The chamber lay in utter disarray.

The large, elegant four-poster bed, draped in sumptuous purple curtains and occupying the center of the southern wall, had its oversized pillows and heavy blankets strewn in every direction. The white sheets were crumpled, twisted upon themselves, and hung over the edge onto the wooden floor like countless wild vines that had sprung up over the course of a single night.

The carved walnut wardrobe against the eastern wall stood wide open, revealing conspicuous gaps among the garments hanging inside. Many of the missing clothes had been discarded haphazardly throughout the room—dangling from the wardrobe's many open drawers, carelessly tossed across the floor and the circular black-and-white striped rug that separated the bed from the cabinet. Others, however, were simply gone.

So too was one of the large leather travel bags that had occupied the compartment reserved for them on the wardrobe's left side.

Taking in the scene, Tiresio arrived at what seemed to him the only logical conclusion.

"Lucas Ravast must have been in quite a hurry to pack only a single bag," he thought to himself. "And to leave both his room and his clothes in such a state. Even so..."

His gaze was instinctively drawn to the corner between the wardrobe and the bed. Beside an exquisitely carved rosewood bedside table stood a wrought-iron valet stand.

Resting upon it, neatly folded and carefully laid out, was the wedding attire the Lord had been meant to wear that very day. An elegant dark blue frock coat reaching to the knees and fastened with small gilt buttons, a cream silk double-breasted waistcoat, and a pair of gray trousers. Alongside them lay a pair of light-colored gloves and a silver pocket watch suspended from a half-chain.

"Who prepares his ceremonial clothes so meticulously the night before," he wondered, "if he already knows he won't be wearing them the following day?"

The question remained unanswered.

At that very moment, his attention was diverted by the dull metallic thud behind him.

Turning, he saw Liris bending to retrieve a silver candelabrum she had just knocked onto the floor.

"Sorry..." she murmured quietly, not sounding particularly embarrassed as she picked it up and returned it to the large walnut writing desk that occupied much of the northern wall.

Tiresio watched her for a moment before she resumed searching the room for clues.

Together with her, Goldrick and Karak were doing the same, methodically examining the desk and the bookcase beside it, its shelves crammed with volumes.

A few steps farther away, in the corridor beyond the open bedroom door, Lucien, Gwen, Captain Iuliu, and Bella were still speaking with Simon Ravast.

The young nobleman remained visibly shaken by the morning's events, yet his expression had eased ever so slightly after the six travelers had agreed to join the search for his brother and future sister-in-law.

They had discussed their course of action at length and, in the end, all had reached the same conclusion.

If they truly intended to work together to unravel the mysteries of these lands, then helping search for two missing nobles was only natural. Besides, they were under no pressing obligation on their journey to Sethern and could easily afford to remain in Ravast for a few more days. And there was little doubt that success would be generously rewarded.

Thus, while some of them questioned Simon about any unusual events involving Lucas or Anastasia during the previous days, the others searched Lord Lucas's bedchamber.

So far, however, their efforts had yielded little.

The books lining the shelves with almost obsessive precision revealed nothing of real significance. Some chronicled the history of the Valley, particularly its recent past. Others dealt with the geography of these lands, with frequent references to the village of Ravast itself. Most, however, were devoted to the heraldry of noble houses, complete with family customs and traditions.

Not exactly captivating reading.

His focus rested elsewhere.

When Karak and Liris left the bookcase to inspect the window, Tiresio seized the opportunity to approach the writing desk.

Standing beside Goldrick, who was deeply absorbed in leafing through an old, pale leather-bound volume entitled On the Art of Needle and Thread, the dark-haired man surveyed the desktop.

Aside from a goose-feather quill and a half-empty inkwell from which a few drops had spilled, it was bare.

Reaching forward, he grasped the black iron handle and opened the desk's single drawer.

Inside lay nothing but sheets of paper.

One had been torn away.

Most likely the very page from which Lord Ravast had written his farewell note.

"Take a look at this..."

The quiet, hissing voice made him turn toward the wide-open window to his right.

"There's an iron lattice fixed beneath the windowsill all the way down to the ground," Karak said thoughtfully, leaning out over the sill to inspect it. "The ivy hides most of it, but..."

"Is it sturdy enough?" Goldrick asked immediately, lifting his head from the book and voicing the question that had crossed all their minds.

"So it seems," Liris answered, stepping beside their hooded companion and leaning out to examine it herself.

"Only one way to know for sure," Karak declared.

Without a moment's hesitation, he climbed onto the windowsill and began descending the iron lattice.

By the time Goldrick and Tiresio reached the window, he had already climbed down and landed lightly in the rear garden.

"There are footprints," he called up, crouching to study the rain-softened mud with careful attention.

It was exactly the sign they had hoped to find.

Liris and Goldrick immediately left the room and headed down the corridor toward the staircase leading outside.

Tiresio followed close behind.

Their investigation had shifted to the garden now.

Lord Lucas's bedroom had nothing more to offer.

Stepping into the corridor and passing Lucien, Gwen, Iuliu, Bella, and Simon—still deep in conversation just outside the door—he made his way slowly along its length.

Goldrick and Liris had already disappeared down the stairs when, upon reaching the landing, his attention was caught by one of the large paintings adorning the walls.

An ornate gilded frame enclosed a masterfully rendered half-length portrait of a noblewoman in her mid-forties.

Long, gently flowing chestnut hair cascaded gracefully over her shoulders and breast, where it met an elegantly embroidered black gown and a silver pendant set with a teardrop-shaped emerald.

Vivid green eyes brought warmth to a face of soft, harmonious features, while her full lips seemed at once carefully composed and burdened by thoughts they refused to reveal.

The colors were noticeably brighter, yet both the brushwork and style matched those of the portrait he had admired in the residence's drawing room upon their arrival.

The artist was almost certainly the same.

And so, it seemed, was one of the subjects.

The children's mother.

It could only be her.

Though visibly older, she had lost none of her beauty or quiet grace.

"Lady Ravast, sir."

The voice behind him made him turn.

Philipo had appeared beside him with his customary uncanny silence.

"Lady Yelena," the elderly butler continued, as impeccable in posture and manners as ever. "The mother of Lord Lucas and Lord Simon."

Tiresio nodded, studying the portrait once more.

"May I ask when it was painted?"

"Approximately six years ago, sir. Lord Calun had passed away only a short time before. She followed him not long afterward."

"Philipo, would you come here for a moment, please?"

Simon's voice echoed from the far end of the corridor.

With a graceful bow, the butler excused himself.

"My apologies, sir. If you'll excuse me."

As the old servant walked away toward his master, Tiresio followed him with his eyes only briefly.

For, just as had happened with the portrait downstairs, something about Lady Yelena's likeness drew him back.

There was something profoundly enigmatic about her expression.

Composed, yet veiled in sorrow.

It was the face of a woman enduring immense suffering while struggling to preserve her dignity.

A deep, silent anguish.

Almost unbearable.

Only partially concealed.

He knew well that some people naturally bore melancholy features.

Yet the impression this portrait left upon him was not of such a person.

It was the portrait of a woman marked by tragedy.

By tragedies everyone knew of.

The fire that had destroyed the old manor.

The loss of her husband.

And perhaps much more besides.

If he could sense all this from nothing more than paint upon canvas, then those who had lived beside her must have perceived it unmistakably.

For a long moment, Tiresio found himself lost in Lady Yelena's beautifully rendered emerald eyes.

It was impossible, he thought, that Lucas and Simon had failed to recognize the weight their mother carried.

And equally impossible that, in one way or another, she had not passed some of that burden on to them.