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The realization sent a curious warmth through his chest.

Isolde paused beside the rosemary bed, her fingers brushing the silvered leaves. “You knew to harvest at night,” she said quietly. “I watched you from the tower window. You moved through my garden as if you understood it.”

“I did not know it was yours,” Angelo replied, keeping his voice gentle. “But I confess I wondered. The arrangement of the beds and the selection of varieties spoke of someone with genuine expertise. Someone who understood that a kitchen garden could be more than mere utility.”

She glanced at him, and even in the moonlight, he could perceive something shift in her expression. Wariness giving way to cautious interest. “What is it that you noticed in the arrangement?”

“The lemon thyme positioned where it receives more morning sun. The common thyme placed where the drainage is superior. The feverfew sheltered from the worst of the wind but still exposed to adequate light.” Angelo gestured toward the glass cloches. “And five varieties of thyme, each with different properties, each requiring slightly different conditions. That level of attention is what separates a competent gardener from a master.”

Isolde’s posture shifted. He could perceive it even in the uncertain light. Something in her shoulders eased, as if she had been braced for criticism and found unexpected recognition instead.

“My father taught me,” she said, her voice softening. “He was not a pharmacist, but he understood that plants could heal. After my mother died, he …” She paused, her fingers still resting on the rosemary. “He wished to find a cure for my marks. He consulted apothecaries and herbalists across Cornwall, even sent letters to physicians in London. None could help, of course. There is no remedy for a birthmark, but in the process, he learnt a great deal about botanical medicine. And he taught me.”

“He sounds like a devoted father.”

“He was.” The words carried the weight of grief, even after the intervening years. “He was also stubborn and secretive, and quite convinced that the old ways were superior to modern methods.”

“My uncle Paolo is much the same,” Angelo offered, hoping the shared observation might ease her grief. “He trained me in our family’s pharmacy in Florence, and he is utterly convinced that Florentine methods are superior to all others. He would argue with the Almighty Himself over the proper way to dry chamomile.”

Isolde glanced at him, and he caught what might have been the ghost of a smile. “Perhaps they would have got on well. Two obstinate men arguing about the proper way to prepare a herbal tea.” A sound escaped Isolde, not quite a laugh, but closer to one than anything he had heard from her before. “Papa would have insisted on the Cornish method, whatever that might be. He invented traditions when none existed to suit his purposes.”

“A man after my own heart.” Angelo risked a step closer, and when she did not retreat, he felt something loosen in his chest. “May I confess something?”

Isolde turned to face him more fully, her expression wary but curious. “What?”

“When I collected herbs from this garden, I wondered who had planted them. I imagined some elderly botanist, gray-haired and bent with age, shuffling between the beds with a walking stick and muttering about the inadequacy of the soil.” He paused, allowing a rueful note to enter his voice. “I did not imagine a young woman with the hands of a musician and the mind of a scholar, watching my clumsy efforts from above.”

The words hung between them, and Angelo watched Isolde’s face for any sign that he had overstepped. A flush rose in her cheeks, visible even in the moonlight. She turned away, but not before he caught the ghost of something that might have been pleasure flickering across her features.

“Your efforts were not clumsy,” she said, a note of quiet defiance threading through her voice. “You knew precisely what you were about. I could tell from the way you handled my plants.”

Angelo felt warmth bloom in his chest at the admission. She had observed him closely enough to judge his technique. Had watched with the discerning eye of someone who understood what she was witnessing.

“Praise of that sort carries weight, coming from a gardener of your discernment.” He kept his voice steady, sincere. “I have studied under the finest pharmacists in Florence, Isolde. I know expertise when I encounter it. What you have created here … it rivals anything I have seen in Italy.”

Something shifted in Isolde’s bearing. A softening, perhaps, or simply an easing of the rigid self-protection she wore like armor. She began to walk along the gravel path, and Angelo fell into step beside her, content to follow wherever she wished to lead.

“This is my favorite,” she said, pausing beside a bed tucked into a sheltered corner where two walls met. The plants within were dormant now, but Angelo could perceive the careful mulching that protected their roots from frost. “Valerian. I harvest the roots in autumn and dry them for tonics. Mrs. Roskelly has suffered from sleeplessness for years, ever since her husband passed. A cup of valerian tea before bed, and she sleeps through till dawn.”

She speaks of her plants like old friends. Each one with a purpose, a story.

“And here …” Isolde moved to another bed, her voice warming as she spoke. “Meadowsweet. I gather the flowers in summer and press them into a salve for aching joints. Elias, our gardener, suffers greatly with his hands every winter. The cold stiffens his fingers so badly he can barely grip his tools. But the meadowsweet eases the swelling.”

Angelo watched her face as she spoke, watched the way her eyes brightened and her shoulders relaxed. This was Isolde as she was meant to be. Passionate, knowledgeable, sharing her gifts with someone who could appreciate them.

She led him past a row of glass cloches, pointing out her prized specimens with the enthusiasm of a collector displaying rare treasures. “Lemon balm, for melancholy and nervous complaints. I brew it with honey and give it to Cook when her spirits flag. She lost her son to a fever three winters past, and some days the grief sits heavy upon her still.” Another bed, another story. “Comfrey, for broken bones and sprains. I made a poultice last spring when one of the village boys tumbled from a tree and fractured his arm. Mrs. Roskelly delivered it to his mother with instructions, and the bone knit clean and straight.”

“You tend more than plants here,” Angelo observed quietly. “You tend an entire community.”

Isolde’s steps faltered. She turned to look at him, and in the moonlight, he could perceive the sheen of unshed tears brightening her eyes.

“I do what I can,” she said, her voice catching. “From the shadows. Through intermediaries. Never showing my face. They do not know who makes their medicines. They believe Mrs. Roskelly possesses some mysterious healing gift.” A bitter note crept into her voice. “And perhaps that is as it should be. Better an anonymous benefactor than a monster lurking in the walls.”

“You are no monster,” Angelo said firmly.

“Am I not?” She gestured toward a bed where climbing vines lay dormant against the wall, their skeletal branches awaiting spring’s return. “I make soap from honeysuckle blossoms. Not for medicine, but simply because I love the scent, and because it soothes my skin. Such vanity for a creature who never shows her face to anyone.” She laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “I mill my own soap and blend my own perfumes and tend my little garden as if any of it matters. As if I were a normal young woman preparing for a life I shall never have.”

Honeysuckle.