The echo of Paul Barton's fury – the iron grip on her wrist, the glacial rage in his eyes, the lethal quiet of his command – clung to Sandra long after she'd fled the dusty tomb of the forbidden wing. She scrambled back to her room, heart hammering against her ribs, the phantom feel of his hand burning her skin. He hadn't locked her door this time, a small mercy that felt more like oversight than trust. She slammed it shut behind her, leaning against the cold wood, gasping for breath in the dim firelight.
*"Some doors stay shut... consequences will not be gentle."*
The words echoed in the silence of her chamber, colder than the stone walls. The delicate rose hairpin was gone, swallowed by his large fist, a tiny piece of the vanished past erased. Exhaustion warred with terror, finally pulling her into a fitful sleep haunted by dust-covered figures and grey, furious eyes.
***
Dawn filtered weakly through the heavy curtains, doing little to dispel the chill or the fear. Sandra woke stiff and aching, the memory of the night's confrontation a fresh bruise on her spirit. Mrs. Thorne arrived with a silent maid bearing a breakfast tray – cold porridge and weak tea – her expression colder than the food.
"The Master requires the grounds to be undisturbed this morning," she stated, placing the tray down without looking at Sandra. "You will remain in the east wing. The library is accessible, should you require distraction." Her flinty eyes flickered towards Sandra, a silent warning in their depths. *Stay put. Obey.*
The dismissal was clear. Sandra picked at the unappetizing food, the silence of the room pressing in. The library? A gilded cage within the cage? The thought of dusty tomes and echoing silence offered no comfort. Restlessness, fueled by lingering fear and a spark of defiance Paul's fury hadn't entirely extinguished, gnawed at her.
Later, wrapped in her warmest shawl, Sandra ventured into the walled garden Mrs. Thorne had grudgingly indicated was part of the "accessible" east wing. It was a place of neglected grandeur. Rose bushes, once proud, were tangled thickets of thorny stems. Statues of weeping nymphs were streaked with green lichen. A stone bench sat crookedly on uneven flagstones. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a stark contrast to the castle's oppressive stone chill. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like another forgotten corner of Paul Barton's domain.
She walked slowly along the overgrown gravel path, her boots crunching softly. The silence here was different – filled with the chirp of unseen birds and the rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth. It was a natural silence, not the watchful, heavy silence of the castle interior. She paused near a skeletal lilac bush, its bare branches clawing at the grey sky.
A flash of movement caught her eye, followed by a pitiful, high-pitched chirping. Tucked against the base of the lilac, half-hidden by dead leaves, was a small bird. A sparrow, its brown feathers fluffed up against the cold. One wing hung at an unnatural angle, dragging uselessly on the ground. It tried to hop, stumbled, and let out another frantic, pained chirp.
Sandra's breath hitched. The bird's helplessness, its obvious fear and pain, resonated deep within her own bruised spirit. It was trapped, injured, alone in this vast, uncaring place. Just like her. Without thinking, driven by a surge of instinctive compassion, she knelt carefully on the cold gravel.
"Shh," she murmured softly, her voice barely a whisper. "It's alright. Don't be scared." She slowly extended her hand, palm open, towards the trembling creature.
The bird froze, its beady black eyes fixed on her, chest heaving. It tried to scramble backwards, but its injured wing hindered it, sending another wave of pained chirps into the air.
"Easy," Sandra soothed, inching closer. "I won't hurt you. I promise." She remembered tending injured birds as a child, under the watchful eye of their old gardener. Gentleness. Patience. She held perfectly still, letting the bird assess her. Slowly, its frantic trembling subsided slightly, though its eyes remained wide with fear.
Moving with infinite care, Sandra gathered the hem of her skirt, creating a loose cradle. She reached out, not to grab, but to gently scoop the small, warm body from the damp leaves. The bird fluttered weakly, a single, panicked beat of its good wing, but didn't fight. She cradled it against her chest, feeling its rapid heartbeat fluttering against her palm like a tiny, trapped drum. Its warmth was a small, vital spark against the pervasive cold.
