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He moved immediately to examine the mirrors more closely, assessing their age and construction. “These are not modern silvered glass,” he announced after a moment. “The reflective quality suggests polished metal, possibly bronze or silver amalgam. Renaissance techniques, certainly.”

“And the organ,” Nicholas added, approaching the magnificent instrument with careful steps that accommodated his injured leg. “The craftsmanship is exquisite. This represents months, perhaps years of skilled work. Though I confess I am curious why anyone would go to such elaborate lengths to hide a musical instrument. Was Matteo di Bianchi perhaps lacking an ear for music and wished to spare his neighbors?”

Lorenzo, however, had grown strangely quiet. The viscountess watched him with an expression of increasing concern as he walked slowly about the chamber, inspecting the mirrors and examining every surface. His initial excitement gave way to disappointment.

“Signor di Bianchi?” Lady Trenwith ventured after several minutes of silence. “What do you think of your ancestor’s creation?”

He paused in his circuit of the chamber, his shoulders gradually slumping as the reality of what he was seeing settled upon him. When he finally turned to face them, his expression was morose.

“Please, enough of all this formal talk. My friends call me Lorenzo.”

“Is it not beautiful, Lorenzo?” the lady prompted, gesturing toward the infinite reflections and the masterful acoustics of the space.

Lorenzo shrugged, the gesture encompassing a lifetime of deflated dreams. “It is pretty and frivolous. Where is his mastery? His Sistine Chapel? His ode to the gods? Not a single brushstroke of his genius.”

The words were stark, bereft, creating an uncomfortable silence. Angelo felt his heart sink as he absorbed Lorenzo’s disappointment. His friend had expected paintings, frescoes, artistic masterpieces that would establish his ancestor’s reputation for posterity. Instead, they had uncovered an elaborate architectural puzzle, beautiful in its own right but devoid of the visual art that Lorenzo sought as an art historian and the descendant of a man he had long believed to be an unacknowledged Grand Master.

Angelo clears his throat diplomatically, attempting to console his friend. “Perhaps there are other chambers, other discoveries yet to be made. This could merely be the beginning.”

“Yes,” Nicholas Scott added. “The complexity of this room suggests there might be additional layers to uncover. Perhaps the next chamber will contain nothing but elaborate coat hooks, and we can marvel at Matteo’s genius for domestic organization.”

But Lorenzo was already shaking his head, his disillusionment too profound for such easy consolation or Nicholas’s attempt at levity. The chamber, magnificent though it was, reflected back only Lorenzo’s disappointment. Fortunately, there might be more to be discovered.

Angelo moved away from the group, needing a moment to process his own reaction to the chamber. He positioned himself before one of the mirrors that reflected the one on the opposite wall, creating the impression of infinite mirrors stretching into impossible distance.

And infinite Angelos.

He stared at the repeating images of himself, each one growing smaller and more distant until they vanished into a point of darkness at the center. It was dizzying, disorienting, and absolutely extraordinary. One of the most exquisite things he had ever experienced. A marvel worthy of Florence itself. But, of course, because it was engineered by a Florentine.

The mirrors showed him as he was. Travel-worn, his hair disheveled from the wind, his cravat hopelessly rumpled. But they also showed him as he might be, each reflection a possibility, a path not taken. It felt profound in a way he could not articulate.

He was so absorbed in his contemplation that he almost missed it.

A whisper of movement in his peripheral vision. A flicker of something pale in the darkness beyond the lamplight.

Angelo turned his head sharply, staring into the shadows at the edge of the chamber. Nothing. Just stone and darkness and the eternal whisper of wind through hidden vents.

But he could have sworn …

The sensation of being watched prickled across his skin like static electricity before a storm. He scanned the walls, noting again the iron grates set into the stonework at irregular intervals even in this hidden room. Ventilation, certainly. But also potential viewpoints for someone who knew the hall’s secrets.

“Angelo?” Lady Trenwith’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Are you well?”

He turned back to the group, forcing a smile. “Sì, forgive me. I was just … the mirrors are extraordinary. They make one contemplate infinito … infinity.”

But even as he spoke, he could not shake the feeling. Someone had been watching them. Someone was still watching.

The thought should have been unsettling. Instead, Angelo felt a surge of curiosity, one that had nothing to do with Matteo di Bianchi’s architectural genius and everything to do with the current mysteries still hidden in Grimsfell Hall’s ancient bones.

* * *

Isolde had heard the carriage wheels on the drive long before they reached the forecourt. She had been in her workroom, a small chamber tucked into the oldest part of the hall, accessible only through the network of passages that threaded through the walls like veins through flesh. There, she blended scented oils, the sort she sometimes sent to the village women who found comfort in their use. She wondered if any of them ever thought to question where Mrs. Roskelly obtained such valuable ingredients to gift them, or if they knew she was up here at the great house.

It was tedious work, requiring constant stirring to achieve the right consistency, but Isolde found comfort in the routine. Her hands knew what to do, leaving her mind free to wander through memories and half-formed dreams that never quite solidified into anything she could name.

The sound of arrival snapped her to attention with the force of physical touch.

More guests.