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He passed through the arch into the walled garden and came to an abrupt halt.

Someone else was there.

A figure stood among the raised beds, draped in a dark cloak that made them nearly invisible against the shadows. Only the paleness of a face tilted toward the sky gave them substance, a sliver of moonlit skin floating in the murk like a ghost made manifest.

Angelo’s heart hammered in his chest. His first instinct was to call out, to announce his presence, but something stopped him. The figure had not noticed him yet, lost in contemplation of something Angelo could not see from where he stood. And there was something about the scene, the solitary watcher, the silver moonlight, the perfect stillness, that felt almost sacred. As if he had stumbled into a private moment not meant for outside eyes.

Then the clouds shifted, and moonlight flooded the garden with sudden brilliance.

The figure resolved into the form of a woman. Delicate and haunting in the silver light, one hand raised as if reaching for the moon itself. Her cloak was black, or perhaps very dark blue, and beneath it Angelo caught glimpses of pale fabric. A nightdress, perhaps, or something equally informal.

She must have sensed him, for she turned suddenly, her hand dropping to her side. Angelo caught a glimpse of her face in profile. The left side, illuminated by moonlight, revealed features of striking delicacy. High cheekbones, a soft mouth, a slender neck that disappeared into the cloak’s folds.

They stared at each other across the garden, neither moving, neither speaking. The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, heavy with surprise … and awareness. She was … bella … beautiful. But somehow, even in Italian, the word was inadequate. Divine, perhaps?

Then Angelo found his voice. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you. I came only to collect some herbs …” He took a step forward, wanting to see her more clearly, to understand who this midnight gardener might be.

“Stop!” The word came sharp and desperate. She held up her hand, palm outward, a gesture so imperious that Angelo froze mid-step. “Please. Do not come closer.”

Her voice was melodic and beautiful, carrying an educated accent that spoke of good breeding despite her informal dress. And there was something in it. A quality Angelo could not quite identify but that pulled at his memory like a half-forgotten song.

“I was certo … certain there was someone else in this house,” Angelo said, keeping his voice gentle, unthreatening. “Someone who watches from the shadows. Was it you?”

She did not answer, but the slight stiffening of her shoulders confirmed his suspicion.

Angelo took another careful step forward, drawn by curiosity and something deeper. Something that thrummed in his chest like a second heartbeat. “Please. I mean you no harm. I only wish to⁠—”

“No!” This time her voice cracked with what sounded like genuine fear. “Please, I beg you. Do not approach. I cannot …” She broke off, her hand still raised as if she could hold him back through sheer force of will.

Angelo stopped, recognizing the edge of panic in her tone. Whatever her reasons for hiding, for maintaining distance, they ran deep. Pushing now would only drive her away, and he found himself desperately wishing she would stay.

“Very well,” he said softly, raising his own hands to show he meant no threat. “I will remain here. But surely we can talk? You know my name, I believe. Might I know yours?”

She hesitated so long Angelo thought she might simply flee. But finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she answered.

“Isolde.”

The name fell between them like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of recognition through Angelo’s mind.

Isolde. Not a common name. Old-fashioned, evocative of medieval romances and legends.

“Isolde,” he repeated, tasting the syllables. “A beautiful name. Fitting for …” He gestured vaguely at the garden, the moonlight, the strangeness of this encounter. “For all of this.”

He thought he saw her lips curve in what might have been a smile, though the angle and shadows made it difficult to be certain.

“You are Angelo Scott,” she said, not quite making it a question.

Angelo blinked, momentarily thrown. “Sì. I am. And you are the mysterious owner of Grimsfell Hall?” he ventured, taking a calculated risk. “The one the solicitor refuses to name?”

“I am …” She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I am connected to this place. I have responsibilities here.”

Not quite an admission, but not quite a denial either. Angelo filed the evasion away to examine later.

“The garden,” he said, gesturing to the beds around them. “You tend it. Not Elias, or not only Elias. You choose what to plant, where to place each bed to catch the light. I could see your artistry in the design this afternoon.”

This time Isolde’s reaction was unmistakable. Her breath caught audibly, and even in the dim light, Angelo could see surprise flash across her face.

“How could you possibly know that?” she asked, wonder replacing wariness in her voice.