Matilda held the glass tumbler up, admiring the way the firelight scored through its diamond facets. The wine glowed a brilliant jewel red as she swirled it gently. She adored the old world’s wine. Relaxing into the embrace of the old wooden rocking chair, her aged bones fit into the carved slats in comforting familiarity. It was like leaning into the arms of an old friend, or a lover. It was like home. She sipped at the wine and swirled it in her mouth, wincing faintly at the aftertaste. Aside from the unexpectedly sharp finish, she tasted black cherry and plum. Notes of cedar, wild fruit, and fresh herb hovered on her tongue, and as she closed her eyes, she remembered what it was like to travel across a world still innocent and carefree. What it had been like to link fingers with the man she’d loved while they mingled with others who enjoyed the fruits of the harvest as much as they had.
