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And he had been right. These six years since his death had proven it. She had learned to find contentment in her isolation. To take pleasure in small things. Her music, her gardens, the rhythms of the seasons as they turned over the cliffs.

She did not need more than that.

She did not need the warmth of human connection, the validation of being seen and accepted.

She certainly did not need Angelo Scott with his kind eyes and gentle hands and that laugh that seemed to chase shadows from the darkest corners.

Fanciful woolgathering, she scolded herself firmly. Dangerous nonsense.

She was the guardian of Grimsfell Hall. The keeper of secrets that stretched back three centuries and the mysteries embedded in these ancient stones. Her duty was to protect those secrets, not moon over handsome strangers who could never, would never, see her as anything but a monster. And when she was finally turned to dust, leaving this world as alone as she had lived, the hall would fall into ruin, with no guardians remaining to protect its secrets.

Even if Angelo were somehow different. Even if he possessed the kind of compassion that could look past her marked face without flinching. Even if, and this was the most dangerous thought of all, he might find something worth cherishing beneath the disfigurement.

It was impossible. Love was not possible. Not for her. Not for someone marked by the devil, cursed to a life of isolation.

Better to remain in the passages, observing from safety. Better to content herself with glimpses of a life she could never have. Better to accept her fate and stop torturing herself with dreams that could only lead to heartbreak.

Isolde pushed herself away from the wall, preparing to retreat deeper into the passages. Back to her tower chamber, to her solitude, to the safety of shadows where her appearance did not matter because no one could see her.

But even as she moved through the familiar darkness, navigating by touch and memory, she could not banish the image of Angelo’s face as he had stared at the grate. The focused intensity in those bright brown eyes. The way his brow had furrowed slightly, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle that existed just beyond his comprehension.

He had sensed her again, as if he were attuned to her presence.

And against every ounce of common sense she possessed, Isolde found herself wondering what it would be like if he could see her. Truly see her. Not just the birthmark that marred her face, but the person beneath it.

Stop, she commanded herself fiercely. Stop this foolishness at once.

She descended through the hidden passages, heading toward the kitchen. Mrs. Roskelly would be preparing the evening meal, and Isolde could use the company of someone safe. Someone who had seen her face every day for twenty-five years and did not flinch.

The passages twisted and turned, following the irregular architecture of the hall. Isolde had mapped them all in childhood. Her father had encouraged her exploration, telling her that knowledge of these secrets was part of her sacred duty as a Fairfax.

For years she had wondered whether he had merely been giving her something to occupy herself, all while keeping her hidden from the world beyond the hall. That doubt ended when Lord and Lady Trenwith borrowed the keys from her solicitor as prospective tenants and entered her home, proving there was some greater, unknown purpose at work.

She reached the concealed entrance near the pantry and paused, listening. Hearing no one, she pushed open the hidden door and stepped out into the narrow storage room lined with preserves and dried goods.

“Saints alive!” Mrs. Roskelly’s voice came from the doorway, and the housekeeper pressed a hand to her ample bosom. “Isolde Fairfax, ye will be the death of me, sneaking about like a spirit!”

“I apologize,” Isolde said, though they had enacted this scene countless times. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Mrs. Roskelly’s expression softened, as it always did. The housekeeper moved into the pantry, pulling Isolde into a brief, fierce embrace that smelled of flour and rosemary. “Come, my lamb. I’ve just put the kettle on. Ye look as though ye could use a hot cup of tea.”

They moved into the kitchen proper, where a coal fire burned cheerfully in the massive hearth, and the air was thick with the scents of baking bread and simmering stew. Isolde settled onto the bench near the fire while Mrs. Roskelly busied herself with the tea things. Cook winked at her in greeting.

“Ye’ve been in the passages,” the housekeeper observed, not quite making it a question. “Following our guests about?”

“I need to know what they are doing,” Isolde defended herself. “Lord and Lady Trenwith discovered the Hall of Reflections. Now they have brought three more treasure hunters. What if they uncover deeper secrets? What if they find⁠—”

“What if they find ye?” Mrs. Roskelly interrupted gently. “Would that truly be such a disaster?”

Isolde’s hand rose automatically to touch the right side of her face. “You know it would be.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” The housekeeper set a cup before Isolde with more force than strictly necessary. “What I know is that ye are a young woman of five-and-twenty, hiding in the walls of her own home, watching life pass her by rather than living it.”

“We have discussed this,” Isolde said quietly. “The world is not kind to those who are marked as I am.”

“Some parts of the world, aye. But not all of it.” Mrs. Roskelly settled onto the bench beside her, her weathered hands wrapping around her own teacup. “Yer father, bless his soul, he meant well. But keeping ye here, hidden away, letting ye believe ye had to spend yer whole life in shadows … I am not sure that was kindness, my lamb.”

Isolde stared into her tea, watching steam curl upward like spirits rising. “He was protecting me. You know what happened when I was a child. The vicar’s wife. The boy who laughed and pointed. Even well-meaning people cannot help but stare, cannot help but wonder what I did to deserve such a mark.”