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Exactly as she was meant to be.

CHAPTER 4

“A superstitious dread stole over her; she stood listening, for some moments, in trembling expectation.”

Ann Radcliffe

* * *

Angelo left Nicholas to his grumbling, pausing only to retrieve a book from the small shelf near the door, a volume of poetry that looked suitably distracting, and place it within his uncle’s reach.

“Try not to dwell on your misery,” Angelo said cheerfully. “It will only make the pain worse.”

“Your compassion overwhelms me,” Nicholas muttered, but he took the book.

Angelo returned to his own chamber across the hall, closing the door behind him with a sense of relief. As much as he cared for his uncle, Nicholas’s bitterness could be exhausting. The man wore his cynicism like armor, and Angelo suspected it would take more than liniment and optimism to truly heal what ailed him.

But that was a problem for another day.

The chamber welcomed him with its simple elegance. Angelo crossed to the window first, drawn by the fading light over the moors. The view was even more spectacular than he had first realized. The angled coastal cliffs stretched in both directions, and the boom of waves below reached him even here on the landward side of the manor, the sea churning in ceaseless motion, its power both beautiful and terrifying.

He could understand why someone had built a hall here, on this dramatic promontory. Despite the isolation, despite the harsh weather, there was something magnetic about this place. Something that called to the part of the soul that yearned for wild, untamed beauty.

Angelo pushed open the window, letting the cold sea air rush in. It carried the scent of salt and kelp, underlaid by something earthier, soil and growing things. He leaned out slightly, looking down, and his interest sparked immediately.

Directly below his window and slightly to the left, he could see the walled enclosure of what appeared to be a kitchen garden. Even from this height, he could make out the organized layout of beds and paths, the protective cloches covering tender plants, the bare branches of what might be fruit trees trained against the southern wall.

And in Cornwall, in February, there might still be winter herbs growing. Rosemary, certainly. It thrives in coastal climates. Perhaps thyme under those cloches. Maybe even some early chives or the roots of more valuable medicinal plants.

The scholar in him was intrigued. Every region possessed its own approach to kitchen gardening, its own selection of plants that thrived in local conditions. What grew well on the Cornish coast might be entirely different from what flourished in Florence’s warmer climate. And learning those differences, understanding which plants adapted to which conditions, that was the foundation of good pharmaceutical practice.

His uncle Paolo had drilled that lesson into him from the beginning. “A pharmacist who only knows the plants of his own city is like a musician who only plays but one instrument,” Paolo had said. “Limited. Incomplete. To truly master the art, you must understand how plants change with climate, with soil, with the care they receive.”

Angelo had taken that lesson to heart, studying gardens wherever he traveled, comparing the robust lavender of Provence to the more delicate varieties grown in Italian monasteries, noting how chamomile grew differently in sandy soil versus clay.

And now here was an opportunity to study a Cornish kitchen garden, maintained by someone who clearly knew their craft based on the orderly layout visible even from this distance.

He would investigate. But first, he should settle his things properly.

Angelo moved to the walnut writing desk and began arranging his supplies with the care they deserved. Each item had its place, its purpose. The tinted glass vials lined up in order of frequency of use. Arnica first, its golden oil catching the fading light, then comfrey, lavender, rosemary oil. The mortar and pestle positioned within easy reach, its surface still bearing faint traces of the last herbs he had ground in London.

These tools were an extension of himself. His heritage. Uncle Paolo had given him the mortar and pestle when Angelo completed his apprenticeship, a beautiful piece of white marble that had belonged to his nonno, his grandfather, before being passed on to Paolo. The bowl was worn smooth by generations of use, the pestle perfectly weighted to grind even the toughest roots into powder.

Angelo ran his fingers over its cool surface, remembering the day Paolo had pressed it into his hands. “You have the gift,” his uncle had said. “Not just the knowledge, but the instinct. The ability to sense what a body needs, what combination of herbs will restore balance. It is an art that cannot be fully taught. True talent can only be recognized and nurtured.”

The memory warmed him even as the sea air chilled the room. He missed his uncles, missed the familiar chaos of the Florence farmacia with its constant stream of customers and the good-natured arguments over which formulation proved superior. But he had needed to leave, needed to understand this English side of his heritage, needed to find his own path rather than simply following in his family’s footsteps.

And that path had led him here, to this wild corner of England, to this mysterious hall full of secrets and shadows.

Speaking of shadows …

Angelo’s gaze drifted to the ornate iron grates set into the wall beside the fireplace. In the fading light, they looked almost sinister. Dark eyes opening into deeper darkness. But that was merely his phantasies running wild after a long day of travel and strange sensations.

Still, he found himself crossing to the grates, compelled to examine them more closely. The ironwork was exquisite, he had to admit. The pattern was intricate. Vines and flowers intertwined with geometric shapes that seemed almost symbolic. Not random decoration but deliberate design, executed with a master craftsman’s skill that reminded him of the Renaissance masters of Florence.

He traced the pattern with his fingers, feeling the cold metal, the slight roughness where oxidation had textured the surface. And behind the decorative façade …

Angelo leaned closer, peering into the darkness beyond. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light of his chamber, but the space behind the grates remained deeper, more impenetrable. He could make out the rough texture of stone, suggesting a passage or cavity in the wall itself. The space seemed to extend backward, deeper into the wall than mere ventilation would require.