Read Chapter 18: The Defense

The mist lay thick over the hidden plot when Camille arrived before dawn, her breath curling in the cold air. Lucas was already there, crouched beside the oldest vine, running his fingers along its gnarled trunk like a man reading braille. Behind him, two of the estate’s oldest workers—Jean-Marc and little Pierrot, who had known her mother—unloaded tarps and posts from the back of a rusted tractor.

“You came,” Camille said, surprised at the relief in her own voice.

Lucas stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You asked for help. I’m helping. That doesn’t change what I have to do if the truth goes the other way.”

“It won’t.”

“Then we have nothing to worry about.”

Camille set down her pack and looked at the vineyard. In the pale light, the pre-phylloxera vines looked ancient and ordinary—twisted, low, almost scrub-like against the trellises that had rotted years ago. But she knew what they carried. A genetic line that predated the great blight. A variety that could carry the estate’s future, if she could protect it long enough.

“He knows the general area,” she said. “Bernard. He was out here with a surveyor yesterday.”

Jean-Marc spat on the ground. “That man couldn’t find his own arse with both hands. But give him a day and a government map and he’ll stumble onto something he shouldn’t.”

“Then we make it hard for him to stumble,” Lucas said. He pulled a coil of rope from the tractor bed. “We set a perimeter. Nothing obvious—just enough noise and movement to make it clear someone’s watching. A couple of trip lines with bells. If he comes through the trees, we’ll hear him before he sees the vines.”

They worked through the morning in the kind of focused silence that comes from shared purpose. Camille showed Jean-Marc where to string the tarps for a makeshift shelter. Pierrot, small and quiet, hammered stakes into the soft earth at intervals along the tree line. Camille herself wove thin branches through the low scrub at the plot’s edge, enough to catch clothing and slow a man’s approach.

Lucas watched her work. “You’ve done this before.”

“Grew up in these woods.” She did not look up. “My mother taught me how to move quietly through them. And how to listen.”

By noon, the mist had burned off and the plot lay in cold autumn sunlight. Camille’s phone buzzed in her pocket. Mathilde. She stepped away from the others and answered.

“Results are coming in faster than expected,” Mathilde said, her French clipped and efficient. “The cuttings you sent—the genetic markers are extraordinary. I’ve never seen a profile like this. It’s not just old—it’s been isolated for centuries. Possibly a direct descendant of a pre-phylloxera heritage stock.”

Camille’s heart beat faster. “Could it make wine?”

“That’s a question for your palate, not my centrifuge. But if it does what the markers suggest—if it holds acid and tannin the way I think it might—then yes. You’re sitting on something extraordinary.” Mathilde paused. “The other sample, the one submitted under your name—the lab in Libourne has matched the origin to the Ségur family’s historical archives. Whoever sent it knows exactly what they’re doing.”

“Can you tell who?”

“The post office was covered by camera, but the angle was poor. A man in a dark coat, as I said. He kept his face away.” She hesitated. “But Camille—the reference to the Ségurs wasn’t just a name. It was legal language. A clause from a property claim that predates your family’s ownership of the château.”

Camille’s throat tightened. “My mother fought that claim.”

“I know. I was there for some of it.” Mathilde’s voice softened. “You need to find whatever she was hiding. Whatever the vineyard’s secret is, it’s the only thing that will save it.”

Camille thanked her and hung up, slipping the phone into her jacket. She turned to see Lucas approaching, his expression guarded.

“Bad news?”

“Complicated news.” She filled him in quickly. The genetic markers. The Ségur legal clause. Someone out there who knew more than they did.

Lucas listened without interruption. When she finished, he said, “The Ségurs have been trying to reclaim this land for forty years. If they’ve found the plot, they’ll use legal means to take it. But Bernard—your uncle—he’s not the type for courts. He’ll try to destroy what he can’t own.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She did not have to wait long for him to prove it.

The bells sounded first—a distant, tinny rattle from the eastern tree line. Camille moved before she thought, ducking low behind a fallen log, motioning the others into cover. Lucas had his phone out, filming. Jean-Marc slid his hand toward a rusted pruning saw, and Camille shook her head sharply.

They waited in silence. The sound of footsteps came next—heavy, careless, cracking through the underbrush. Voices, too. Two of them.

Bernard’s voice first: “It’s in this section. The surveyor’s map showed the ground disturbance right here.”

