Chapter One: Tamika's Winery

"Where are the sweet wines?"

"Back shelf, all the way to the left."

"And the dry ones?"

"Back shelf, on the right."

"What about the red specialties?"

Ismene blew a stray strand of hair from her face and continued turning the crank on the grape crusher. "Every shelf is labeled, Nigidius."

"Ah—right. Of course. Sorry, Miss Fiore. I'm still trying to learn the ropes around here."

When that same piece of hair dangled in her face again, she stopped her work and tucked it into her kerchief. "It's alright, Nigidius. It's only your first week here." She leaned back to offer the older man a smile, but jumped and cringed when she heard a thud and wine bottles clink together. "Is everything—"

"Yes, yes!" Nigidius said. She heard him chuckle and add, "Just a clumsy moment, is all, Miss Fiore." He carried a crate of wine back to his workbench across from Ismene's. "Now just to put the proper labels on them."

"If you need help," Bernadette Peneles said from beside Ismene, "just ask. We're more than happy to." Her fingers plucked grapes from their stems and fed them into the crusher as Ismene operated the lever.

Nigidius chuckled again and set to work. "Oh, old Nigidius may need some help time and again, but this former beggar has a mind to please Miss Tamika with his work." Bernadette and Ismene shared a smile and rolled their eyes as he continued, "Mmhm. You ladies work so hard to deliver wine to all of Cyrodiil. I feel honored to be part of the workforce, now."

"Well, it might not be a workforce for long, Nigidius," Bernadette said.

The old man raised a white brow at this and held his paintbrush away from the wine bottles. "What do you mean?"

"Davide Surilie's been whispering sweet nothings to Tamika again," Ismene said.

"He's quite the charmer," Bernadette said with a small smile. "But he's a threat to the business. Imagine! What if Tamika decides to merge with him?" Nigidius hid a smirk in his shoulder, but his quaking shoulders gave him away. Bernadette clicked her tongue and threw a rag at him. "Oh, you potty-brained old coot! You know what I meant!" A blush graced her sun-reddened cheeks.

"At least it's not Gaston wooing her," Ismene said. "Hooded men make me uneasy. There must be a reason he wears it."

"They're nice people," Bernadette said with a bob of her head, "but business is business. I can't think of not working at a winery—especially a winery that isn't Tamika's." She crushed a grape in her hand and frowned. "Those cursed brothers and their sweet, froo-froo Breton wine."

"Aren't you a Breton?"

"I am, Nigidius, but I have taste."

Ismene lifted her head toward the ceiling when she heard the sound of rushed footsteps above her. Beyond the dimmed sounds of the patrons upstairs, she heard the unmistakable voice of Tamika's accountant. "Take your frustrations out on the grape crusher, Bernie." The woman needed no more of an invitation before she turned the lever with enough vigor for an army. "I believe that's Timothée with the report."

The trapdoor fell open just as the last syllable left her mouth, and Timothée, a young lad with a knack for numbers barely old enough to be considered a man, clambered down the wooden stairs waving a rolled up piece of parchment in his hand. "It's in, it's in!"

Bernadette and Nigidius motioned the boy to continue while Ismene held his shoulders to keep him from bouncing up and down and crashing into something. "Well? What are the results? Did we beat them?"

Timothée took in a deep breath and unraveled the parchment. "According to my calculations—and they are never wrong—Tamika's West Weald Wine sold 433 bottles in Morning Star, 279 in Sun's Dawn, 237 in First Seed, 383 in Rain's Hand, 203 in Second Seed, 954 in Midyear—a record, might I add, but that's no surprise given all of the holidays—484 in Sun's Height, and approximately 400 in Last Seed. Since the month has just ended, I'll need about another week to calculate the precise number we sold.

"This tallies up to 3,373 bottles sold in eight out of the twelve months. Out of these bottles, eighty-three percent of them were dry, red wines. From what I heard, Surilie only sold 2,995 bottles, and of those, seventy-four percent were their sweet white wines. Ladies and gentleman, we have sold approximately twelve percent more bottles than Surilie!"

Bernadette's mouth hung open, and she blinked at the news. "But we've never gone higher than eight percent!"

Timothée's lips turned up in a wide grin, and he squirmed out of Ismene's grasp. "Exactly! I think opening up the restaurant upstairs put us ahead of Surilie. No doubt they'll try to copy us, now."

Bernadette balled her hands into fists and started cranking the lever again. "Copy us, will they? Ho ho, not on my watch. Not while I'm crushing the grapes."

"Tamika will have some wine brought down for you when your shifts are over," Timothée said. Nigidius hummed and licked his lips while Ismene widened her eyes. "But you still have work to do, which reminds me. Ismene," he said, turning his attention to her, "customers are pouring in, what with the day being over for them. Fagus is having trouble keeping up with the orders. Could you help out?"

Ismene turned to look back at Bernadette, and when she saw no sign of her friend relinquishing the crusher, she nodded. "Of course."

