Page 127 of The Dravenhearst Brides
Babette, standing tall and righteous, crossed her arms. “We have to do something about this.”
Margot rolled over and shivered, half awake and half asleep. The bedsprings whined. Her pillow smelled of Evangeline’s rosemary.
“Love is blind,” Eleanor whispered.
“Death is omniscient,” Babette finished.
43
December 1933
My hand shakes to even write. On this day, December 5th, 1933, it is over at long last. The nation has spoken—Prohibition has been repealed.
—Excerpt, Dravenhearst Distilling Inventory Log as maintained by Merrick Dravenhearst
Thedaysbecameroutine,tentative and new.
Margot went to the pasture in the mornings, where she stood and chatted with Ruth, watching Merrick and Julian ride. Ruth would speak of bloodlines and training but never ghosts. She didn’t have to. They both knew they lived amongst them. What more was there to say?
At midday, Margot went to the distillery to help Merrick work. Julian was there for much of that as well, a star pupil under Merrick’s tutelage. Some days they filled barrels, some days they made mash.
But most importantly, hour by hour, Merrick let her into his world.
“Ten percent of this product will be lost when we crack the barrel open to harvest in two years,” he told her, grunting as heand Julian lifted, pouring clear distillate into a barrel. White dog, it was called at this stage. He’d taught her that only two days before.
“Six percent is lost to the barrel itself.” Merrick ran a finger around the wooden rim. “I told you once, do you remember? It’s called the devil’s cut, the amount lost to absorption. It’s a necessary evil, the devil’s take. Gives the bourbon its color and flavor, pushing in and out of the porous wood. Loss makes it stronger.”
Yes,she remembered.Transformative loss. Strengthened by loss…
When she looked at Merrick, she saw it. Clear as day. How his losses had sharpened him, same as the bourbon in his barrels. Aged him smooth. He was richer for it.
“The remaining four percent,” he continued, “is lost to the air. Evaporation.”
“And what’s that called?” she asked, captivated.
He smiled. “The angel’s share. The part heaven itself can’t resist taking. What we lose never truly leaves us. Traces always linger—that’s why bourbon warehouses smell as good as they do. It’s in the air.”
She inhaled deeply, agreeing. The air in the rickhouses went down sweet, a reminder with every breath.
It’s his version of fresh baked cookies,she realized. Of coming home to bread warming in the oven. Most children loved their mother’s baking, grew up carrying those smells in their hearts.
This was Merrick’s home—the distillery, the rickhouses. The place that gave his life meaning, where he’d been both lost and found. No matter the personal cost, Margot wouldn’t take him away from it, would never make him choose.
Every day, she found a way to stay. And every night, after they crawled into bed, to his credit, he always asked.
“Margot, should we leave? Should we go to Louisville?”
Her answer was always the same. “No.”
As December unspooled under their feet and Prohibition was repealed nationwide, demand soared. Bourbon brands were being relaunched, but there was no triumphant return for Dravenhearst Distilling.
“There’s no stock left,” Merrick said, shaking his head. “I emptied all my barrels and pawned off my bottles to bootleggers. Demand is high, but we simply can’t meet it yet. Bourbon takes time. It needs the barrel.”
It was a very real danger, the threat of becoming obsolete. Run out of town by the big dogs who’d been sheltered by pharmaceutical licenses and never stopped producing.
Merrick was right. Bourbon needed the barrel, needed it for a minimum of two years. Margot could learn many things about the business, but she would never learn to turn ahead time.
“No,” a voice whispered, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Soft and tantalizingly smooth. “Not turn ahead, fledgling. Turnback.”
