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Lorenzo sat cross-legged on the floor near one of the massive bookcases, completely absorbed in a leather-bound volume that looked as ancient as the hall itself. Books were stacked around him in precarious towers, and his dark hair stood up in wild tufts where he had evidently been running his hands through it in frustration.

Nicholas occupied one of the library tables, a stack of books before him and profound boredom painted across his face. An empty shelf nearby suggested he had been tasked with examining its contents systematically, removing each volume for inspection before replacing it.

Both men looked up as Angelo entered. Nicholas’s expression immediately shifted to something that might have been relief mixed with malicious amusement.

“Ah, our sleeping beauty awakens at last,” Nicholas drawled, setting down the book he had been pretending to read. “Tell me, Angelo, did you rise late like a debutante on the marriage mart? Should we have sent a lady’s maid to help you dress?”

Angelo frowned, not entirely sure what Nicholas meant. His knowledge of English society was still incomplete, and references to marriage markets and debutantes fell outside his experience.

Nicholas made a frustrated sound, clearly disappointed that his barb had missed its mark. “Balls go until sunrise during the marriage Season,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “High society sleeps most of the day away to recover from the revelry. Though I suppose in your case, you were simply being Italian about the whole affair.”

“Your jest is very amusing,” Angelo responded carefully, still not entirely certain whether he was being mocked or merely teased.

Nicholas pulled a face. “If I have to explain it, it is no longer funny. Ergo, you have ruined my attempt at wit through sheer obliviousness.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding Angelo with something that might have been affection if Nicholas were capable of such sentiment. “Having you and Lorenzo as travel mates is turning out to be as boring as being stuck at home with the newlyweds. At least your brother, Marco, would have understood my cultural references and cutting wit.”

Lorenzo remained intent on his book, either genuinely absorbed or deliberately ignoring their exchange. He turned a page with careful reverence, his eyes scanning the text with intense focus, then sighed in disappointment and closed the volume. He set it aside and immediately reached for the next book in his stack, not even glancing up at his companions.

The sight of Lorenzo’s single-minded focus stirred something in Angelo’s chest, a mixture of admiration and concern. His friend had been pursuing this quest for years, following clues across countries, investing enormous amounts of time and emotional energy into unraveling Matteo’s puzzle. What would it do to Lorenzo if the trail ended here? If the damaged notation proved impossible to reconstruct?

And more selfishly, what would it mean for Angelo’s chances of truly reaching Isolde if Lorenzo’s quest failed and they were forced to leave Grimsfell?

“How can I help?” Angelo asked, crossing to where Lorenzo sat surrounded by literary chaos.

Lorenzo finally looked up, and Angelo was struck by how exhausted his friend appeared. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor. How long had he been at this? Had he slept at all?

“Look anywhere,” Lorenzo said, his accent thickening with fatigue and frustration. “Look for any reference to Regis Aeterni, to Matteo, or any symbols or sigils similar to the one that opened the Hall of Reflections. Any clue that might tell us how to proceed from here.”

“Gabriel suggested we examine every visible surface for additional carvings of the sigil,” Nicholas added, gesturing vaguely at the empty shelves. “On the theory that if Matteo hid one entrance, he might have hidden others. I have been assigned the thrilling task of removing every book, examining the shelves for secret markings, then replacing every book. I cannot adequately express how this fulfills my deepest aspirations in life.”

Angelo felt a pang of guilt that surprised him with its intensity. He knew something they did not. He had discovered the alcove behind the organ, the place where Isolde had vanished. He should tell them. He should share what he had learned so they could examine it together, perhaps find the mechanism that had allowed her escape.

But the thought of revealing Isolde’s hiding place felt like a betrayal. She had trusted him enough to appear, to speak with him, to reveal even the small amount she had. And to immediately expose her secrets to others seemed wrong. Worse than wrong. It seemed cruel, a violation of the tentative connection forming between them.

Santo cielo, she might vanish completely!

And yet keeping secrets from his friends, from Lorenzo who had included him in this quest, from Nicholas who despite his cynicism had agreed to this journey, carried its own weight of dishonor.

Angelo stood caught between conflicting loyalties, unable to fully commit to either path.

When the time is right, Angelo promised himself, trying to ease the guilt that gnawed at his conscience. When I understand more, when I have earned her trust enough to know she will not flee entirely if I reveal what I know. Then I will tell them. Then I will share what I have discovered.

It was a justification, and Angelo knew it. But it was the best he could manage with his honor pulling him in opposite directions.

“Put me to work examining shelves,” Angelo said, pushing aside his internal conflict. “I will help search for the sigil.”

Lorenzo nodded gratefully and returned his attention to the book before him. Nicholas simply rolled his eyes and gestured at the towering bookcases that lined the library walls.

“By all means. There are only several thousand books to examine. I am certain we will be finished before Michaelmas. Of next year.”

Angelo ignored his uncle’s sarcasm and moved to the nearest unexplored section of shelving. The system was straightforward enough. Remove each book, examine the shelf surface behind it for any carvings or markings, replace the book, move to the next. Tedious work, but necessary.

And while his hands worked mechanically, his mind could focus on the real puzzle.

Isolde.

He lifted down a heavy volume on agricultural practices, its leather binding cracked with age, and ran his fingers across the exposed shelf. Smooth wood, slightly dusty, but unmarked. He replaced the book and reached for the next.

What did he actually know about her? Precious little, when he tallied it up. She was the guardian of Grimsfell Hall, presumably the last of a family line that had maintained this responsibility for generations. The last because she had said so and the Hall had only begun to be rented out in the past few years.