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Malcolm shook her hand.

“Welcome to Glenbrae. I’d apologize for Price, but we’ve all grown tired of apologizing for people leaving.”

“He gave me a warning.”

Malcolm looked at Fiona. “Did he tell her about the ghost?”

“He told me about footsteps, doors, and noises in the tunnel.”

“Then he showed rather admirable restraint.”

Olivia sipped her tea. It was strong, hot, and exactly what she needed after the long drive.

“How much of this do you two believe?”

The brother and sister looked at one another. Fiona answered first.

“I believe old buildings make noises.”

Malcolm nodded. “And old Highland villages make up stories.”

“And the tunnel?”

Malcolm’s expression changed slightly.

“The tunnel exists.”

Not prone to flights of fancy, Olivia took another fortifying sip and set down her mug. “Show me the whisky.”

Malcolm smiled for the first time.

“There’s hope for this one.”

Fiona looked heavenward. “She’s been here eight minutes.”

“And she’s already asking the important question.”

The production side of Glenbrae bore little resemblance to the polished pictures on its website.

They crossed a rain-slick yard into the mash house, where heat and the smell of wet grain met Olivia at the door. The equipment was modern, but Malcolm had rebuilt the process around every scrap of historical evidence they could find. She asked about water, barley, fermentation, the stills, and what had been changed because modern regulations or simple practicality left them no choice.

By the third question, Malcolm’s answers had become more detailed. By the fifth, Fiona had wandered away to take a phone call. Olivia smiled to herself. Men who actually knew what they were doing rarely seemed offended by questions.

At the washbacks, Malcolm admitted the original wood had inspired three arguments and one Christmas dinner nobody enjoyed. Olivia laughed, but by the time they reached the warehouse she understood the frustration beneath the joke. Glenbrae had tested every obvious variable they could name, then tested combinations of them, and still the old whisky remained just beyond reach.

Fiona met them in the tasting room where a long oak table occupied the center, with shelves of old bottles along one wall and photographs of Glenbrae through the decades along another.

The oldest images interested her the most. There were men in work clothes standing beside carts, women outside the buildings with baskets, casks stacked in mud, and a still house with smoke coming from the roof.

Fiona placed three covered glasses on the table.

“Before we bury you in paper, taste these.”

Olivia took a seat.

“This is the current reconstruction?”

“The best three we’ve come up with thus far.”