The click of the lock echoed long after the footsteps faded. Sandra stood frozen in the center of the West Parlor, the cold seeping from the flagstones through the thin soles of her boots. Locked in. Like a prisoner. The shock momentarily eclipsed her fear, replaced by a surge of indignant anger. He hadn't even seen her, and he'd locked the door!
The anger was brittle, shattering quickly against the oppressive weight of the castle and the memory of the portrait's coldly beautiful gaze. She paced the small perimeter of the room, her fingers brushing the icy velvet of the drapes, the rough-hewn stone of the walls. The only sounds were her own footsteps and the relentless drumming of rain against the window. Hours crawled by in the grey, silent tomb. Was this her existence? Waiting in locked rooms?
A sharp rap at the door made her jump. Before she could respond, the key turned again. The door swung open to reveal Mrs. Thorne, holding a single candle in a tarnished holder. The flickering light carved harsh shadows on her face.
"Follow me," the housekeeper commanded, her voice flat. "Dinner is served."
Dinner? In her rooms? Sandra had pictured a terrifyingly formal meal in some cavernous dining hall. This felt more like feeding an animal in its cage. She followed Mrs. Thorne through the labyrinthine corridors, the candlelight barely pushing back the encroaching darkness. The air grew colder, damper. They passed closed doors, their thresholds dark and silent. Finally, Mrs. Thorne stopped before a heavy oak door and pushed it open.
Sandra stepped into a large, high-ceilinged bedroom. A fire crackled weakly in a vast fireplace, offering scant warmth. A small table was set for one near the hearth, bearing a covered dish and a glass of water. Her trunk sat forlornly at the foot of a massive four-poster bed draped in dark, heavy curtains. The room felt impersonal, vast, and chillingly empty.
"Your meal," Mrs. Thorne stated, placing the candle on the mantelpiece. "Ring if you require anything." She turned to leave.
"Wait," Sandra called out, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. "When… when will I see Mr. Barton?"
Mrs. Thorne paused, her back rigid. "The Master will summon you when he is ready." Her tone implied it might be never. "He takes his meals privately. Do not expect company." With that, she was gone, closing the door firmly behind her. Sandra heard the distinct, chilling sound of the key turning in the lock once more.
Alone again. Fed like a prisoner. Locked in for the night. Sandra sank onto the edge of the hard bed, the cold meal on the table utterly unappealing. The portraits of the vanished wives flashed in her mind – Isabella, Eleanor, Clara. Had they sat in this very room? Had they felt this crushing isolation, this gnawing fear? Had they also been locked in?
The fire spat and crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls that seemed to twist into unsettling shapes. The silence pressed in, heavier than before, broken only by the wind whistling faintly down the chimney and the distant groan of the ancient castle settling. Sleep was impossible. Every creak sounded like a footstep, every rustle of the heavy drapes like a sigh. She was trapped in a beautiful, terrifying nightmare.
***
The summons came the next evening. Another sharp rap, the turning key, Mrs. Thorne's impassive face. "The Master will see you now. For dinner."
This time, they descended deeper into the castle's belly. The air grew colder still, the stone walls slick with moisture in places. They arrived at a pair of tall, ornately carved doors. Mrs. Thorne pushed one open and stepped aside, her expression unreadable.
"Mr. Barton awaits."
Sandra took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing her trembling legs to move. She stepped across the threshold.
The dining hall was immense, a cavernous space swallowed by shadow. A single, long table ran its length, polished to a high sheen but seeming to float in the gloom. Candles flickered in heavy silver candelabras placed at intervals down the table, their light struggling valiantly against the oppressive darkness that clung to the vaulted ceiling and the corners of the room. Tapestries depicting violent medieval hunts covered the walls, the woven figures seeming to writhe in the uncertain light. At the far end of the table, a single figure sat.
Paul Barton.
He wasn't looking at her. He was staring down at the empty plate before him, one hand resting lightly on the tablecloth, the other holding a crystal goblet half-filled with dark red wine. He was dressed impeccably in a black dinner jacket, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead, softening the severe lines she remembered from the portrait. The candlelight gilded his sharp cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw. He was, if possible, even more striking in person. Not monstrous. Not deformed. Radiantly, unnervingly beautiful. And utterly terrifying.
