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“Signorina Fairfax,” Lorenzo said at last, his voice soft with wonder, “do you know what Botticelli would have done upon seeing you?”

Isolde shook her head mutely.

“He would have reached for his brush.” Lorenzo’s eyes never left her face. “Overwhelmed by the uniqueness of your beauty. To him, your face would not be marred. It would be elevated. A symbol. A contrast. Botticelli revered the rare. He painted goddesses with elongated necks and impossible proportions because he understood that true beauty lies not in conformity but in distinction.”

He dropped his hand but did not step back.

“Michelangelo,” he continued, “would have spoken of divine intent. He believed that imperfection was where the soul peeked through the flesh. He saw the hand of God in every flaw, every asymmetry, every deviation from the expected. Your mark?” Lorenzo shook his head slowly. “He would have called it sacred. Proof that God had not abandoned subtlety.”

Angelo saw Isolde’s lips part, saw her eyes grow bright with unshed tears.

“Leonardo wrote often about nature’s refusal of perfect symmetry, believing that truth lived in variation. He spent years studying the human form, seeking the divine mathematics that underpinned creation. He would have studied your face with awe, wondering whether your birthmark was not a flaw at all, but a sign the rest of us were too crude, too barbaric, to read.”

He paused, letting his words settle over the room like a benediction.

“In their world,” he said gently, “you would be immortalized.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Angelo looked around the room and saw tears shimmering in both Henri’s and Isolde’s eyes. Even Gabriel’s usual composure had cracked slightly, his expression one of utter captivation. Nicholas was studying Lorenzo with an expression that might have been grudging respect.

“Thank you,” Isolde whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I … I do not know what to say.”

Lorenzo inclined his head gracefully, then stepped back and executed a proper bow, the first he had offered since her entrance.

“You are most welcome, Signorina Fairfax.” A gleam entered his eye, and his tone shifted from reverential to eager. “Now … what can you tell me about Matteo di Bianchi?”

The moment shattered.

Nicholas let out a bark of laughter. “Deuce it, man. Could you not allow the moment to breathe for even an instant?”

Lorenzo shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “The moment is over. There are secrets to unravel.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Genuine, warm, the kind of laughter that dissolved tension and built bonds. Angelo caught Isolde’s eye and saw her smiling through her tears, her shoulders relaxed, her fear replaced by something that looked very much like belonging. Angelo was eternally grateful that these were the first persons to welcome her into society, to help build her confidence, and prove that not all in the world were cruel.

“Come,” Gabriel said, gesturing toward the table. “Let us finish our breakfast, and Miss Fairfax can tell us everything she knows about this remarkable house and its secrets.”

Over eggs and toast and endless cups of tea, Isolde told them what she knew.

“According to family legend,” she began, her voice growing stronger as she warmed to her subject, “Matteo di Bianchi designed the expansions of the manor in the early 1500s. The original structure was much smaller, a simple medieval hall that had been in my family for generations. But Matteo transformed it into something extraordinary.”

“The hidden passages,” Angelo said. “The grates. The secret mechanisms.”

“All his design.” Isolde nodded. “He was a genius of engineering as well as art. My ancestors commissioned him to design a house within a house, a network of hidden spaces where secrets could be kept safe from prying eyes.”

“The Hall of Reflections,” Gabriel said. “We discovered it behind the library wall.”

“Yes. But it was not the only room Matteo created.” Isolde paused, letting her words sink in. “There is another. A room that the organ unlocks.”

Lorenzo’s fork clattered against his plate. “Rooms? Not room? There is more than the Hall of Reflections?”

“Yes.” Isolde met his eager gaze. “The Hall is merely the antechamber. Beyond it lies Matteo’s true workshop, what my father called the Room of Science.”

Lorenzo was already rising from his chair. “I must see it. Take me there at once.”

“Lorenzo.” Nicholas’s voice cracked like a whip. “Sit down. We will finish our breakfast first, like civilized human beings.”

“But—”