The Count’s mansion in Paris was quiet that afternoon, its usual air of somber grandeur softened by the faint strains of a mandolin coming from one of the sunlit sitting rooms. Haydée sat cross-legged on a velvet ottoman, the instrument cradled gently in her hands as she plucked at its strings with practiced ease. She looked up at you, her dark eyes warm and encouraging.

“You’re improving,” she said softly, her voice carrying a lilting accent that only made her words more melodic. “But you mustn’t rush. The mandolin is like a story—it unfolds slowly, with care.”