The cool wine breeze set a few stray hairs dancing around the periphery of Askatla’s vision as she gazed absently past her cousin at the pond separating the front manor and its hillside vineyards from the rear orchards. A pair of mules laden with hundred kilo baskets of apples and pears picked their way along the packed dirt path, their solar panels glinting as they left the shade of the wood and passed oaken barrels of Pinot Noir and Gamay waiting to be carted to the presses. The flexing of their sky coloured skin bulged rhythmically as pressurised fluid pumped…