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Angelo warmed the liniment between his palms, the familiar scent of camphor and eucalyptus filling the air. Focus, he told himself. Be present. Nicholas deserves your full attention, not the distracted fumbling of a man whose thoughts are elsewhere.

He began to work along his uncle’s back, his fingers finding the knotted muscles along Nicholas’s thigh and applying steady, methodical pressure. He had learned this art in Florence, watching the massaggiatori … masseuses who worked in the bathhouses, studying their techniques and adapting them for his own patients. Healing was in his blood, passed down through generations of Romanos who had tended the sick and suffering at the Antica Spezieria di San Lorenzo.

But today, his hands felt clumsy. His mind kept drifting to Isolde’s face in the moonlight, to the sound of her laughter, to the devastating moment when all the warmth had drained from her eyes.

“Blazes!” Nicholas jerked beneath his hands, glaring over his shoulder. “What the devil are you doing back there? That felt like you were trying to tenderize a beefsteak.”

“Scusi.” Angelo eased the pressure, wincing at his own carelessness. “I apologize. I am not … myself this morning.”

“Clearly.” Nicholas settled back down, though his posture remained tense with suspicion. “You are typically insufferably cheerful at this hour. All that Italian sunshine bubbling out of you, making the rest of us feel inadequate in comparison. But today you look as if someone has died.”

Something has died, Angelo thought bleakly. Hope. Trust. The fragile beginning of something that could have been beautiful.

Aloud, he said only, “I told you. I did not sleep well.”

“Mmm.” Nicholas did not sound convinced. “Does this have anything to do with your nocturnal wanderings? I heard you stumbling about the corridors at some ungodly hour.”

Angelo’s hands stilled for a moment before he forced them to continue their work. “I was … taking a walk. The house is fascinating, particularly at night when⁠—”

“When the cliffs sing their eerie songs and the shadows seem to move of their own accord?” Nicholas’s voice was dry. “Yes, I have noticed. This place is devilishly unsettling. If I did not know better, I would say it was haunted.”

It is, Angelo thought. By a beautiful ghost of a woman who will no longer speak to me. Perhaps she does not even truly exist.

He did not voice the thought. Instead, he focused on the massage, working his way down Nicholas’s calf to the ankle, where the muscles were always tightest. He could feel the gradual loosening beneath his fingers as the liniment did its work, the heat penetrating deep into the damaged tissue.

“There,” he said at last, straightening and wiping his hands on a cloth. “You should feel improvement by this afternoon. Try to move about today. Walking will help prevent the stiffness from returning.”

Nicholas sat up, rotating his ankle experimentally. “It does feel better,” he admitted grudgingly. “Though I maintain that Lady Trafford’s touch is gentler.”

“Lady Trafford is a dottoressa … doctor of great skill.” Angelo managed a wan smile. “I am merely a humble farmacista doing my best.”

“Humble.” Nicholas snorted. “That is not a word I would typically apply to you, Angelo. Nor to any of your countrymen, for that matter.”

It was meant as a barb, but Angelo found he lacked the energy to parry it with his usual good humor. He simply nodded, gathering up his liniment and cloth, and turned toward the door.

“Angelo.”

He paused, glancing back.

Nicholas was watching him with an expression that might, in another man, have been called concern. “Whatever is troubling you … it is not my place to pry. But should you find yourself in need of a cynical ear, I am told I am an excellent listener. Primarily because I do not care enough to judge.”

It was, Angelo realized, the closest Nicholas had ever come to offering kindness. The recognition made something twist painfully in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I will remember that.”

The day that followed was interminable.

Lorenzo had decreed that they would continue their search of the library, and Angelo threw himself into the task with desperate energy. If he could not find Isolde through the hidden passages of Grimsfell Hall, perhaps he could find something. Some clue, some secret, that would explain her world and give him a way back to her.

The library was vast, its shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, crammed with volumes that ranged from crumbling medieval manuscripts to relatively modern treatises on agriculture and animal husbandry. Lorenzo moved through them with the discriminating eye of an art historian, pulling out books to examine their spines, checking for hidden sigils or markings that might indicate a connection to his ancestor Matteo di Bianchi, before flipping through their contents.

Nicholas trailed along behind them, offering caustic commentary on the proceedings. “Another thrilling day of staring at dusty tomes,” he announced to no one in particular. “I cannot imagine why I did not choose to remain in London, where I might be engaging in such stimulating pursuits as watching paint dry or counting the cobblestones in Piccadilly.”

“Your enthusiasm is, as always, inspiring,” Lorenzo replied without looking up from the book he was examining. “Perhaps you might make yourself useful by checking the lower shelves. I believe there may be some volumes of interest near the floor.”

“On my knees. In the dust. How delightful.”

But Nicholas complied, lowering himself carefully to the floor with a grimace of discomfort. His leg, Angelo noted, was moving more freely than it had when they first arrived at Grimsfell. Proof that the daily treatments were having effect, even if Nicholas would never admit it.