Page 20

“Aye, I remember.” Mrs. Roskelly’s voice was sad. “I remember holding ye while ye wept. But I also remember thinking, even then, that hiding ye away would only make the mark loom larger in yer own mind. That if ye had been allowed to go out, to meet people, to let them see past the birthmark to the brilliant, beautiful girl beneath it …”

“They would still see the mark first,” Isolde finished. “They always will.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds being the crackle of the fire and the eternal whistle of wind through the grates.

“Ye’ve been watching the gentlemen,” Mrs. Roskelly said eventually, her tone carefully casual. “Formed any impressions?”

Isolde should have known the housekeeper would steer the conversation this way. “They are … searching for something. The Italian man, Lorenzo di Bianchi, he believes his ancestor created great works here. Art that was lost to history.”

“And the others?”

“Nicholas Scott seems bitter. In pain from some old injury that causes him to walk with a limp.” Isolde paused, then added despite herself, “His nephew Angelo is treating him. It seems he is a … a pharmacist. From Florence.”

“Is he?” Mrs. Roskelly’s eyes gleamed with interest. “And what is this Angelo like?”

Isolde felt heat rise in her cheeks and cursed her fair skin that showed every emotion. “He seems … kind. Patient with his uncle, even when Nicholas is difficult. He has knowledge of herbs and healing.” She stared into her tea, unwilling to meet Mrs. Roskelly’s knowing gaze. “He seems … gentle.”

“Does he now?” The housekeeper’s smile was soft. “Sounds like someone worth knowing.”

“It does not matter,” Isolde said quietly. “I am not going to present myself to the guests like some curiosity to be examined. I am the guardian of this hall. It is my duty to remain hidden, to protect the secrets⁠—”

“It is yer duty to live,” Mrs. Roskelly interrupted, her voice unusually fierce. “Yer father asked ye to guard Grimsfell’s mysteries, aye. But he never asked ye to sacrifice yer whole life for them. He never asked ye to become a ghost in yer own home. And what of the next generation?”

Isolde set down her teacup with shaking hands. “The Fairfax line will die with me. I know that. I have accepted it. But at least I can fulfill my duty while I live. At least I can protect what Papa trusted me to guard.”

“And when ye are old and alone, when these stones are all ye have left, will duty keep ye warm at night? Will the secrets whisper comfort when ye weep?”

The words hit hard. Somewhere in the future, Cook—Mrs. Rowe— and Mrs. Roskelly would be no more, and Isolde would be truly alone at Grimsfell. She rose from the bench, her throat tight. “I should return to my chambers. Thank you for the tea.”

“Miss Isolde⁠—”

But she was already moving toward the pantry, toward the concealed door that would return her to the safety of the passages. Away from Mrs. Roskelly’s probing questions and painful truths. Away from the terrifying idea that she might deserve more than the half-life she had carved out for herself.

She slipped through the hidden door and let it close behind her, sealing herself once more in the familiar darkness. The passages welcomed her like old friends, their stones cool and unchanging beneath her fingertips as she navigated back toward her tower.

It was better this way. Safer. She could watch the guests from the shadows, ensure they did not uncover the hidden truths of Grimsfell Hall, and when they eventually left, as all guests did, she would return to her solitude, undisturbed.

Angelo Scott would never know for sure that she existed.

It had to be that way.

She could not risk the alternative. Could not risk stepping into the light only to see that warmth in his brown eyes cool to pity or horror. Could not risk believing, even for a moment, that someone might look past the devil’s mark to see the woman beneath.

Better to hold on to her imagination of what they might become for each other than to experience the brutal reality of rejection.

Common sense, she told herself firmly as she climbed the narrow spiral stair toward her tower chamber. This is common sense, not cowardice.

But even as she repeated the words like a chant, Isolde could not forget the way Angelo had looked at the grate. The focused intensity in his eyes. The certainty that someone was there, even when his vision could not confirm it.

He had sensed her.

And against every instinct of self-preservation she possessed, some treacherous part of her heart whispered that being truly seen, even once, even if it led to pain, might be worth the risk.

She crushed that whisper ruthlessly and entered her tower chamber, where the wind sang over the cliffs and the ocean toiled endlessly, bearing witness to her isolation.

Alone.

Safe.