Some of its vines were planted in the 1880s, old American ghosts still bearing fruit. It is dark and spicy with a lingering finish, fit for a novel crowded with the restless dead.
Pale, waxy and almost spectral, with a quiet honeyed warmth underneath. It reads like the novel's moonlit cemetery: cool on the surface, full of feeling.
One night in a Georgetown graveyard in 1862, a grieving president and a crowd of chattering ghosts who won't admit they're dead. Absurd and devastating in equal measure, it is a chorus about letting go.
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