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But that was merely the architecture of this peculiar place playing tricks upon his mind. He had grown accustomed to the sensation of being observed in Grimsfell Hall. In fact, he had come to crave it, for it meant she was near.

Now, that familiar frisson of awareness was absent, and its absence was more terrifying than any phantom of the night could have been.

When did I begin to depend upon the feeling of her eyes following me through these halls?

Angelo descended the stairs with care, one hand steadying his lantern while the other traced the cold stone wall. Each step felt heavy with dread, as if he were walking toward confirmation of his worst fears rather than simply seeking the woman who had, in the space of a few short days, become essential to his very existence.

Blast!

He had frightened her away with that kiss. Too soon, too forward, too much of everything when she required patience and gentle coaxing. He ought to have kissed her hand at most, ought to have respected the distance she so clearly needed. But he had let his longing override his judgment, had allowed himself to follow the urgings of his heart rather than the counsel of his head, and now she was retreating into the shadows where he could not follow.

The thought made his chest ache with a physical pain he had never before experienced.

His uncle Paolo had once told him that optimism was Angelo’s greatest strength, but could also be his greatest weakness. “Nipote,” Paolo had said, his weathered face grave as he had paused in the grinding of herbs, “you believe so strongly in happy endings that you forget sometimes the story is not finished being written. And not all stories end happily, no matter how much we wish them to.”

At that time, Angelo had dismissed the warning, certain that his positive outlook would see him through any difficulty. His family teased him about it constantly, Marco calling him naively hopeful, their uncles in Florence declaring him far too sunny for his own good, Nicholas pronouncing his cheerfulness positively appalling. But Angelo had never considered it a weakness. He believed that expecting the best from people often brought out the best in them, that it was not merely something that soothed the heart, but a force that could shape the course of events.

Now, descending through the darkness of Grimsfell Hall with only a single flame to guide him, he understood what his uncle had meant.

There were some things resolve alone could not mend.

The day had been a failure in every regard. They had learned nothing useful about the Hall of Reflections beyond Matteo di Bianchi’s extraordinary thoroughness in hiding secrets. Lorenzo had grown increasingly frustrated, pacing like a caged lion, his usual intensity sharpening to something approaching mania as frustration followed frustration. Nicholas had retreated into his customary caustic commentary, his barbed observations growing ever more pointed as the hours wore on without progress.

And Angelo … Angelo had spent the entire time distracted by the absence of that familiar sense of being watched.

He had not felt her presence for hours. Not since noon, when he had caught the briefest glimpse of a black cape disappearing through a doorway that led, impossibly, into what appeared to be a solid wall. He had wished to follow, had felt every fiber of his being straining toward that vanishing shadow, but Nicholas had called his name and the moment had passed.

Now, it felt as though Isolde had simply vanished from Grimsfell entirely, taking all the light and warmth with her.

What have I done?

The question echoed through his mind as he reached the main hall, that vast, unfurnished space that felt more cathedral than domestic. His lantern barely pushed back the darkness, creating a small circle of wavering gold that only emphasized the overwhelming gloom pressing in from all sides.

The main hall had always struck Angelo as peculiar. A massive chamber with no furniture, no decoration beyond the portraits that lined the walls in heavy frames, their painted eyes seeming to follow visitors with quiet judgment. What purpose did such a space serve? It was too large for practical use, too empty to be welcoming. Just another mystery in a house that seemed comprised entirely of them.

He was halfway across when movement caught his eye.

Not in the hall itself, but in one of the tall windows. A reflection made visible by his lantern illuminating the glass, turning it into a dark mirror.

Isolde stood there in the reflection, her face turned toward him, unreadable in the wavering light.

Angelo whirled about, his heart leaping with a surge of hope so fierce it left him breathless. He searched desperately for her actual presence, scanning shadows and corners, the massive portraits, peering into every grate while attempting to angle some light into the black spaces beyond. But there was nothing. Only empty darkness and silence so complete it seemed to press against his eardrums.

“Isolde?” he called softly, his voice echoing back at him in the vast space, bouncing off stone and returning to mock his solitude. “Please. I know you are here. I can see you.”

Know you are here … can see you … see you …

The echo repeated his words like a cruel chorus, reminding him how this house had been designed to disorient, to deceive, to hide its secrets from those who sought them.

Silence answered him, broken only by the eternal whisper of wind through hidden passages, that singing sound that gave Grimsfell its name, like a thousand distant voices raised in mournful harmony.

Angelo turned back to the window, to her reflection that remained visible in the glass. It was disorienting in the extreme, seeing her image while knowing she stood somewhere behind him, somewhere in the darkness beyond his lantern’s reach. She existed in both places and neither, a paradox of presence and absence that seemed to define their entire acquaintance.

She looked ethereal in the reflection, like a figure from a painting. Pale and beautiful and impossibly distant. The black cape wrapped about her shoulders made her seem even more ghostly, as if she were already fading back into the shadows from which she had emerged.

Is this all we shall ever have? Reflections and echoes and moments stolen from darkness?

“Why did you kiss me?”