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“Lorenzo?” Angelo kept his voice low, mindful of Nicholas sleeping in the adjacent chamber. “What are you doing awake?”

Lorenzo turned to him, eyes wide and slightly unfocused. “Do you hear it? The music? I thought at first it was part of a dream, but no. There is actual organ music echoing through this hall. Listen.”

Angelo’s mind raced. He could hear the music clearly, but Lorenzo’s rooms faced the sea while Angelo’s faced the inner courtyard. The cliff-song would be much louder in Lorenzo’s chamber, potentially masking the organ’s distant notes.

“I hear only the wind,” Angelo lied, hating himself even as the words left his mouth. “The whistling of the cliffs. It creates strange harmonies that can sound almost like music.”

Lorenzo frowned, clearly unconvinced. “No, I am certain I heard—” He broke off, tilting his head again. The organ music had faded to silence, leaving only the eternal whisper of wind through hidden passages.

“You are exhausted,” Angelo said gently. “We both are. The mind plays tricks when we push ourselves too hard. You should return to bed, try to sleep properly.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Lorenzo still looked uncertain, but exhaustion was winning over curiosity. “Though I could swear … well. Never mind. I shall investigate in the morning if I remain convinced I heard something.” He yawned hugely. “You are a good friend, Angelo. Looking out for my rest when I am too foolish to do so myself.”

The words stung with their irony. A good friend would not be lying to Lorenzo’s face. A good friend would not be concealing vital information about the Hall’s mysteries. But Angelo could not bring himself to reveal Isolde’s presence, not yet, not when she had barely begun to trust him.

Lorenzo entered his chamber, and Angelo caught a glimpse of the room beyond, identical to his own but positioned differently, with windows facing the churning Atlantic. The cliff-song was indeed much louder there, whistling through the ironwork with an intensity that would make sleep difficult for anyone not accustomed to it.

Angelo waited until Lorenzo’s door closed, then moved quickly and quietly down the corridor. Each step felt like a small betrayal, but he could not stop himself from seeking Isolde any more than he could stop breathing.

The library was dark and silent when he reached it, illuminated only by moonlight filtering through tall windows. But the bookshelf entrance to the Hall of Reflections stood open in clear invitation, and Angelo’s heart lifted at the sight.

She wanted him to come. Had opened the way deliberately, rather than forcing him to fumble with the mechanism himself.

He descended the stone steps, and music rose to meet him. The last notes were a beautiful melody that seemed more hopeful than the haunting piece she had played the night before. As if something in Isolde had shifted. Some burden had lightened enough to allow joy to creep into her playing.

Angelo emerged into the Hall of Reflections and stopped, his breath catching in his throat.

Isolde stood facing him, not seated at the organ or positioned in careful shadow, but standing in the middle of the hall with candles burning behind her. Her face was shadowed by the backlighting, features indistinct, but her posture spoke of determination rather than fear.

She was giving him a chance. Waiting to see what he would do.

Angelo’s heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his fingertips, in every nerve ending throughout his body. He took a tentative step forward, then another, half-expecting her to bolt as she had before.

But Isolde remained still, watching him approach through the shadows.

He managed three more steps before she raised her hand, palm outward in that now-familiar gesture of halt. Angelo froze immediately, fearful that pushing further would cause her to flee and undo whatever fragile progress they had made.

“You did not tell your friends about me.” Her voice carried clearly through the hall, stating fact rather than asking a question.

“No,” Angelo confirmed. “I did not.”

“Why?”

The single word held a world of complexity. Why had not he told them? Why had he kept her secret? Why had he chosen to protect her privacy over helping his friends’ quest?

“I wanted to respect your privacy,” Angelo said simply. “You trusted me enough to speak with me, to let me see you … even partially. I would not betray that trust without your permission.”

Isolde was silent for a long moment, and Angelo thought he saw her shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That … means more than you might realize.”

Angelo waited, scarcely daring to breathe, letting her control the pace of this encounter. If she needed distance, he would maintain it. If she needed silence, he would provide that too. Whatever she required to feel safe enough to continue this strange dance they had begun.

“You asked me last night why I hide,” Isolde said eventually. Her voice had gone smaller, more vulnerable. “Why people do not like me.”

“Only if you wish to tell me,” Angelo said quickly. “I do not mean to pressure you into revelations you are not ready to share.”

“I think …” Isolde hesitated, then seemed to gather her courage. “I think you should know. Before you decide whether to continue seeking me out.” She took a breath. “Some people believe I am marked by the devil.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with years of pain and rejection.