A second man. Camille recognized him as the estate’s new foreman, one of Bernard’s hires from Bordeaux. “I don’t see anything, sir. Just scrub.”

“Because it’s hidden, you idiot. Look for the vines. Old ones.”

Camille watched as Bernard pushed through the low branches, his face red from exertion and something else—anger, or greed, or both. He was carrying something heavy in his right hand. A chainsaw.

Her blood went cold.

“He’ll destroy the plot,” Lucas whispered. “He doesn’t care about the wine. He just wants to make sure you can’t use it.”

Camille stood up.

She stepped out from behind the log, between Bernard and the oldest vine. The one she suspected had been planted before Napoleon. The one her mother had probably tended in secret.

“Bernard,” she said, her voice steady. “You’re on my property.”

Bernard stopped. For a moment, he just stared at her, then laughed—a short, ugly sound. “Your property? You’ve been stripped of control, niece. Or did you forget the audit? This land belongs to the estate, which means it belongs to me and your other uncles. We decide what happens to it.”

“Then you should have told me you knew this plot existed.”

Something flickered in his face. He didn’t know. He’d suspected, but he hadn’t known. Now his eyes moved past her, scanning the vines, and Camille saw the calculation happen in real time.

“Interesting,” he said. “Very interesting. You’ve been hiding a vineyard from the estate’s records. That’s fraud, Camille. Pure and simple.”

“It was my mother’s plot. She registered it under the commune’s old record system before the familial division.”

“Then show me the paperwork.”

Camille said nothing. She couldn’t. Not yet.

Bernard smiled, slow and ugly. “That’s what I thought.” He raised the chainsaw. The foreman took a step back, suddenly uncertain. “We’re clearing this section. Overgrown, a fire hazard. Standard maintenance.”

“You’re not touching these vines.”

“Step aside, Camille. I don’t want to call the authorities again.”

“I said you’re not touching them.”

Bernard pulled the cord. The chainsaw coughed, sputtered, then roared to life. The sound ripped through the quiet vineyard like a gunshot.

Camille did not move.

The blades were spinning. Bernard took a step forward, and she held her ground. She could see the whites of his eyes, the sweat on his forehead, the way his hands trembled slightly on the grips. He was not a man who did his own dirty work. That was the weakness. He didn’t know how.

“Last chance,” he shouted over the noise.

“Save it for the tribunal,” she said.

Bernard swung the chainsaw toward the nearest vine—but his foot caught on the trip line she’d laid across the scrub. He pitched forward, off balance, the chainsaw swinging wild. Camille did not think. She threw herself sideways, rolling backward into the treeline as the blade carved through the air where she’d stood.

Bernard hit the ground hard. The chainsaw clattered away from him, its chain still spinning, spitting dirt and grass. He screamed—a high, thin sound—and clutched his ankle. His leg was twisted beneath him, the boot bent at an unnatural angle against a half-buried stone.

The foreman rushed forward, grabbing the chainsaw and killing the engine. The silence that followed was sudden and profound.

Bernard’s face was pale, contorted with pain. “You did this,” he rasped. “You set a trap.”

“I set a warning.” Camille stood, brushing dirt from her jacket. “You ignored it.”

Jean-Marc and Pierrot emerged from the trees. Lucas stepped out behind her, his phone still recording. Bernard’s eyes flicked to the phone, and his mouth tightened in a fury that was almost impressive.

“This isn’t over,” he said through clenched teeth.

“No,” Camille agreed. “It isn’t.” She looked down at her uncle, crumpled on the ground, injured. She did not feel sorry for him. She felt nothing at all. “But when it is, I’ll be the one standing.”

The foreman helped Bernard to his feet. He could barely put weight on the ankle. They limped back into the trees, Bernard sending one last look over his shoulder that promised something black and patient.

When they were gone, Camille let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Lucas lowered his phone and walked to her side. “That’ll be on the record,” he said quietly. “Assault by uncle, in case you need it.”

“He didn’t touch me.”

“The saw did.” He paused. “Legally, that’s still an attempt. You have witnesses.”

Camille nodded, but her mind was already ahead, spinning. Bernard would be back, angrier and more cautious. He would bring the surveyor again. He might even bring the authorities. The plot was protected for now, but not for long.

“We need a plan,” she said, turning to the others. “Something faster than we thought.”

Lucas stepped close enough that no one else could hear. “I have an idea,” he said. “But you’re not going to like it.”