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The words echoed in his memory, heavy with pain, and Angelo’s chest tightened in sympathy even as confusion swept through him. How could anyone not like her? She was talented, intelligent, clearly educated beyond what was common even for women of gentle birth. And beautiful … at least from what he had seen of her carefully presented profile.

So what drove her into such profound isolation? What convinced her that people’s dislike was inevitable, inescapable?

Angelo opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling as doubt crept in. Had last night truly happened? Or had exhaustion and the strange atmosphere of Grimsfell Hall conspired to create an elaborate dream?

When he had finally fallen asleep, sometime near first light, judging by the quality of the darkness beyond his window, he had dreamed of her. Of a gentle smile and shadows moving to reveal an angel stepping into light. Of music so beautiful it would make the Almighty weep. Of conversations that felt more real than waking life.

Perhaps all of it had been dream. Perhaps the whistling of the cliffs had rendered him whimsical, his tired mind conjuring phantoms from loneliness and the gothic atmosphere of this ancient hall.

The thought that she was merely a dream punctured his optimism. What cruelty it would be to reveal such divinity, only to deny its very existence. To be forever changed over a figment of his dreams, like a fool falling in love with his own reflection in the water.

Angelo sat up with another groan, running his hands through his hair, and immediately caught sight of his dressing robe discarded on the rug next to his slippers.

His heart began to race as he stared at the robe. He remembered taking it off when he returned from the library, remembered being too exhausted to hang it properly. Which meant he had descended to the library. Had entered the Hall of Reflections. Had spoken with Isolde.

At least that part was real, then.

Per fortuna!

He rose from bed and crossed to the robe, his good spirits restored as he picked it up and examined it, as if it might provide further proof of the night’s reality.

Real. It had all been real.

Isolde was real.

Angelo felt relief and excitement war with apprehension in his chest. If she were real, then so was the mystery surrounding her. The inexplicable fear that kept her hidden. The sadness that threaded through her every word.

And the impossible task of reaching her. Of understanding her. Of convincing her that whatever she feared in revealing herself, he could face it without flinching.

He dressed quickly, his mind already working through the problem as his hands buttoned shirt and waistcoat by rote. Isolde and Lorenzo’s quest must be connected. That much seemed obvious now. She was the guardian of Grimsfell Hall, the keeper of whatever secrets Matteo di Bianchi had embedded here. Which meant that if Angelo helped Lorenzo unravel the damaged clue, if they discovered the next step in Matteo’s elaborate puzzle, he might find access to Isolde’s hidden world.

Might find a way to speak with her openly rather than through shadows and illusions.

The thought energized him despite his lack of sleep. He had purpose now. Direction. Help Lorenzo solve the mystery of the Hall of Reflections, and in doing so, perhaps solve the mystery of Isolde herself.

Angelo paused before the mirror above his washstand, examining his reflection critically. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, evidence of the sleepless night. His hair stood up in unruly waves that no amount of water seemed able to tame. He looked, in short, like a man who had spent the night chasing ghosts through hidden chambers rather than sleeping sensibly in his bed.

But beneath the fatigue, something else showed in his face … animation. A brightness in his eyes that had been absent before arriving at Grimsfell. As if some dormant part of himself had reawakened and refused to return to slumber.

He thought of his life in Florence. Comfortable, predictable, surrounded by family who loved him but also expected him to follow a predetermined path. The farmacia, the endless succession of customers seeking remedies, the good-natured arguments with his uncles about proper formulations and treatment protocols. It had been pleasant enough, but also stifling in ways he had not fully recognized until leaving it behind. There were so many of them in Florence that it was difficult to find a way to make one’s mark on the world. There were no risks, and without risk, greatness remained out of reach.

Here, in this strange hall at the edge of England, chasing mysteries both architectural and human, Angelo felt his potential soar to new heights.

These strange encounters felt like permission. Permission to pursue what called to him rather than what was expected. Permission to follow his instincts even when they led him into situations that defied conventional wisdom. Permission to seek out a mysterious woman who hid in shadows and played music that made his soul ache with marvel.

Angelo made his way downstairs, acutely aware of how late in the morning it must be. The quality of light streaming through windows, the absence of servants bustling about their early duties, all suggested he had slept far longer than usual. His stomach confirmed it, growling with hunger as he descended toward the dining room.

To his relief, a plate had been left for him despite the lateness of the hour. Cold ham, bread, cheese, and a pot of tea that had gone lukewarm but was still drinkable. Angelo ate standing at the sideboard, too impatient to sit, his mind already moving ahead to the library and the search they would conduct today.

He wondered if Isolde was watching even now. If she observed him through one of the ubiquitous grates, noting his disheveled appearance and the obvious evidence of a sleepless night. The thought made him self-conscious, but also oddly pleased. Let her see that she affected him. That their midnight encounter had stolen his rest.

Perhaps it would make her feel less alone in her own apparent fascination.

The ham was good, smoky and tender. The bread was dense and nutty, the kind that sustained a person through hard labor. Simple fare, but honest and well-prepared. Angelo found himself appreciating the meal more than he had any elaborate London dinner, perhaps because it represented the care and skill of the people of Grimsfell who took pride in their work.

Like Isolde’s garden. Like her music. Everything she created seemed to carry the same quality of careful attention, of knowledge applied with both precision and love.

Angelo finished his makeshift meal and made his way to the library, where he found Nicholas and Lorenzo already at work.