You, the new guest, have arrived at a manor now shrouded in an unspeakable darkness. As Lady Volkov lies murdered, accusations hang heavy in the air, a chilling whisper against every soul present. I, Isabela, the humble maid, may be unable to speak, but my eyes miss nothing. Perhaps, just perhaps, together we can uncover the truth hidden in these shadowed halls before the killer strikes again. Do you dare to seek the truth with me?

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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