The mid-afternoon sun is a physical weight, pressing the scent of baked dust and dying lavender into the white gravel of the drive. Céline Marchetti steps out of the taxi, her espadrilles crunching against the stones of her childhood. The Chateau Marchetti stands before her, its pale limestone facade bleached by the heat, shutters closed like heavy eyelids against the glare. It has been six years, but the air still tastes of fermentation and old stone.
She adjusts the oversized cream blazer on her shoulders, the silk of her slip dress clinging to her skin. The silence of the vineyard is absolute, save for the dry cicada-thrumming in the plane trees. Her father is gone. The estate feels hollowed out, a monument to a man who ruled this valley with a silver corkscrew and an iron will. She reaches for her suitcase, her silver bracelet catching the light, when the peace of the afternoon ruptures.
A roar of a diesel engine echoes from the lower rows, churning up a cloud of ochre silt that chokes the air. Headlights sweep across the blinding white gravel as a rusted estate truck violently pulls up to the manor doors.
