EPILOGUE
NEXT WITCH UP
Valentina Torres had not slept well in twenty-three years.
This was not a complaint. This was simply a fact, like the weather or the harvest schedule or the absolute necessity of color-coded spreadsheets.
Sleep was for people who didn't have a vineyard to run, twin sons to raise, and a reputation as the most terrifyingly competent woman in Northern Virginia wine country to maintain.
She was fifty-two years old. She'd been widowed at twenty-nine, pregnant with twins, with nothing but a small vineyard her husband's family had dismissed as "that hobby property" and a stubbornness that bordered on pathological.
Twenty-three years later, Torres Vineyard was one of the most respected small wineries in the region, her sons were grown and moderately functional adults, and Valentina had exactly zero patience for anything that deviated from her carefully constructed plans.
Which was why the man currently standing in her tasting room—three days early, without notice, holding a thermos of what appeared to be his own wine—was testing every limit of her self-control.
"Your contract states arrival on the fifteenth," she said, clipboard in hand because she always had a clipboard in hand. "Today is the twelfth."
The man smiled. It was an infuriating smile—the kind that suggested he found her irritation charming rather than warranted.
"Does it?" He had an Irish accent. Of course he had an Irish accent. "Time is a fluid concept, Ms. Torres."
"Time is not fluid. Time is organized into hours, days, and contractual obligations." She consulted her clipboard, though she'd already memorized every detail. "Ronan Burke. Vintner consultant. Recommended by three colleagues whose judgment I'm now seriously questioning."
"Ah, you've done your research."
"I always do my research."
"Then you know I'm very good at what I do."
"I know you have a reputation for being unconventional."
"Is that what they're calling it now?" His smile widened. At his feet, a large dog of indeterminate breed thumped its tail against the hardwood floor. "This is Fitzgerald. He's part of the package."
Valentina looked at the dog. The dog looked at Valentina. It had the soulful eyes of a creature who had seen too much and judged accordingly.
"Dogs are not permitted in the tasting room."
"Fitzgerald isn't a dog. He's an associate."
"He has four legs and fur."
"Many of my best associates have four legs and fur." Ronan Burke set down his thermos on her immaculately polished bar. Without a coaster. "I'd like to see the vineyard now, if you don't mind."
"I do mind. You're three days early. The guest cottage hasn't been prepared. The—"
"The vines don't care about guest cottages, Ms. Torres." He was already moving toward the door, the dog padding alongside him. "They care about soil and sun and the hands that tend them. I'd like to introduce myself."
"Introduce yourself. To the vines."
"They're more perceptive than most people give them credit for."
Valentina counted to five in her head. Then ten. Then decided that counting was pointless and followed him outside, because letting a strange Irishman wander her vineyard unsupervised was absolutely not happening.
The October sun was warm on her face as they walked between the rows of vines. Harvest was mostly complete—they'd finished the last of the Pinot Noir two weeks ago—but the vines themselves were still lush, leaves just beginning to turn gold at the edges.
Ronan Burke walked slowly, deliberately, pausing every few feet to touch a leaf or examine a tendril. Fitzgerald trotted ahead, nose to the ground, following some invisible trail only he could perceive.
"You've been here a long time," Ronan said. Not a question.
"Twenty-three years."
"No. I mean the land. Your family."
"My husband's family owned this property for three generations before I took it over."
"Ah." He crouched down, pressing his palm flat against the soil between the vines. "But you're the one who woke it up."
"I don't know what that means."
"Don't you?" He looked up at her, and for a moment his expression was entirely serious. "This land has been sleeping for a very long time, Ms. Torres. And something—or someone—has been stirring it awake."
"That's very poetic. I prefer data."
"Data." He stood, brushing dirt from his knees. "I'll show you data. But first, I need to find something."
He was walking again, deeper into the vineyard, toward the oldest section—the original plantings from her husband's grandfather. Fitzgerald trotted ahead, nose to the ground, following some invisible trail.
"Find what?" Valentina demanded, following despite herself. "What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Burke?"
He didn't answer.
Fitzgerald started howling.
The sound cut through the afternoon quiet like a knife—a long, mournful note that seemed to resonate in Valentina's chest. The dog had stopped at the end of a row, nose pointed at the ground, whole body quivering.
"What is wrong with your dog?"
"He's found something." Ronan was already moving toward Fitzgerald, his casual demeanor suddenly gone. "Something old."
"There's nothing old here. This section was replanted in 1987—"
"Not the vines." He knelt beside the dog, pressing his hand to the earth. "Underneath. Something's been buried here for a very long time. And it wants to come up."