"I don't think I'll ever be cut out for the evenings," Fagus said as Ismene handed him clay goblets. "Mornings are fine; hardly anyone shows up here! But once the sun starts to set... Divines, how do you do it?"

She smiled and ushered him off to a table with the goblets. "It'll grow on you." It was a quaint restaurant—quaint but tidy. After a hard day of labor, it was a lounge and meeting spot for Skingrad's workers. She returned smiles to familiar faces and frowned when she saw two of the Surilie brothers' workers huddled in a corner, tasting various bottles of wines. She snorted when they started fussing and arguing over the tastes. No doubt they were befuddled as to why Tamika's vintages had such a surplus in profits. She swept her gaze to the other side of the room.

Two gentlemen, one finely dressed while the other hid inside a cloak and hood, sat at a table away from the center of the restaurant. The table was angled just right so that whoever sat there could have a view of the entire room. Usually Tamika would sit there with Bernadette while pretending to take a break when they were really gauging their customers' reactions toward the wine.

One of the men raised his hand and signaled Ismene to their table. She glanced over at Fagus, who was busy serving two other tables, and then at Tamika, who stood behind the counter engaged in a lively conversation with several customers. They probably want to know what her 'secret recipe' is, Ismene thought with a wry smile. It's all in the grapes.

When she heard one of them clear their throats, she hurried over to their table and offered a smile to each of them. "Welcome to Tamika's Winery, the only place in all of Cyrodiil to serve Tamika's finest," she said. By the Nine, she wasn't sure how many times she had recited that phrase already since the restaurant opened. "Have you browsed our selections, good sirs?" She tried to peer beneath the hood one of the men wore, but he blocked her attempts by angling his face away from her.

The two men glanced at each other before one of them—the one not wearing a hood—leaned back in his seat and stared at the menu. "We have," he said, glancing at his companion again. The other man cleared his throat and looked away.

Ismene schooled herself to keep from sounding impolite. The last thing she wanted was to chase customers away into Surilie territory. She could feel the Surilie workers glaring daggers at her. "What wine would you like to purchase? May I suggest one of the dry wines? Customers are never disappointed by—"

"I find myself... indecisive this evening," the man said. He tapped a gloved finger against the menu and looked up at Ismene, offering her a smile that was both charming and dangerously disarming.

Her mouth twitched as she said, "Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

"Perhaps you can," he said, dropping his voice an octave. Her instincts were to take a step back and give him a glower that would have frozen Lake Rumare, and when he only seemed amused by her, she felt her hackles rise. "I'm looking for a specific sort of wine, one that is not found on every day shelves."

"Tamika's vintages are known for satisfying peculiar tastes, sir."

"Are they," he said, giving her another dangerous smile that showed no teeth. "Then tell me: what wine would you suggest I taste on a perfect, cloudless midnight, cold as winter ice and shrouded in shadow?" His companion chuckled quietly, and Ismene narrowed her eyes at the two men, not impressed in the least. The satisfied look the finely dressed Imperial gave her only made her blood boil more.

Ismene paused for a moment before uttering a strained laugh. "Perfect, cloudless midnight?" She looked over her shoulder to Tamika, hoping to catch the woman's eye, but she would have no such luck. She turned back to the two customers and did her best to grin.

"Perhaps such a request is beyond your comprehension."

She adopted an expression fit for a gambler, feeling her patience wearing thin. "O-of course. Just a moment." She stalked back into the basement where Bernadette was still crushing grapes with the ferocity of a minotaur. Ismene slammed the trapdoor shut, making Nigidius leap out of his seat.

"Is it that bad?" the former beggar asked.

Ismene snorted and threw her hands in the air. "Bernie, answer this for me: what wine do you drink on a perfect, cloudless... oh, whatever that tyrant upstairs said."

"Someone giving you a hard time? It isn't that lizard again, is it?" Bernadette asked.

"Lazare hasn't made an appearance yet, but I'm sure he will. It's only a matter of time."

"Give them this," Nigidius said with a cackle that reeked of conspiracy. He handed a bottle to Ismene. "If they want to mouth off to you, this will give them a reason to pucker."

"If only there was poison laced in the recipe," Ismene muttered to herself as she climbed back up the trapdoor. She felt her frustration reach its peak when the two rude customers were nowhere in sight. She blew out of her mouth and had half a mind to rip out what was left of her short hair when that same piece fell on her brow.

To add to Ismene's merry night, Lazare Milvan chose that moment to step into the restaurant. He turned his nose up at the customers, giving them disgusted and disapproving sneers. As usual, his hair was combed and greased back so that not a strand was out of place, and his clothes were freshly pressed and without a single crease.

Ismene bit her lip to keep from gagging at the way he held his hand to his chest in apparent utter revulsion of the tables. He approached the table that the two tyrannical patrons had occupied and gave it a long, reprimanding grimace. He made a hmph from the back of his throat. Turning his head, he wore the most victorious, toothy grin she'd ever seen once he spotted her.

