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And the more pressing question was whether someone was still using these passages. Whether the watcher Angelo had sensed was real rather than a figment.

He rose from his crouch, brushing dust from his breeches, and moved to the window. The light was truly fading now, the sun sinking toward the horizon and painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. If he wanted to explore the kitchen garden, he should do it now, before darkness made examination impossible.

Angelo took one last look around his chamber, everything in order, everything properly arranged, and let himself out into the corridor.

Grimsfell Hall was growing more familiar now, though he still felt the occasional moment of disorientation when a corridor he thought led one direction suddenly turned another. The light was fading here too, turning the passages into pools of shadow broken by the occasional lamp that a servant must have lit.

Angelo found himself pausing before one particularly ornate example, positioned above a small landing halfway down a secondary staircase. This one was different from the others. It was larger, with a more complex pattern that incorporated what looked like heraldic symbols among the vines and flowers.

He stared into the darkness beyond the ironwork, his head tilted slightly. The passage behind this grate was wider, he thought. And there … was that a flicker of movement? So faint he might have imagined it. Pale against the darkness, there and gone so quickly he could not be certain he had seen anything at all.

He stepped closer to the grate, his eyes narrowing as he tried to penetrate the shadows. His heart was beating faster now, with a mix of curiosity and excitement announcing that he was on the verge of discovery.

“Is someone there?” he called softly, feeling slightly ridiculous even as he did so.

No response. Nothing but the whisper of air moving through the walls.

He waited, holding his breath, listening intently. If someone were in those passages, surely they would make some sound. A footstep. A rustle of clothing. The soft rasp of breathing.

But there was only silence.

Angelo shook his head, stepping back from the grate.

The wind picked up outside, and suddenly, the air was filled with sound. Not the simple whistle of wind through vents, but something more complex, more musical. Multiple tones braided together, rising and falling in an eerie harmony that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The wind hissed again through the old iron grate above the stair. Angelo looked up. No chimney. No vent. Just a square, rust-dark opening where something … air or memory …passed through and sighed.

The cliffs. The wind singing over the cliffs.

Angelo stood transfixed, listening to the otherworldly chorus. It was haunting and beautiful and deeply unsettling all at once. The sound seemed to resonate in his very bones, as if the stone itself were singing.

Gusts rose and fell in waves, each gust creating new harmonies as it moved through the complex network of vents and passages. Sometimes it sounded almost like voices. Wordless but expressive, conveying emotions Angelo could not quite name. Loneliness, perhaps. Longing. The accumulated weight of centuries of wind and stone and sea.

He remained there for several moments, awed by the strange music, before finally shaking himself from his reverie and continuing down the stairs. The singing followed him through the corridors, sometimes louder, sometimes softer, as the wind shifted and changed. The constant sound was disorienting, making it difficult to judge distance and direction.

But eventually Angelo found his way to what he assumed must be the kitchen by following the scent of baking bread and roasting meat. The massive chamber was warm and bright after the dim corridors, with a coal fire burning enthusiastically in an enormous hearth that could probably roast an entire ox.

Mrs. Roskelly looked up from the pasteboard where she was rolling out dough, her hands dusted with flour, surprise flickering across her round face as Cook turned from washing the dishes.

“Mr. Angelo Scott! Is something amiss? Do you require something?”

“Nothing is amiss,” Angelo assured her with a warm smile. “I merely wished to explore the kitchen garden, if I may? I saw it from my window and hoped there might be some interesting herbs growing.”

The housekeeper’s features softened with approval. “Aye, the gardens are well-maintained. Our gardener, Elias, tends them carefully, along with …” She paused, seeming to catch herself. “Well, they’re tended carefully. Though I’m not sure what ye’ll find of interest this time of year, most everything being dormant or frost-killed.”

“Winter herbs are often the most valuable,” Angelo replied, his enthusiasm warming his voice. “Rosemary, thyme, perhaps some yarrow, if I am fortunate. And the structure of the garden itself will tell me much about what might be planted come spring. A well-designed kitchen garden reveals the knowledge and skill of whoever tends it. The choice of plants, their placement, the way beds are oriented to catch light. All of it speaks to understanding of botanica … botany and climate.”

Mrs. Roskelly’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Well then, help yerself. The door there leads out to the kitchen yard, and the walled garden is just beyond.” She gestured with a flour-dusted hand toward a heavy oak door. “Mind ye don’t track mud back in, and don’t disturb Elias’s work. He’s particular about his beds.”

“I would never dream of it,” Angelo assured her. “A good gardener deserves respect for their knowledge and effort.”

He thanked her again and made his way out through the indicated door, stepping into the chill afternoon air.

The temperature had dropped with the failing sun, and Angelo’s breath misted in the air. The kitchen yard was a practical space. A well with a wooden cover, a chopping block worn smooth by years of use, paths worn into packed earth by generations of servants moving between buildings. The air smelled of coal smoke and the earthy scent of a midden heap positioned discreetly behind a wall.

But beyond it, through an arched opening in an old stone wall, Angelo could see the promise of the garden proper.

He passed through the arch and stopped, taking in the sight with genuine appreciation.