Sandra stood frozen just inside the doorway, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The sheer force of his presence, the absolute stillness that radiated from him, was paralyzing. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge her entrance. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Finally, slowly, he lifted his gaze.
Sandra's breath caught. His eyes were the grey she remembered, but in life, they were startlingly clear, almost luminous. They fixed on her with an intensity that felt physical, a cool, assessing stare that seemed to strip away her layers of fear and propriety, seeing only the raw vulnerability beneath. There was no warmth there. No curiosity. Only a chilling, detached observation.
He didn't speak. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable. The silence became a living thing, pressing down on her. She felt like a specimen pinned beneath glass.
Swallowing hard, Sandra forced herself to move. Each step towards the table echoed unnaturally loud in the vast silence. She stopped several chairs away from him, unsure where to sit. He made no gesture, gave no indication. The distance felt like a chasm.
"Mr. Barton," she managed, her voice sounding thin and reedy. "I am Sandra Middleton."
A flicker of something – impatience? Amusement? – crossed his face, gone so quickly she might have imagined it. He lifted the goblet and took a slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving hers. The silence resumed.
Servants, silent as ghosts, materialized from the shadows. They placed a bowl of clear broth before Sandra and refilled Paul's wine glass. The clink of the ladle against the tureen was jarringly loud. Sandra stared at the pale liquid, her stomach churning. She couldn't eat. Not under that relentless gaze.
He finally spoke, his voice a low, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate in the cold air. It held no inflection, no welcome. "You find your accommodations adequate?"
Sandra jumped at the sound. "They… they are very grand, Mr. Barton."
"Grand." He repeated the word, his tone flat. "A curious choice. Blackwood is many things. Grandeur is perhaps the least of them." He took another sip of wine. "It is old. It is cold. It holds its secrets close." His gaze sharpened, pinning her. "As do I."
Sandra felt a fresh chill. "Secrets, sir?"
"Everyone has secrets, Miss Middleton." He set his goblet down with deliberate precision. "Especially those who come to Blackwood under… unusual circumstances." His eyes swept over her, a swift, dismissive assessment that made her feel insignificant. "Replacing your sister. An unexpected turn."
Sandra flushed. "My sister… was unwell, sir."
"So I was informed." His lips twitched, the ghost of a cold smile. "Conveniently unwell. But no matter. A Middleton bride was contracted. A Middleton bride has been delivered." He leaned back slightly in his chair, the movement fluid and controlled. "You understand the terms of this arrangement?"
She forced herself to meet his unnerving gaze. "I understand my family requires your assistance. I understand… the expectation." The word 'heir' stuck in her throat.
"The expectation," he echoed, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "Indeed. The singular purpose of your presence here. Beyond that…" He gestured vaguely with one elegant hand, encompassing the dark, echoing hall. "Your life is your own. Within the confines of Blackwood. Explore the gardens. Read in the library. Amuse yourself as you see fit." His gaze hardened, turning glacial. "But heed this, Miss Middleton: There are boundaries. There are doors that are closed. There are questions that are not to be asked. Curiosity," he paused, the word hanging heavy in the air, "is a dangerous indulgence within these walls. Especially concerning matters that do not concern you."
His eyes locked onto hers with terrifying intensity. He wasn't just warning her; he was laying down the law of his domain. The unspoken names hung between them: Isabella. Eleanor. Clara. *Matters that do not concern you.*
"Do I make myself clear?" The question was a command.
Sandra's throat was dry. She could only nod, a jerky, fearful motion.
"Good." He pushed his chair back abruptly, the sound scraping harshly against the silence. "I find I have no appetite. Enjoy your meal." He didn't look at her again. Turning on his heel, he strode from the dining hall, his footsteps echoing sharply until they were swallowed by the darkness of the corridor.
Sandra was left alone at the impossibly long table, the candles guttering, the servants vanished back into the shadows. The bowl of broth sat before her, cold and congealing. His words echoed in the vast emptiness: *Curiosity is a dangerous indulgence.* He hadn't threatened violence. He hadn't raised his voice. But the menace in his quiet command, the icy warning in his beautiful, terrifying eyes, was more potent than any roar. The monster hadn't shown his claws; he'd simply shown her the bars of her cage and the price of looking beyond them. The meal was forgotten. All she could feel was the chilling certainty that Paul Barton was far more dangerous than any rumored brute. He was a cold, controlled enigma, and his castle held secrets he would kill to protect.