The whispers started subtly, like the rustling of silk gowns brushing against polished floors. A raised eyebrow here, a hushed conversation behind a strategically placed fan there. At first, Ethan barely registered them, too focused on understanding Isolde and navigating the minefield of 19th-century etiquette. But as days turned into weeks, the undercurrent of speculation grew stronger, louder, morphing from gentle murmurs to a persistent, unsettling hum.