The October air at Crownhaven smells like salt and smoke. I take deep lungfuls as we stride across the grass toward the sandy ring in the distance. We used to use it for jumping our ponies, and now it’s stacked with fifty barrels, all ready to hold gallons of whiskey.
Katie is next to me, wearing a wool coat I brought her from my closet. It swallows her small frame. She looks excited, even in the chill air. Her steps are light and fast, and she keeps getting ahead of us, then waiting for me to catch up. I’m carrying the picnic basket we’re meant to share.
Aiden’s and Emory’s hands are clasped as they have a conversation of whispered words and small smiles. My chest pinches as I watch him help her over a downed tree from last week’s storm. They leave in three days for their big trip.
Whit and Sienna are engaged in a hot debate about which one of them got the bigger hamper this year. Sienna is already fishing cheese out of hers and demanding that Whit go halfsies on whatever he has.
Katie gives me a quietly amused look. “Like children,” she whispers.
“I heard that,” Whit shouts.
“Eight-year-olds, at least,” I toss back.
“Is this our year to learn, old man?” Sienna asks.
Aiden chuckles from beside me. “You can be the one to teach them. This is a duty I’m looking forward to handing over.”
“Mr. CEO,” Katie teases, smiling at me. It’s been nearly four months since we announced it and I’m still getting used to the title.
I sigh, but pride fills my chest. “The Old Kingdom barrels have been charred personally at Crownhaven since 1919, when we made the first vintage.”
“Traitors,” Emory mutters, but there’s no heat to it. She’s proudly wearing the t-shirt I made her last year for her first bonfire night, and while our families might have split in a feud that would span a hundred years, she and Aiden are well on the way to mending it. The t-shirt saysBurning Bridges Since 1919and she laughed when I gave it to her, just like she is now.
“Quiet in the peanut gallery.” I clear my throat. “This year, we’re on a mission to recreate history. We’ll be barrel aging our second batch of the new Old Kingdom in the barrels we char tonight. And we’ll be charring a few test barrels for the new twelve-year version.”
Katie is looking up at me with fascination as I talk, and the rightness of her being here hits me in the heart. I nearly stumble, but her hand slips into mine, and she squeezes.
“The twelve-year is meant to be accessible, but it’s also not going to sacrifice on quality. We need to test char lengths for it. Which means each of you will be helping me take notes on what we’ve done.” I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice.Thisis what I love. Figuring things out. Making things better.
“Don’t you have two species of oak on the property?” Katie asks.
“Very good.” I can’t keep the pride out of my voice, and I squeeze her hand in return. She cares. She really fucking cares. More than my younger siblings, maybe. She’s interested in the weird things I like, and I’m not sure if it’s because I like them, or because she likes them too. Every hobby I have, she wants to try, and every time I learn something new, she wants to know about it. I’ve been teaching her to make whiskey these past months and she takes it just as seriously as she takes writing her college essays.
Affection for her constricts my throat.
Whit and Sienna groan, and something small and hard hits me in the back. “Professor Tristan,” Whit taunts.
“I want to hear about it,” Katie says staunchly. “And I want to char a barrel.”
“Everyone will,” I reassure her. “And we do have two species on the property. We use the American white oak because the trunks are straighter. It’s much easier to shape the barrels. The char lengths vary by what we need to get out of the wood. Too long of a char, and the whiskey will end up smoky and spicy. Good for some, sure. But Old Kingdom is supposed to taste like cream soda and graham crackers.”
She gives me a wide-eyed look. “And how do you achieve that?”
“We toast them until they catch fire, then we char them for thirty-seven seconds per barrel,” I say proudly. “Give or take.”
Katie’s brows go up. “Give or take?”
“We go by smell. Or at least I do. It’s easier.”
“More of an art and less of a science,” Aiden adds. “Tristan is underselling himself. He has an uncanny ability to douse the fire at the exact right moment.”
Warmth spreads over my chest. “It’s not an easy process,” I warn.
“Takes a lot of upper body strength to hold the sprayer,” Aiden adds.
Katie’s eyes light at that. “Sounds fun.”
“Which is why Whit and Sienna can both opt out,” my brother says. “They need their limbs for more important things.”
