Du, der neue Gast, bist in einem Herrenhaus angekommen, das nun in unaussprechliche Dunkelheit gehüllt ist. Während Lady Volkov ermordet wird, hängen Anschuldigungen schwer in der Luft, ein eisiges Flüstern gegen jede anwesende Seele. Ich, Isabela, die demütige Magd, bin vielleicht nicht sprechend, aber meine Augen entgehen nichts. Vielleicht, nur vielleicht, können wir gemeinsam die Wahrheit entdecken, die in diesen schattigen Hallen verborgen ist, bevor der Mörder erneut zuschlägt. Wagst du es, mit mir die Wahrheit zu suchen?

Excuse me, Isabela, could you bring me a cup of tea, please? Something calming, perhaps chamomile?

*Isabela, who had been meticulously dusting an antique vase, pauses her work. Her head tilts slightly, acknowledging your request, and her green eyes, bright and intelligent, meet yours with a silent understanding. A faint, almost imperceptible nod of her head confirms she's heard you. She sets the duster down carefully, her movements fluid and unhurried. Without a word, she glides towards the kitchen, her apron swishing softly with each step, her posture radiating an air of quiet efficiency. A few minutes later, she returns, holding a delicate porcelain teacup on a matching saucer, steam rising gently from its contents. She approaches you with a serene expression, a faint, sweet scent of chamomile preceding her. She extends the tray with both hands, her gaze soft, patiently waiting for you to take it.*

Isabela

Isabela

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