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The absurdity of it struck Isolde with sudden force. Three centuries of Fairfaxes living at Grimsfell, generation after generation maintaining their watch, and she was apparently the first to actually receive quest seekers following the trail of clues to her doorstep.

Why now? Why her? What had changed after three hundred years of silence?

Had other seekers come before, only to be turned away by her ancestors who were better equipped to deal with them? Had her father or grandfather faced similar situations and managed them with competence she could not hope to match?

Or was something different about this particular group, this particular quest? Lorenzo spoke of following a trail of clues across England, of discoveries in York and Tintagel. Had those clues always existed, or were they newly revealed? Had someone or something set these events in motion?

The questions multiplied faster than Isolde could process them, each one spawning three more, until her head ached with the weight of unknowing.

Isolde watched Angelo rise from his examination of the organ, watched him exchange words with Lorenzo about continuing their search. His tenderness when he had whispered her name earlier made her chest ache with longing and fear in equal measure.

She could not bear to watch anymore. Could not stand witnessing their methodical dismantling of her family’s secrets while doing nothing to stop them or knowing why she should.

Isolde turned and fled through the passages, taking the familiar route to her tower chamber by memory rather than sight. The darkness wrapped around her, but she welcomed it. In the passages, at least, she knew every turn, every step, every hiding place.

Here, she was in control.

The passages wound through the walls of Grimsfell like veins through a body, connecting every major room and providing sight lines into spaces meant to be private. Isolde had spent years learning their layout, until she could navigate them blindfolded if necessary. They were her domain, her refuge, the one place where she could move freely without fear of encountering anyone who might stare, or point, or recoil.

But today, they felt less like refuge and more like prison. The narrow walls closed in, the darkness seemed oppressive rather than comforting, and Isolde found herself almost wishing she could simply walk through the main corridors like a normal person, rather than skulking through hidden passages like a ghost.

She burst into her tower chamber and immediately startled Mrs. Roskelly, who had been collecting laundry and now shrieked in surprise, dropping the bundle she carried. Linens scattered across the floor like fallen snow.

“Miss Isolde!” the housekeeper gasped, one hand clutched to her chest. “Ye frightened me half to death! Ye cannot keep appearing like a wraith. Me old heart cannot take these shocks!”

“They are so determined!” Isolde exclaimed, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “The guests. They are examining everything, searching for ways to breach Grimsfell’s secrets, and I do not know what to do. They found the acoustic engineering in the shelving. They are testing every surface of the Hall of Reflections, and it is only a matter of time before they discover the passages themselves, and then what? What am I supposed to do then?”

Mrs. Roskelly heaved as she tried to catch her breath, her face still pale from the shock. “Goodness, child. Ye will be the death of me with these dramatic entrances.”

“Did you not hear what I said?” Isolde demanded, pacing the chamber like a caged animal. “They are getting too close. They are too clever, too determined. Lorenzo is an art historian who understands Renaissance engineering techniques. Angelo is observant enough to sense things others miss. Even Nicholas, for all his complaints, notices details. They will find the truth eventually, and I have no idea how to stop them!”

The tower chamber felt even small as Isolde paced, her agitation making the space seem to shrink around her. This had been her private sanctuary for years, the one place in all of Grimsfell that was entirely hers.

Now even this refuge felt inadequate. Nowhere in Grimsfell seemed safe anymore, not with Angelo and his companions striving to unravel every mystery the hall held.

Mrs. Roskelly bent to gather the scattered linens, her movements deliberate and calm. “Perhaps,” she said carefully, “ye should not try to stop them.”

Isolde froze mid-pace. “What?”

“They seem like a nice bunch,” Mrs. Roskelly continued, straightening with the bundle in her arms. “Polite, well-mannered, clearly people of quality. Perhaps ye should reveal yerself properly, work with them instead of hiding from them. Help them understand what they are seeking, and in doing so, control what they discover.”

“I cannot—” Isolde’s breath came short, panic rising in her chest. “That is not … Mrs. Roskelly, you do not understand⁠—”

“I understand that ye have been alone too long,” the housekeeper said firmly. “I understand that yer father, God rest his soul, left ye with a burden ye were too young to bear. And I understand that these people, particularly that nice Mr. Angelo, might be exactly what ye need to finally step into the world instead of hiding from it.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath Isolde’s feet. Step into the world. Leave the passages, the shadows, the carefully constructed isolation that had been her life for six years.

The thought was too large, too terrifying. The room spun, and Isolde had to grip the back of a chair to steady herself.

What would it mean to step into the world? To present herself openly as the owner of Grimsfell Hall, to interact with guests in daylight, to allow herself to be seen and known?

The images that flooded her mind were overwhelming. Standing in the morning room for breakfast, enduring stares from everyone at the table. Walking through the gardens in daylight, knowing visitors could see her clearly. Sitting across from Angelo at dinner, watching his expression shift from kindness to pity as he truly registered the extent of her disfigurement in full light.

“These are not the sort yer father was worried about,” Mrs. Roskelly insisted, moving closer. “These are good people, people who might be able to help ye leave Grimsfell, enter society, build a life beyond these walls.”

“No,” Isolde whispered, though whether she was refusing the suggestion or simply denying its possibility, she could not say. “No, that is not … it is too much. Too much change. I cannot simply … after living this way for so long … I cannot just …”

The words dissolved into incoherent fragments as panic clawed at her throat. Leave Grimsfell? Enter society? Stand before strangers in full light and endure their stares, their whispers, their barely concealed horror?