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She was accomplished in both music and botany, possessing expertise that suggested years of dedicated study. She hid herself, maintained distance, believed people disliked her for reasons she would not explain.

And she was lonely. That much was clear in every word she spoke, every gesture she made. Isolated by choice or circumstance, he still could not determine which, and yearning for connection even as she denied herself its possibility.

Angelo removed another book, examined another shelf, and replaced the volume. His movements became automatic, allowing his thoughts to wander.

There had to be a way to reach her. Some approach that would convince her he meant no harm, that whatever secret she guarded about herself would not drive him away. But how did one prove trustworthiness to someone who had clearly been hurt before? Someone whose isolation suggested deep wounds rather than mere preference?

Perhaps he could leave her a message. Write something and leave it in the Hall of Reflections where she would find it. Put in ink what he struggled to convey in their brief, interrupted conversations.

But what would he say? How did one put such complicated feelings into writing when he barely understood them himself?

Dear Isolde, I cannot stop thinking about you despite having exchanged perhaps a dozen sentences. Your music haunts me. Your garden speaks of an expertise I admire. Please trust me enough to show me your face.

No. That sounded desperate and slightly unhinged.

Isolde, I wish to know you better. I promise not to judge whatever you fear revealing.

Too formal. Too distant.

Angelo sighed, replacing yet another book and reaching for the next. Perhaps words on paper were the wrong approach entirely. Perhaps he simply needed to continue appearing, continue showing up night after night until his persistence itself demonstrated sincerity.

Actions, his uncle Paolo always said, spoke louder than any declaration. If Angelo wanted Isolde to trust him, he needed to prove himself trustworthy through consistent presence and genuine interest rather than through eloquent phrases.

“You are distracted.”

Angelo looked up to find Lorenzo watching him, a quizzical expression on his exhausted face.

“I am helping search,” Angelo protested, gesturing at the books he had been systematically examining.

“You are staring at that shelf as if it holds the secrets of the universe,” Lorenzo corrected. “And you have checked the same book three times now. So either you suspect it of hiding something, or your mind is elsewhere.”

Angelo glanced down and realized Lorenzo was right. He had removed and replaced the same agricultural text multiple times without even noticing.

“Forgive me,” he said, setting the book firmly back in place. “I did not sleep well. The wind and the strangeness of this place make for restless nights.”

It was not a lie. The wind had contributed to his sleeplessness, even if the primary cause had been a mysterious woman who played organ music in hidden chambers.

Lorenzo studied him for a long moment, then seemed to accept the explanation. “This hall affects everyone strangely,” he agreed. “I have had the most peculiar dreams since arriving. As if the stones themselves are trying to communicate, to share whatever secrets they hold.”

“Have you considered,” Nicholas said from his position at the table, “that this might be a fool’s errand? That perhaps Matteo di Bianchi was simply an eccentric craftsman who enjoyed elaborate puzzles, and we are wasting our time searching for meaning where none exists?”

“No.” Lorenzo’s response was immediate and firm. “There is meaning here. Purpose. Everything Matteo created was deliberate, carefully planned. The Hall of Reflections is not merely beautiful. It serves a function.”

“And that function is …?” Nicholas demanded.

“I do not know,” Lorenzo admitted, frustration evident in his voice. “But the clue mentioned music. Organ music specifically. There must be some combination, some sequence that unlocks whatever Matteo concealed.”

Angelo thought of Isolde playing in the depths of night, her music haunting and beautiful and filled with emotion. Had she ever discovered the combination Lorenzo sought? Or did she, like them, remain ignorant of the Hall’s true purpose?

The question burned in his mind, but he could not ask it without revealing how he knew about the music at all.

“Perhaps we should examine the organ itself more closely,” Angelo suggested instead. “Not just play it, but study its construction. Look for hidden mechanisms in the stops or pedals.”

“Gabriel has already done so,” Lorenzo said. “He found nothing obvious. But you are right. There might be something we missed. Something that requires expertise we lack.”

“Then we bring in an expert,” Nicholas said. “Find an organ builder, commission them to examine the instrument thoroughly. Surely, in all of Cornwall, there must be someone qualified.”

“And tell them what?” Lorenzo demanded. “That we suspect a three-hundred-year-old organ hides a secret mechanism? They would think us mad.”