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There was a soft click, and the wall slid back.

“Madonna santissima,” Angelo breathed, staring at the opening that had appeared where solid stone had been moments before. “How is this possible?”

“Matteo di Bianchi,” Isolde replied simply. “He designed this house to hide secrets. My family has been keeping them ever since.”

She stepped through the opening, and Angelo followed.

The passage beyond was narrow but well-maintained, lit by thin shafts of light filtering through grates set at regular intervals along the wall. Angelo recognized those grates immediately. He had stared into their darkness a hundred times, wondering what lay beyond.

“This is incredible,” he murmured, running his hand along the smooth stone of the wall. “The workmanship … I have never seen anything like it. Not even in Florence, where we pride ourselves on such things.”

“There are passages throughout the entire house,” Isolde said, leading him deeper into the labyrinth. Her hand found his in the dim light, her fingers threading through his own, and Angelo’s heart stuttered at the simple intimacy of the gesture. “Behind nearly every room. My father taught me to navigate them when I was a child. After …” She hesitated. “Since he died, I have spent much of my life within these walls.”

They passed grate after grate, and through each one Angelo caught glimpses of familiar rooms. The morning room where he had taken breakfast, the library where he had searched for clues with Lorenzo and Nicholas, the dining room where he had eaten dinner and felt hidden eyes were watching from the shadows.

“You truly were there,” he said softly, wonder coloring his voice as his instincts were confirmed. “All those times I felt someone watching me. You were there, behind the walls.”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I watched you from the moment you arrived. I could not help myself. You were so … different. So warm and full of life. I had never seen anyone like you.”

Angelo’s heart clenched at the loneliness implicit in her words. All those years, watching the world through iron grates, never able to participate, never able to connect. It was a prison of her own making, perhaps, but a prison nonetheless, one built by a world that had taught her she was unworthy of freedom.

Isolde led him to a narrow staircase that spiraled upward into darkness. They climbed for what felt like an eternity, their footsteps echoing in the confined space, the air growing warmer as they ascended. Angelo’s legs began to burn with the effort, but he did not complain. He would have climbed a thousand stairs if it meant reaching Isolde’s private world.

At last, they reached a landing, and Isolde paused before a heavy wooden door. She glanced back at him, something vulnerable in the way she wavered. A silent question, perhaps, or a last moment of hesitation before she committed to this final act of trust.

“This is my sanctuary,” she confessed quietly. “No one has been inside except Mrs. Roskelly. Not since Papa died.”

“If you are not ready to show me⁠—”

“I am ready.” She drew a breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed open the door.

Angelo stepped through … and stopped, transfixed.

The tower room was magnificent.

It was larger than he had expected, occupying what must have been the entire top floor of the tower. Tall windows flanked every wall, interspersed with mirrors that caught the fading light of sunset and multiplied it into a thousand golden reflections. Through the glass, he could see the ocean stretching to the horizon, the curving cliffs that embraced Grimsfell Hall, the wild moors rolling inland like waves of brown and purple. The sky was ablaze with the colors of dusk, amber and rose and deep violet, so that the room seemed to glow with captured fire.

A hearth dominated one wall, where flames crackled cheerfully, filling the space with warmth and the faint scent of applewood smoke. The chamber was divided into two distinct areas. On one side was a sitting area with comfortable chairs, a writing desk, and shelves crammed with books. On the other, a bedchamber, its massive four-poster bed draped in rich fabrics of crimson and gold.

The rugs beneath his feet were thick and luxurious, their patterns rendered in deep reds and navy blues. Elaborate tapestries hung from the walls, depicting knights on horseback in pursuit of distant glory. Depictions, perhaps, of the Arthurian legends that seemed to permeate every corner of Lorenzo’s quest to find his ancestor.

But it was the bed that drew Angelo’s gaze and held it.

The bed, with its carved posts and heavy curtains, its mountain of pillows and inviting expanse of mattress. The bed where Isolde had slept alone for years, dreaming of a world she believed would never accept her.

She deserves so much more, he told himself tenderly, tearing his eyes away from the loneliness it spoke of. She has been alone long enough.

It was humbling to find out that underneath it all, he was a mere man, driven by a longing to banish every lonely night she had known.

“It is beautiful,” he said aloud, forcing his attention back to the room as a whole. “You have created a sanctuary indeed.”

Isolde moved to stand beside one of the windows, her profile gilded by the dying light. “It was my mother’s room before she died giving birth to me. Papa could never bear to change it, so I inherited it along with everything else.” She traced a finger along the window frame. “Sometimes I think I can feel her here. As if some part of her lingers, watching over me.”

Angelo crossed to stand beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her presence but not quite touching. The view from the window was spectacular. The sea a sheet of hammered gold beneath the setting sun, and the cliffs black silhouettes against the blazing sky.

“Isolde,” he said quietly, “there is something I must tell you.”

She turned to look at him, wariness flickering in her eyes. “What is it?”