Julian pulled out his tablet. He paused. He could give it a 94—safe, respectful, professional. Or he could give it the 97 it deserved, a score that would change Henri's life forever but would draw the scrutiny of every skeptical collector in the world.
The cellar of the Château de L’Inconnu was not built for people; it was built for ghosts. Down here, thirty feet beneath the limestone soil of Saint-Émilion, the air tasted of damp stone and a century of quiet fermentation.
"You're looking for the 'soul' in the glass," Henri finally whispered, his voice like dry leaves. "But you will only write down a digit."