of course.”
“I have circulation concerns.”
“Tragic.”
“Possibly fatal.”
“Then we should alert the ranger.”
I looked at her.
She smiled. “Or perhaps he already knows.”
Lunch unfolded beneath the umbrellas in a slow, elegant ambush of food and wine.
Grilled lamb with rosemary and charred lemon. Roasted aubergine brushed with olive oil. Baby potatoes blistered at the edges. Bitter greens with shaved fennel. Bowls of apricots and almonds between the bottles. The bread tore open undermy fingers, crust crackling, the inside soft enough to make me briefly believe civilization had value.
Naomi steered the conversation toward conservation funding. Cufflink wanted to know how scalable the estate model was. Graham suggested a subscription club called Grapes for Giraffes and was immediately told by three people never to say that aloud again. Owen, after half a glass more than his usual tolerance, began explaining that wine could be part of a balanced lifestyle if consumed mindfully.
Nick didn't drink.
He accepted water from Marieke, thanked her, and stayed near the edge of the terrace with Elias and Daniel. Every so often, staff passed him with trays or crates, and they adjusted around his presence without being told. The estate security manager checked in twice. Nick listened, nodded once, and returned his attention to the group.
Authority, I had learned, was rarely loud when it was real.
After lunch, Marieke led us through a narrow side door into the private cellar, where reserve bottles were kept behind glass and iron. The room was cooler than the terrace, lit by low sconces that left the corners in shadow. Labels lined the walls in neat rows. The air held old paper, cork, and the dry mineral smell of stone.
“This is our archive room,” Marieke said. “Some vintages are held for donors, some for conservation auctions, and some because my father refuses to open them unless someone marries royalty.”
Graham looked around. “Do counts count?”
“No,” Cufflink said.
“I have emotional nobility.”
