Page 24

The walled kitchen garden was a masterpiece of careful design. Raised beds laid out in geometric precision, their edges defined by weathered brick that must have been old when the first King George had taken the throne. Gravel paths separated each section, wide enough for a wheelbarrow, but narrow enough to maximize growing space. The walls themselves were at least eight feet high, creating a sheltered climate that would protect tender plants from the worst of the coastal winds.

The southern wall was lined with espalier fruit trees. Apples and pears, their bare branches trained into perfect fans against the warm stone. Someone had spent years training those trees, carefully pruning and tying to achieve such precise shapes. The effort spoke of patience and expertise.

And everywhere, even in the depths of winter, there were signs of life and care.

Angelo walked slowly down the frost-laced paths, his trained eye cataloging what he found. The beds were immaculately maintained. No weeds, no debris, everything trimmed back or protected for winter. Whoever tended this garden took pride in their work.

In a sheltered corner near the eastern wall, rosemary grew in profusion, its silvery-green leaves still fragrant and healthy despite the cold. Angelo knelt beside it, running his fingers through the needle-like leaves, releasing their sharp, resinous scent. This was good stock. Probably grown from cuttings rather than seed, given how uniform and healthy the plants appeared.

He plucked several sprigs carefully, selecting from different plants to avoid damaging any single one, and tucked them into his coat pocket. Rosemary for circulation and memory, for headaches and digestive complaints. Essential.

Under protective cloches made of glass and wood, he found thyme still thriving, its tiny leaves dark green against the pale soil. Someone had thought to protect the most valuable herbs, ensuring they survived the winter. More evidence of knowledge and care.

Angelo lifted one cloche carefully, inhaling the sharp, warm scent of the thyme before selecting several sprigs and replacing the protective covering exactly as he had found it. But he would prefer sprigs harvested after sunset.

And there … bene! … was yarrow, its distinctive feathery leaves unmistakable even in winter dormancy. Angelo’s heart lifted at the sight. Yarrow was invaluable for wound healing and fever reduction. Properly prepared, it could stop bleeding, reduce inflammation, and support the body’s natural healing processes.

He knelt on the cold gravel, pulling his penknife from his pocket, and carefully dug around one plant. The key was to take only what he needed without damaging the root system that would regenerate come spring. A small portion of root, extracted cleanly, leaving the main plant intact and healthy.

As he worked, Angelo found himself thoroughly absorbed in the task. This was what he loved about his craft, the direct connection to the source of healing. Not just dispensing pre-made remedies, but understanding the plants themselves. Knowing where they grew best, how to harvest them, and how to prepare them to maximize their therapeutic properties.

A sound made him look up.

Or perhaps not a sound, precisely. More of a subtle shift in the air. A sense of … presence.

Angelo’s hands stilled on the yarrow root. He remained crouched, his senses suddenly alert, that familiar prickling awareness raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

Someone was watching him.

He was certain of it now. This was no trick of imagination, no fanciful thinking. Someone in this hall was observing him, had been observing him all day, maintaining a careful distance while studying his every move.

Angelo stood slowly, brushing dirt from his hands, his gaze moving methodically across each potential vantage point. The windows of the upper floors, dark rectangles against the stone, any one of which could conceal an observer. The top of the garden walls, high enough to provide cover, though climbing them would be difficult. And beyond the arches stood the small outbuildings clustered near the kitchen, sheds and storage spaces where someone might easily hide.

And there.

A flicker of movement in one of the upper windows. Too quick to see clearly, but unmistakable. A pale face that had been visible one moment and vanished the next, as if someone had pulled back from view the instant they realized Angelo had looked up.

Angelo felt his pulse quicken, though whether from alarm or excitement, he could not quite say. His instincts had been correct. Someone in this hall was following him, watching him, maintaining surveillance for reasons he did not yet fathom.

But why? What about him warranted such attention?

He thought of Lorenzo’s quest, of the secrets this hall supposedly held, of the mysterious owner that, according to Lord Trenwith, the solicitor refused to name, even to paying tenants. Was someone making sure the guests did not discover something? Or was the motivation more personal, more specific to him?

The wind rose again, sending the eerie cliff-song echoing through the garden, and Angelo shivered despite his coat. The light was truly failing now, the sun dropping below the western horizon to leave him standing in the charcoal of late twilight.

He should return inside. Continue his explorations in the morning when he might be able to catch sight of his mysterious watcher in the daylight.

But even as he gathered his collected specimens, Angelo could not shake the image of that window. That flicker of movement. That sense of eyes upon him.

Who are you? And why do you hide?

No answer came, of course. Only the wind singing over the cliffs and the growing darkness as day surrendered to night.

He made his way back toward the kitchen door, his mind already turning over the mystery. Sure that someone was in those passages, using the network of hidden corridors to move through the hall unseen. Sure that someone was particularly interested in him, or at least interested in what the guests were doing.

The question was whether the interest was hostile or merely cautious. Whether the watcher posed a threat or was simply protecting something they valued.

And whether Angelo should tell the others about his suspicions or keep them to himself until he understood more.