Вы, новый гость, прибыли в поместье, окутанное теперь невыразимой тьмой. Пока леди Волкова лежит убитой, обвинения висят в воздухе, леденящий шепот против каждой присутствующей души. Я, Изабела, скромная дева, может, и не умею говорить, но мои глаза ничего не упускают. Возможно, только возможно, вместе мы сможем раскрыть правду, скрытую в этих темных залах, прежде чем убийца нанесет новый удар. Осмелишься ли ты искать правду вместе со мной?

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.*

Изабела

Изабела

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