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Angelo watched her work, noting the care with which she handled everything, and the quiet competence she displayed. She had lived here long enough to know every secret this hall held, he suspected. But her expression revealed nothing, her manner professionally distant.

When she departed, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click, Gabriel resumed the discussion.

“The Hall of Reflections itself raises more questions than it answers,” he said. “Did the owner know of its existence? Are they perhaps a member of this secret society, Regis Aeterni, that commissioned Matteo’s work in the first place?”

“Or a descendant of such members,” Lorenzo added, his excitement evident again despite his earlier disappointment. “Guardians of whatever Matteo created, maintaining the secrets across generations.”

“But if they are guardians,” Henri said, “then surely they would prevent tenants from discovering the hidden chamber entirely. Yet they allowed us to rent the hall knowing we might search, knowing we came seeking something.”

“Unless they wanted us to find it,” Angelo suggested. “Wanted to see what we would do with the discovery.”

Nicholas snorted. “More likely they simply did not expect us to be clever enough to find anything. Most tenants probably wander about admiring the view, whining about the infernal racket from the hall singing, and never think to press hidden switches in the library.”

“There is another possibility,” Gabriel said quietly. “The owner may not know. The hall has been maintained by staff for how long, Mrs. Roskelly mentioned? Decades? Perhaps the current owner inherited it without inheriting the knowledge of what it contains.”

Lorenzo shook his head firmly. “No. Someone knows. Someone maintains not just the hall, but its secrets. The mechanisms in the Hall of Reflections are too well-preserved to have been forgotten. Someone oils those gears and ensures the bookshelf-door still moves smoothly after three hundred years.”

He was right, Angelo realized. The hidden entrance had opened with barely a whisper of sound. That level of precision required regular maintenance, regular care from someone who understood its function.

“Then we are back to our original question,” Henri said. “Who? And why the secrecy?”

“Perhaps,” Angelo ventured, “we should focus on what we can discover rather than what we cannot. The Hall of Reflections exists. It was created with purpose. What is that purpose?”

“To hide something,” Lorenzo said immediately. “Or to protect access to something. The inscription you found mentions the organ specifically. ‘Let thy hands match hers.’”

“I have tried,” Henri said, frustration clear in her voice. “I have played every combination I could imagine, attempted to recreate the damaged notation from the cave. Nothing happened. The organ functions perfectly, the sound is extraordinary, but no hidden doors opened, no secret compartments revealed themselves.”

“The notes must be highly specific,” Lorenzo murmured, studying the rubbing again. “Matteo would not have left such a clear clue unless following it precisely produced results. But with the damage …” He trailed off, clearly wrestling with the impossibility of recreating notation that no longer existed.

“Is Grimsfell the final destination?” Nicholas asked. “Or merely another stopping point on this ridiculous treasure hunt?”

“It feels like a waypoint,” Lorenzo admitted. “I cannot explain why, but I sense no great treasure here. No cache of paintings. No masterwork to rival the Sistine Chapel. This is important, sì, but it leads somewhere else. Somewhere Matteo deemed his true legacy.”

“Then we are stymied,” Gabriel said grimly. “Without the complete notation, we cannot progress. And I have examined the Hall of Reflections thoroughly. There is nothing else visible that might provide guidance.”

“What about the rest of the hall?” Angelo asked suddenly. “The sigil of Regis Aeterni unlocked the entrance to the hidden chamber. Perhaps there are more sigils, more clues embedded elsewhere. The library is vast. The furnishings are ancient. There could be symbols carved into wood, painted into frescoes, hidden in plain sight throughout the building.”

Lorenzo’s head snapped up, his eyes lighting with renewed hope. “Angelo is right. You found the Hall of Reflections by searching the library carefully. Who is to say that is the only secret this place holds?”

“A reasonable point,” Gabriel agreed. “Though I confess the prospect of searching every inch of this massive hall is daunting.”

“Better than sitting idle while our quest dies from water damage,” Lorenzo declared, some of his characteristic fire returning. “We start tomorrow. Systematic examination of the public rooms first, then move to the private chambers if needed.”

“How very organized of you,” Nicholas drawled. “Tell me, do you have a checklist? Perhaps a diagram showing which of us searches which dusty corner?”

“Mock if you will,” Lorenzo shot back, “but Angelo’s suggestion is the only path forward we have. Unless you propose we simply surrender?”

“I propose nothing,” Nicholas replied, though his tone had lost some of its edge. “Merely observing that this enterprise grows more absurd by the moment.”

“And yet you are here,” Angelo pointed out gently. “Absurdity and all.”

Nicholas’s only response was to drain his tea in one long swallow. Angelo approved of his uncle’s commitment to sobriety. He would hasten his recovery.

The conversation continued through the remaining courses, circling back through speculation and theory without reaching any firm conclusions. Gabriel shared what little he knew about Regis Aeterni, a secret society somehow connected to Arthurian legend, split into factions, dangerous when threatened.

He mentioned his tutor, a man killed over a first edition of Le Morte d’Arthur. He spoke of a letter the tutor had written shortly before his death, and at Lorenzo’s urgent request, Gabriel retrieved it from his study.

Angelo listened as Gabriel read it aloud: