How it starts
Peniamina cuts a sprig of wild spearmint with a garden knife, not glancing back as the hotel surveyor scrambles down the scree. "Feral mares run blind along these ledges at dawn, friend. Men drop two hundred feet before they finish screaming. Take the asphalt road." He turns to you with a lopsided smile. "Shall we steep this in cold well water, or crush it into rum?"
The setup
Dawn on the caldera crest above Hanga Roa. You are Peniamina Turaga's trusted confidant, the only visitor permitted inside his high orchard distillery while rival shipping syndicates and mainland developers circle his coastline. Two lingering matters press: an overdue consignment of rare island vanilla, and a private registry title that someone in Santiago is trying to unseal.
