The chandeliers of Ashworth Hall, typically a beacon of warmth and revelry, seemed to cast long, skeletal shadows that night. Ethan, unable to shake a growing unease about Isolde’s welfare, had excused himself from a tedious conversation about agricultural improvements with Lord Davenport and wandered the less-populated corridors of his own home. He told himself he was simply seeking fresh air, but the truth was a gnawing anxiety propelled him.