Read Chapter 22: The Patent Decision

The knock came at the cellar door just as Camille lifted the glass to her lips. Rose looked up from the fermenting vat, her brow furrowed.

"Expecting someone?"

Camille shook her head. The last three days had passed in a haze of pump over and temperature checks, the trial wine's slow, sweet breath filling the private cellar with a perfume that made her forget, sometimes, that the world outside was still at war with her. She set the glass down and climbed the steps.

Jean-Marc stood in the doorway of the château, holding a thick manila envelope. His face was pale, and he was breathing in short, tight bursts.

"What is it?" Camille asked.

"The lab called. Mathilde. She tried your mobile, but the signal down here—" He thrust the envelope toward her. "She sent a courier. She said you'd want to see this immediately, before—" He swallowed. "Before you read anything else."

Camille tore the seal. Inside, a single sheet of paper and a four-page technical report. She skimmed the report first, the language of genetic markers and ampelographic analysis washing over her until she reached the final paragraph.

*The samples provided demonstrate a genetic profile consistent with no known commercially propagated Vitis vinifera variety. Markers suggest a pre-phylloxera lineage with affinities to the Carménère and Petit Verdot families, though distinct from both. Based on available data, this accession may represent a unique, unregistered varietal.*

Camille read the sentence three times. Unique. Unregistered. Pre-phylloxera. Her heart hammered against her ribs. If this was true—if this grape was truly lost to history—it could be worth a fortune. Not just as a wine, but as intellectual property. A proprietary varietal, grown nowhere else in the world, on land her family had abandoned for a century.

But the last paragraph of the technical report was what made Jean-Marc shift his weight from foot to foot.

*Note: Pursuant to EU Regulation 1308/2013 and the International Union for the Protection of New Varieties of Plants, registration and patent protection for a novel varietal requires proof of legal ownership of the biological material and the land from which it was sourced. Please provide documentation of title for the collection site prior to filing.*

Camille lowered the paper. "She needs proof of ownership."

"The plot," Jean-Marc said quietly. "Bernard has the deed. At least, he believes he does."

"Bernard believes he has everything." Camille folded the report, sliding it back into the envelope. "But he doesn't know about the shell company yet. He doesn't know about Maison Mère."

"No. But he will." Jean-Marc followed her back toward the private cellar. "He's been in Bordeaux since his—" He paused, searching for a diplomatic word.

"Humiliation," Camille supplied.

"Since then. He's retained counsel. I've heard through the village that he's preparing a suit against you for trespass and vandalism of his property."

"He fell on his own chainsaw."

"The fence you built on his land. The trip wires. He's twisting the narrative."

Camille stopped at the top of the cellar stairs, turning to face him. "I need to find that deed before he files. The letter said Maison Mère owns the plot. If I can prove the shell company is my mother's, the land is hers—which means it's mine. Then I can patent the grape. Then I have something worth more than Bernard's entire inheritance claim."

Jean-Marc nodded slowly. "I've searched the estate records for any mention of Maison Mère. I found nothing. But I also found something else." He hesitated. "Your father kept a separate ledger. Hidden in the false back of his desk drawer. I didn't want to open it without asking you, but given the circumstances—"

"Show me."

He led her to the study, where the heavy oak desk had been pulled away from the wall. A thin gap in the paneling revealed a small compartment. Jean-Marc reached inside and withdrew a worn leather book, its pages yellowed and covered in her father's tight, precise handwriting.

Camille ran her fingers over the cover. She'd seen her father write in this book a thousand times, always in private, always with a carefulness that suggested more than simple accounts. She opened it.

The first page was dated March 1983—eight months after the vintage her mother had secretly sweetened. Her father's handwriting was cramped, almost angry.

*March 12. Élise has gone. She left a note explaining nothing—only that I must not look for her, that the boy will be safe, that the vineyard will survive. I have sold the smaller parcels to meet the debt. The Ségur claim remains. François has found documents suggesting the original annex was redrawn. He believes the far plot was never properly conveyed. If this is true, we own it—or rather, whoever holds the paper owns it. Élise knew. She spoke of a company. I did not listen.*

Camille flipped forward. The entries continued sporadically over the following years, each one circling the same obsession: the far plot, the Ségur claim, a company named Maison Mère. Then, in 1991:

*The deed exists. Élise filed it under the name Gironde Holdings. I have located the registration number but not the physical document. François believes it is held in a safe deposit box in Libourne, under the name of her barrister, a man named Arnaud Delmas. I have written to him. He has not responded.*

"Delmas," Camille said aloud. The name sparked nothing, but she filed it away. "Libourne. That's where the text came from."

"The café," Jean-Marc said. "Café Ségur. The person who texted you wanted to meet in Libourne."

Camille stared at the ledger. A pattern emerged with sudden, unavoidable clarity: her mother's friend had texted her; her mother had filed a deed under a shell company; her mother's barrister apparently still held the document in a Libourne bank. The connection was too neat to be coincidence.

She checked her phone. No new messages since the original summons. She typed a reply.

*I'm ready to meet. Name the time.*

She sent it before she could second-guess herself.

"We need to go to Libourne," she said. "Today. Before Bernard's lawyers build their case. If Delmas holds the deed, we can have it in hand within hours."

Jean-Marc glanced at the window. Rain had begun to fall, streaking the glass. "The storm will slow the drive. And Bernard may have already filed. We don't know what he'll do if he sees you in town."

"Then we don't let him see me." Camille tucked the ledger under her arm. "I'll go alone. I need you to stay here and watch the cellar. The wine is entering its second week. If the temperature drops, protect it."

Jean-Marc looked as though he wanted to argue, but something in her expression stopped him. He nodded.

Camille was halfway to the door when her phone buzzed. She glanced down, expecting the reply to her message. Instead, an unknown number sent a single line:

*Bernard knows about Delmas. He has a man in Libourne already. Meet me at the Café Ségur tonight at nine. Come alone. I'll bring something you need more than the deed.*

Camille stood very still. The rain drummed against the roof. Behind her, Jean-Marc asked quietly, "Who is it?"

She didn't answer. The message had no signature, no name. But the sender knew she'd been searching for the deed. Knew she'd just asked for a meeting. Knew Bernard was already moving.

Lucas was in Paris. Bernard was in Bordeaux. Whoever this was, they knew everything.

Camille turned back to Jean-Marc. "If I don't return by midnight," she said, "call Lucas. Tell him to come home and finish what I started."

She walked out into the rain without waiting for his reply, her phone clutched in her hand as the unknown number glowed up at her, an invitation and a threat in equal measure.