"Well, if it isn't the lowly-birthed Miss Ismene Fiore," he drawled, eyeing her up and down. She crossed her arms and blinked at him. "Do be a dear and clean this table up. I fear it is not fit for Sir Lazare Milvan. I am nobility after all, you know."

She met Tamika's eye, and the Redguard woman pointedly looked between her and Lazare. Flaring her nostrils, Ismene set Nigidius's wine down and swiped a rag from the counter. When he still wasn't satisfied with her cleaning the table, she cleaned one of the chairs for him.

"Much better," he said. He glanced at the chair, and praying to the gods for patience, Ismene pulled out the chair for him. He slid into it and gave the menu a brief look-over. "I trust you remember my usual, no?"

"We sold out an hour ago," she bit out.

"Oh?" He furrowed his brow, but his expression smoothed over into an arrogant one. "My, my, Ismene dear. You seem quite rattled today. What could a peasant like you be concerned with?" He sniffed and raised his chin in the air. "You lower class filth wouldn't know the meanings of 'concern' or 'worry.' Why, it's such trivial hassles for astounding individuals, such as myself, to fret day and night over the welfare of the province."

"May I bring you something else?"

"You peasants have little to no need in the provinces! But of course," he said in a quieter voice, leaning toward Ismene and running his knuckles down her arm, "there is always some use a peasant wench has, is there not, my little flower?"

"I am not your 'little flower.'" Ismene raised her hand to smack his manicured one off of her person, but a stern glare from Tamika changed her course of action into simply plucking his hand away. She made sure to pinch his skin tight enough to leave a mark.

"Pardon me," Nigidius said as he joined them. He put a glass down on the table and carefully poured Lazare wine. The peacock was too busy making sure Nigidius didn't spill a single drop of wine to see the wink he shot Ismene. "Please enjoy your tasting, sir," Nigidius murmured before hurrying away.

"Oh, indeed I will," Lazare said, keeping his eyes on Ismene. He made a show of licking his lips before taking a generous gulp from the wine. Ismene covered her mouth with her hand when Lazare's face blanched and nearly turned blue. But like the proper gentleman he was, he repressed the urge to spit the wine out. But also like the spoiled noble blood he inherited, he stood from the table in a huff and glared murder at Ismene, for how could anyone think to offer an astounded individual, such as himself, such putrid, disgusting wine!

"Was it not to your liking, Sir Lazare?"

"Not to my—! I'm willing to bet every septim I have to my name that horse piss tastes better than that!"

"Oh dear, it must not have finished fermenting yet," Ismene said with mock surprise. "Oh, gods above! Strike me—" She gasped as Lazare curled his fingers against her wrist in a grip that threatened to break bone. He pulled her toward himself and only tightened his grasp.

"You are talking," he whispered so only she would hear. "You will stop."

"And you will stop before I decide to never allow you to eat one of my sweetrolls again!" Skingrad's resident baker, Salmo, said from his table. "Or, maybe I will let you eat my delicious treats. But I promise you, you will find a nasty surprise in them if you do not unhand her this instant!"

Sir Lazare uncurled his fingers from Ismene's wrist, and with a quick sweep of his hand over his styled hair—for he would be damned if a single piece had fallen out of place—he took his leave of Tamika's winery. Ismene sighed once he left and sank into the chair. When she realized that Sir Lazare Milvan's bottom had recently inhabited it, she hurried over to the other chair at the table. Salmo joined her, and she offered the Altmer a smile. "Not only are you a baker, Salmo, but you are also a hero."

He chuckled, "It is my pleasure to help a friend in need. I daresay all of Skingrad has grown tired of Lazare's arrogant demeanor. Someone should bring the matter to the Count."

"If only the Count would see his people," Ismene sighed. "But thank you, Salmo. I don't think I could have gone another moment longer without striking him. Divines, it would have been terrible for business."

"I am still young for an Altmer, but patience takes years to fully master, my dear. But pah, I did not come here to lecture or dampen your spirits. Here." He produced a wrapped bundle and slid it toward her. "They came out of the oven just before I arrived," he said. "I know you like the ones with icing."

Ismene's eyebrows rose, and she accepted the package. "You never forget an order, do you, Salmo?"

"I never forget what friends prefer," he corrected with a smile. "Besides, I only find it fitting since I receive free wine in return." He picked up Lazare's discarded goblet and gave it a sniff. His nose turned up, and he added, "As long as it isn't this wine. Oh, what am I saying? It can't be that bad." He took a sip from the goblet, and Ismene wasn't sure how many shades whiter he turned. He smacked his lips together and placed the goblet back on the table, making sure it was out of his reach.

"That bad?" she asked.

"Incredibly terrible," he said with a scowl. "Just awful."

A/N:

I'm aware that Oblivion fanfics are beyond their prime, but this idea has been in my head for a while now, and I can't help it. That, and I love Lucien Lachance and the Dark Brotherhood.