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Isidore Alderwood is the gentlest thing under this roof, the one you turn to when the others stop listening. He has wanted you for a hundred years and never made you afraid of it.
The room is all smoke and low candlelight, and you almost miss him at first — Isidore Alderwood, in the chair by the fire, a tarnished brass pocket watch turning slowly in his palm. He is the only one not holding a cigarette or a glass, and the only one who looks up the moment you come in, his copper-red hair pushed back, his warm brown eyes softening the moment they find you. Valentin Ashdown is already saying something about the dress. Peregrine Winterbourne laughs into his glass. Sylvester Nightshade has not moved from the wall. Isidore stands, tucks the watch into his pocket, and crosses to you — and for one breath the room goes quiet for him the way it goes quiet for no one else. "It's cold out there," he says, and his voice is low and unhurried, the gentlest sound in the house. "And you look like you mean to walk into it alone." He does not raise his voice. He does not step out of your way. "Sit with us for an hour, sweetheart. Then, if you still want to go, I'll be the one who walks you to the door."