"That's ridiculous. Nothing 'wants' to—"
The ground shifted.
Not dramatically—not an earthquake or a sinkhole or anything that would make sense. Just a subtle movement, like the earth was breathing. And then, slowly, impossibly, something began to push its way up through the soil.
Valentina watched, frozen, as Fitzgerald dug frantically, sending dirt flying. As Ronan reached into the shallow hole and pulled out—
A bottle.
Old. Covered in earth. And glowing.
Actually glowing—a soft amber light pulsing from within the dark glass, like a heartbeat.
"What the hell is that?"
"That, Ms. Torres, is why I'm here." Ronan held the bottle up to the light, examining it with an expression of profound satisfaction. "I've been looking for this for a very long time."
Valentina's mind—her practical, spreadsheet-loving, bullshit-detecting mind—caught up with his words.
"Wait." Her voice went flat. Dangerous. "You've been looking for this. This specific thing. In MY vineyard."
"I have."
"Which means you didn't come here to consult on my irrigation problems."
"I did not."
"You used my colleagues' recommendations to get access to my property so you could dig up—" she gestured at the glowing bottle, "—whatever the hell that is."
"That's a fair assessment, yes."
Valentina had built her entire life on control. On seeing problems before they became problems. On never, ever being caught off guard.
She had been played. By an Irishman with a scruffy dog and an infuriating smile.
"Get off my land."
"Ms. Torres—"
"Now."
"I understand you're angry—"
"Angry doesn't begin to cover it. You lied to get onto my property. You wasted my time with this ridiculous 'consulting' charade. And now you're holding something that came out of MY ground, which means it belongs to ME, and I want you gone."
She held out her hand for the bottle.
Ronan didn't move. His expression had shifted—less charming now, more serious.
"I can't give this to you."
"It's not yours to keep."
"It's not yours to have. Not yet." He held the bottle carefully, protectively. "This is old magic, Ms. Torres. Very old, very powerful, and very much tied to this land. Which means it's tied to whoever owns this land. Which means—"
"Don't."
"—it's tied to you."
"I said DON'T." Valentina's voice cracked through the vineyard like a whip.
"I don't believe in magic. I don't believe in glowing bottles or dogs that howl at dirt or whatever nonsense you're selling.
I believe in soil composition and weather patterns and harvest yields. I believe in things I can measure."
"Then measure this." Ronan's voice was quiet.
"Your yields have increased thirty percent in five years.
Your wines win awards they shouldn't win.
Your employees whisper about vines that move when you're angry.
" He stepped closer. "And you wake up at 3 AM with your hands tingling and the taste of something electric on your tongue. "
Valentina went very still.
She hadn't told anyone about that. Not her sons. Not Diane, her most trusted employee. Not anyone.
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what happens when a gift that's been dormant for generations finally decides to wake up.
" He looked at her with something that might have been compassion.
"I'm sorry I deceived you. I truly am. But I couldn't exactly call and say 'Hello, I believe there's a two-hundred-year-old magical artifact buried in your vineyard and also you might be a witch. ' You would have hung up."
"I would have had you committed."
"That too." He almost smiled. "But now you've seen it. The bottle. The glow. The way the ground opened up to give it to you." He held it out—not handing it over, but showing her. "This isn't mine to keep. But it's also not safe for you to have. Not until you understand what you are."
"And what am I?"
"That's a long story. Best told over dinner."
Valentina stared at him. At the bottle. At her vineyard, where the vines were—now that she was looking—definitely leaning toward her like flowers toward the sun.
"I don't have dinner with liars."
"Fair enough. Breakfast, then?"
"Get. Off. My. Land."
"I'll leave the bottle with you." He set it carefully on the ground between them.
"It won't let anyone else take it now—it's chosen you.
But Ms. Torres?" He met her eyes, and there was no charm in his expression now.
Only warning. "Don't open it. Not until we've talked.
What's inside has been waiting two hundred years. It can wait another day."
He walked away, Fitzgerald at his heels.
Valentina stood in her vineyard, staring at the glowing bottle at her feet, and wondered how exactly she had lost control of her entire life.
Later that night, Diane's phone buzzed with a text from Cassie:
Apparently the vines have been MOVING. Luna says something's waking up over there. I think we have another one.
Diane looked at Marcus, who was reading beside her on the couch, completely unaware that their peaceful evening was about to be interrupted by magical chaos. Again.
She thought about Valentina—brilliant, terrifying, control-obsessed Valentina—and tried to imagine her dealing with a magical awakening.
It was going to be a disaster.
It was going to be spectacular.
She texted back: I'll bring wine.
Some things never changed.