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“It is a rather extraordinary story,” Gabriel said eventually, setting down his fork with deliberate care. “And one that may interest you greatly, given your quest.”

Lorenzo leaned forward, his entire body radiating attention. “Please. Tell me everything.”

“It began with the parchment you lent to Henri,” Gabriel began. “The one concealed in your ancestor’s painting. The text and symbols led us first to York, to a half-built chapel that had been abandoned for centuries.”

“York?” Lorenzo’s eyes widened. “I had not considered … What did you find?”

“A carving,” Henri said, taking up the narrative. “Set into the stone of a ruined chapel’s altar. It led us to Tintagel Castle.”

“Precisely,” Gabriel confirmed. “We traveled to Tintagel and found a cave beneath the castle ruins. Centuries of tide and weather had damaged much of what was carved there, specifically the musical notes, but we could make out a carving of the Tudor window that we eventually found in the library.”

Angelo listened with growing fascination. This was no simple treasure hunt Lorenzo had dragged them into. This was something far more complex, a puzzle constructed across centuries, embedded in the very landscape and architecture of Britain.

“The notes,” Lorenzo said urgently. “You were unable to read them?”

Henri’s expression fell. “Most of them. Water damage had obscured several crucial measures. We could make out enough to know they were not a melody so much as a … a combination, perhaps. But not enough to play them.”

“And that led you here?” Angelo asked, unable to contain his curiosity. “To Grimsfell?”

“The inscription on the carving,” Gabriel said, reaching into his inner coat pocket. “It was clear enough, even if the musical notations were not.”

He withdrew a piece of parchment and passed it across the table to Lorenzo. Angelo leaned closer to see what it contained, a charcoal rubbing of stone carving, showing a Tudor window with four glass panes. One pane clearly depicted a woman seated at an organ, her hands positioned on the keys. The other three panes were smudged and damaged, their contents barely discernible.

Beneath the image, there was text in both Latin and English:

She waits where the grim fell sings. Let thy hands match hers.

“Grim fell,” Lorenzo murmured, tracing the words with his finger. “Grimsfell. Certo … of course! And you found this hall …”

“Through considerable questions and some luck,” Gabriel said. “Grimsfell Hall has belonged to the same family for centuries, though they have always been quite private. When we learned it was available for short-term lease, we applied immediately.”

“And discovered the Hall of Reflections,” Lorenzo finished, his voice heavy with disappointment.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. Angelo glanced at his friend, seeing the familiar weight of deflated hopes settling over Lorenzo.

Henri bit her lip, and Angelo could see genuine warmth in her expression despite the tension of their discussion. “Which brings me to questions that have been troubling Gabriel and me since we arrived.”

“Ask,” Lorenzo urged. “Perhaps together we can make sense of what alone we cannot.”

“Very well.” Henri folded her hands on the table, her expression thoughtful. “First, why is Grimsfell Hall maintained so meticulously when it supposedly stands empty? We arrived expecting a house in disuse but, instead, found it staffed and in excellent condition. Mrs. Roskelly, Elias the gardener, Cook, and a few maids … all employed to maintain a house that was not expecting tenants in the winter, until the weather improves later in the year.”

“That is peculiar,” Lorenzo agreed, his brow furrowing. “Most estates closed for winter reduce staff to a minimum. Perhaps a single caretaker at most.”

“Indeed,” Gabriel said. “Which suggests either the owner visits frequently, unlikely given the solicitor’s insistence that the house stands empty, or … or … I do not know, to be honest.”

Angelo felt a prickle of awareness at those words. Perhaps a watcher who moved through hidden passages, observing from the shadows?

“The solicitor,” Lorenzo said. “What did he tell you about the owner?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel replied, frustration edging his voice. “He refused to reveal even the most basic information. At first, I assumed it was merely professional discretion. But when I pursued the matter after we discovered the Hall of Reflections, when I brought considerable pressure to bear through my connections in London, he still refused. I have people investigating, but so far, they have uncovered nothing. The current ownership is buried beneath layers of legal arrangements designed specifically to prevent discovery. The locals are reticent to discuss the Hall, likely out of fear of reprisal, as tenants on its lands.”

“Someone wants their privacy,” Nicholas observed, reaching for his wine glass. “Cannot say I blame them. If I owned a mysterious hall full of hidden chambers, I would not want strangers nosing about either.”

“But why rent it out at all?” Henri countered. “If privacy is paramount, why allow any tenants?”

“Perhaps they need the income,” Angelo suggested, but even as he spoke, he doubted it. The hall’s excellent maintenance suggested wealth, not poverty.

Mrs. Roskelly chose that moment to enter with the next course, and the conversation died immediately. The housekeeper moved efficiently around the table, removing plates and serving from a large tureen of soup that filled the air with the scent of leeks and cream.