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As he walked, Angelo found himself cataloging the strangeness of his own behavior with the same analytical approach he might use to examine an unusual plant specimen. By all rational measures, he should return to his bed. He was exhausted from travel, had duties to attend to tomorrow helping Lorenzo search the library, and was chasing after a woman who refused to let him approach within ten feet.

Yet here he was, creeping through darkened corridors in his nightclothes like some lovesick youth from a Gothic novel. The kind of behavior he would have gently mocked in others just days ago now seemed not only reasonable but necessary. As if some fundamental law of nature compelled him forward, overriding sense and caution alike.

When had he become the sort of man who abandoned sleep and dignity to pursue mysteries in the dead of night? The realization should have troubled him. Instead, it felt oddly liberating, as if some part of himself he had not known existed had finally been given permission to emerge.

The library door stood open, as it had been left after their dinner discussions. Angelo slipped inside, and the music grew fractionally louder. He was closer now, near enough that he could make out individual notes, hear the complexity of what Isolde was playing.

Bravissima, he thought with genuine admiration. She is a master.

The sigil was easy to find, even in the dim light filtering through the library windows from the moon outside. Angelo pushed his palm against the circle bisected by a sword, and the hidden mechanism engaged with a soft click. The bookshelf swung inward on its well-oiled hinges, revealing the darkness of the passage beyond.

The music swelled suddenly, no longer muffled by walls and distance. Isolde must have all the stops pulled, the organ singing at full voice, its sound amplified by the extraordinary acoustics.

Angelo descended the short flight of stone steps and emerged into the hall itself.

He came to an abrupt stop, his breath catching at the sight before him.

The Hall of Reflections was lit by a single candlestick resting on the organ’s console, but the mirrors on either side of the narrow, elongated room multiplied that light into infinity. Each reflection caught and threw the flame’s glow, creating a pathway of light that seemed to stretch into impossible distance. It was like standing inside a jewel, surrounded by facets that caught and fractured illumination until the entire space glowed with soft, golden radiance.

And at the far end, seated at the organ with her back to him, was Isolde.

She wore an ivory dress, or perhaps a nightgown. Angelo could not tell from this distance. She was covered by the same black cape she had worn in the garden. Her hair was piled atop her head in a loose arrangement that revealed the graceful column of her neck. And her hands moved across the keys with fluid precision, drawing music from the instrument as if she and it were one.

The melody paused mid-phrase. Isolde’s hands stilled on the keys. “Angelo.”

She turned her head slowly, offering him her profile, the left side of her face, delicate and perfect in the candlelight. His name on her lips sent warmth cascading through his chest. He could not quite make out her expression in the dim light, but in his mind, she was smiling.

“You knew it was me?” His voice came out rougher than he intended, thick with unfamiliar emotions.

“You notice what others do not.” There was something almost like amusement in her tone, though sadness threaded through it as well. “And I … I am aware when you are near.”

The admission surprised him. She felt his presence as he felt hers? That pull, that awareness … it was mutual?

Angelo found speaking difficult suddenly, his gaze locked on her profile. Straight, delicate nose. Full lips that curved slightly, as if she fought against a smile. Flaxen hair that gleamed gold in the candlelight. Creamy skin and that long, elegant neck that seemed designed to make a man’s heart ache with tenderness.

She was beautiful. Genuinely, breathtakingly beautiful, at least from this angle. So why did she hide? Why the maintained distance, the refusal to let him approach?

He wanted so desperately to see her face. To know what an angel looked like.

“The music,” Angelo finally managed, his voice emerging as barely more than a croak. “You play exquisitely. I have never heard anything so … so …”

He trailed off, unable to find words adequate to describe what he had heard. The sorrow and beauty braided together, the way she had made the organ sing in harmony with the wind itself. It had been transcendent, speaking to something in his soul that had no name.

Isolde’s lips curved into a tender smile, but beneath it, Angelo could see a sadness that cut into his soul. It was a tragedy that such a beautiful, talented woman should carry such sorrow. He wanted to help her, to make her laugh, to chase the sadness from her eyes.

“Who are you?” The question emerged before he could stop it. “Truly, Isolde. Not what you do or what role you fill, but who are you?”

Isolde turned back to the organ, and Angelo felt a stab of disappointment at losing sight of her face. Her hands rested on the keys without pressing them, her shoulders straight but tense beneath the cape.

“I suppose I am the caretaker,” she said quietly, her voice echoing strangely in the mirrored hall. Angelo could have cursed in frustration that in a room full of mirrors, he could but catch a glimpse of this ethereal figure. “The last of a long line who have guarded this hall. My father held this responsibility before me and his father before him, stretching back through the centuries to …” She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. “To when our family first became guardians of Grimsfell.”

“But that is what you do,” Angelo urged gently. “Not who you are. You are a musician of extraordinary talent. A botanist with knowledge that rivals any I have studied under. A woman with thoughts and feelings and …” He gestured helplessly at the hall around them. “And so much more than merely a caretaker.”

“Perhaps.” Her voice had gone small and fragile. “But the caretaker is all I am permitted to be.”

Angelo took a step forward, drawn by the pain in those words. “Permitted by whom? Who says you must hide yourself away, must deny yourself companionship and⁠—”

“Do not come closer.” The words were sharp, almost panicked. Isolde’s hands gripped the edge of the organ console, her knuckles white even in the dim light. “Please, Angelo. I asked you in the garden, and I ask again now. Do not approach.”