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To matter.

The truth cut. Her eyes stung with how badly she wanted it, how the want sat in her chest like a bruise that would not fade.

Wind rose outside and sent its thin song through the ways. Isolde sat in the dark, duty in one hand and longing in the other, safety against the terror of a gaze that knew her.

She did not know, yet, which hand would win.

A board creaked in the dining room as a footman banked the fire. Isolde held her breath until the steps faded. Then she rose, joints stiff from the crouch, and felt her way toward the tower. The cliff-song went with her. So did Angelo’s question, spoken to the grate as if a grate could answer.

“Do you know the riddle we chase?”

She did. Not all of it. Enough to hurt.

Enough, if she chose, to help.

The choice walked beside her all the way up the stairs and sat down on the bed like an uninvited guest. Isolde unpinned her hair with fingers that would not hurry and listened to the sea work the rocks. Tomorrow they would start in the library. Tomorrow she would have to decide whether the Fairfax charge was a wall or a door. She blew out the candle before she could answer herself.

CHAPTER 6

“The moon threw its clear light upon the walls, and showed the battlements and towers in all their strength and grandeur.”

Ann Radcliffe

* * *

Angelo stood before the small looking in his chamber, tying the tapes of his nightshirt closed with fingers that trembled slightly from exhaustion. Four days of travel, treating Nicholas’s damaged leg, the exploration of the kitchen garden, and now a dinner full of revelations and mysteries. His body was demanding rest even as his mind continued to race.

The candle on his washstand flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls and causing the iron grates to shift and breathe. Angelo turned away from his reflection, uncomfortable with the way the dim light made him look ghostly, insubstantial.

His gaze fell on the writing desk, where he had arranged his collected specimens earlier. The rosemary sprigs lay where he had left them, their silvery-green leaves already beginning to curl slightly as they dried. The thyme rested beside them, still fresh enough to release fragrance when touched. And the yarrow root, carefully wrapped in his handkerchief, awaited proper preparation.

But something nagged at his memory. Something he had meant to do but forgotten in the rush of dinner and conversation.

Sage and thyme. He had intended to return to the garden after dusk to collect them at their most potent. Many medicinal herbs were strongest when harvested in twilight or darkness, when the day’s heat had driven their essential oils to the surface but the night’s dew had not yet begun to dilute them.

Angelo glanced at the window. Full darkness had fallen perhaps an hour ago, which meant the plants would be at peak efficacy now. If he waited until morning, he would miss the optimal harvest time.

He should sleep. His body needed rest, and the garden would still be there tomorrow.

But the pharmacist in him rebelled at the waste. Good harvesting practices were fundamental to his craft. His uncle Paolo would be disappointed if Angelo let exhaustion override proper technique.

Decision made, Angelo discarded his nightshirt and quickly pulled his shirt and breeches on, not bothering with waistcoat or coat. He would only be gone a few minutes. Just long enough to collect what he needed. He pushed his feet into soft slippers, the better to move quietly through the corridors without disturbing the household.

He collected his penknife and a clean handkerchief for carrying specimens, then let himself out into the darkened hallway.

The corridor was pitch-black, the servants having extinguished all but a few strategically placed lamps for the night. Angelo navigated by touch and memory, trailing his fingers along the wall, counting doorways until he reached the main staircase.

The wind sang through the grates as he descended, that eerie cliff-song he was beginning to recognize as Grimsfell’s constant companion. In the darkness, the sound seemed even more otherworldly, almost like voices whispering in languages he could not quite understand.

He reached the ground floor and made his way toward the kitchen, guided by the faint glow of banked coals in the massive hearth. The room was warm and smelled of bread and herbs, comforting in its domesticity. Angelo crossed to the door that led to the kitchen yard, lifting the latch as quietly as possible.

The night air hit him like a cold slap, stealing his breath. He had forgotten how much colder it would be outside, away from the hall’s residual warmth. The wind off the Atlantic carried a bite that cut through his thin shirt and raised gooseflesh on his arms.

Stupido, he chided himself. You should have brought your coat.

But he was here now, and the garden was just beyond the arch. He could collect what he needed and return inside within minutes.

Angelo stepped into the kitchen yard, his feet registering the shock of cold cobblestones through his slippers. The moon hung low, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. Beautiful and slightly unreal, like a stage set designed by someone with a gift for the dramatic.