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“We could claim to be considering purchasing it,” Angelo suggested. “Ask them to assess its condition and value. In the process of examination, they might discover what we have missed.”

Lorenzo’s eyes lit with sudden interest. “That could work. Yes. A legitimate reason for close examination that would not raise suspicions about our true purpose.”

He rose from the floor with obvious effort, his legs stiff from sitting cross-legged for so long. “I will speak with Gabriel about arranging such a consultation. In the meantime, we continue our search here.”

Angelo returned his attention to the shelves, but his mind remained elsewhere. An organ builder would examine the instrument thoroughly and would likely discover the alcove behind it. Would perhaps even find the mechanism that allowed access to the hidden passages.

Which meant Angelo had limited time to learn what he could from Isolde directly. To build enough trust that she would not simply vanish entirely when her hiding places were inevitably uncovered. But was that possible when she knew they were hunting her home for secrets?

He needed to see her again. Tonight, if possible. Every night until he understood her well enough to help rather than harm when the truth finally came to light.

Because it would come to light. Lorenzo’s determination alone guaranteed that. The only question was whether Angelo could reach Isolde first, whether he could convince her to trust him before circumstances forced her hand.

The afternoon passed in tedious examination. Nicholas grew increasingly irritable, complaining about his aching leg and the fundamental stupidity of their enterprise. Lorenzo remained grimly focused, working through book after book with methodical determination. And Angelo maintained his search of the shelves while planning what he might say to Isolde when night fell and he could seek her out again.

At one point, Henri appeared with Gabriel, both looking refreshed from whatever they had been doing while the men labored in the library. Henri’s eyes widened at the chaos of books scattered across every surface.

“My goodness,” she said, surveying the disorder. “You have been thorough.”

“Thoroughly unsuccessful,” Nicholas corrected. “We have found precisely nothing beyond books, more books, and the occasional dead spider.”

“Not entirely nothing,” Lorenzo protested, though his tone lacked conviction. “I have found several references to Arthurian legend, and one book that mentions craftsmen from the Continent working in England during the Tudor period. It is … something.”

“It is a thread,” Gabriel said kindly. “And sometimes threads are all we have to follow until they lead somewhere more substantial.”

The viscount’s encouragement seemed to revive Lorenzo’s spirits somewhat. They discussed the possibility of bringing in an organ expert, with Gabriel agreeing to make inquiries in the nearest town about qualified craftsmen who might be available for consultation.

By the time servants arrived to light lamps against the gathering darkness, they had examined perhaps a third of the library’s collection and found nothing. No additional sigils. No hidden compartments. No clues beyond what they already possessed.

Lorenzo slumped in defeat, surrounded by towers of books that had yielded no secrets.

“There must be something we are missing,” he muttered, more to himself than his companions. “Matteo would not have left us thwarted by something as predictable as water damage. Not when we have come so far.”

“Perhaps,” Nicholas suggested, rising from the table with obvious relief, “the answer is not in the books or shelves at all. Perhaps it is somewhere else entirely. The gardens, the stonework, the very structure of the hall.”

“Then we expand our search,” Lorenzo said, though exhaustion made his words lack conviction. “Tomorrow. Tonight, I must rest, or I will be useless.”

They dispersed to their chambers to wash and change for dinner. Angelo took extra care with his appearance, hoping irrationally that Isolde might see him, might notice his efforts.

The thought made him grin despite his fatigue. When had he become this person? This man who preened and planned and obsessed over a woman he had barely spoken to?

But even as he mocked himself, Angelo knew he would not change course. Could not change course, any more than he could will his heart to stop beating or his lungs to stop drawing breath.

Isolde had become necessary to him in ways that defied rational explanation. He was not certain if she had visited this day, too tired to have sensed her as he sometimes did, but it was likely she had. Later tonight, when the household slept, and the wind sang over the cliffs, he would seek her out again.

Would continue seeking her out until she either trusted him enough to truly reveal herself, or made it clear beyond doubt that his pursuit was unwelcome.

Though somehow, Angelo suspected the latter would never happen. Because beneath her fear, beneath her careful distance, he sensed a depth of emotion that mirrored his own feelings.

A pull. A connection. A sense that they were meant to find each other in this strange old hall at the edge of the world.

And if that was madness, then Angelo would embrace madness gladly.

He had never felt more alive than in those midnight moments when Isolde’s music filled the Hall of Reflections and her profile caught the candlelight like something from a Renaissance painting.

Whatever it took to experience that again, to deepen that connection, to transform those brief encounters into something more substantial, Angelo would do it.

Without hesitation.