"You poor thing," she whispered, gently stroking its head with one finger. "How did you hurt yourself?"
She carried the injured sparrow back towards the castle entrance she'd used, shielding it from the wind with her shawl. She needed cloth for a splint, water, perhaps some crumbs. Her room was the only place she could think of. As she approached the heavy oak door leading back inside, she saw him.
Paul Barton stood near the entrance, partially hidden by the shadow of a stone archway. He was watching her. He wasn't dressed for business or dinner; he wore riding breeches and tall boots, a dark coat open over a plain shirt. He looked… different. Less the icy lord of the manor, more like a man caught in a private moment. His gaze wasn't furious or coldly assessing. It was focused, intensely curious, fixed on the small bundle she held protectively against her chest.
Sandra froze mid-step, the warmth of the bird instantly replaced by a fresh wave of icy dread. Had he followed her? Was this another transgression? Holding her breath, she met his gaze, bracing for anger, for a cold reprimand for disturbing the grounds or touching something that belonged to him.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. His grey eyes held hers for a long, unnerving moment, then dropped to the small shape in her hands. She saw his brow furrow slightly, not in anger, but in… something else. Confusion? Surprise? She couldn't decipher it. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the castle's interior as silently as he'd appeared.
Sandra stood rooted, her heart pounding. The encounter had lasted mere seconds, but it left her profoundly unsettled. There had been no threat, no command. Only that intense, unreadable scrutiny. What did it mean?
Shaking off the disquiet, she hurried back to her room. She found a clean handkerchief, tore it into strips, and carefully fashioned a tiny splint for the bird's broken wing, using a matchstick she found near the fireplace for rigidity. She offered it water from a thimble and crumbs from a biscuit left on her untouched breakfast tray. The bird drank thirstily, its tiny body relaxing slightly in the warmth of her hands. She fashioned a nest from a discarded woolen sock in her trunk and placed the sparrow gently inside, setting it near the meager heat of the hearth.
As she watched the small creature huddle in its makeshift nest, a fragile sense of peace settled over her. In this act of tending to another helpless creature, she'd found a momentary escape from her own fear. She hadn't been helpless just then. She had helped.
A soft knock sounded at her door. Not Mrs. Thorne's sharp rap. This was different. Hesitant.
"Enter," Sandra called, her voice steadying as she rose from her knees by the hearth.
The door opened. It wasn't a servant. Paul Barton stood in the doorway. He hadn't changed. He held a small, leather-bound book in one hand. His expression was unreadable, the mask firmly back in place, but the earlier fury was absent.
He didn't enter the room fully, remaining on the threshold. His gaze swept past her, lingering for a fraction of a second on the small, sock-nest by the fire where the sparrow rested, then returned to her face.
"The bird?" he asked, his voice neutral, devoid of inflection.
"It was injured," Sandra replied, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "In the garden. Its wing was broken."
He nodded once, a curt, almost imperceptible movement. "I see." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "And you intend to… nurse it?"
"If I can," Sandra said, lifting her chin slightly. "It's helpless."
Another beat of silence. His eyes held hers, that intense grey probing. Then, he extended the leather-bound book towards her. It was small, sturdy, with a simple brass clasp.
"Here," he said.
Sandra stared at it, then at him, bewildered. "What is it?"
"A journal." The word was clipped. "Empty."
"Why?" The question escaped before she could stop it.
His expression didn't change, but she sensed a flicker of something – impatience? – in the set of his jaw. "You seem… restless. Prone to wandering." His tone was dry, carrying the faintest echo of their confrontation in the forbidden wing. "Write. Document the weather. Your thoughts. Your… observations of the grounds." His gaze flicked again, almost dismissively, towards the sock-nest. "It might prove a safer outlet for your… energies."
He stepped forward just enough to place the journal on the small table near the door. He didn't touch her. He didn't come closer.
"Write," he repeated, his voice regaining its customary coolness. "Not everything observed needs to be… explored." The unspoken warning was clear: *Stay out of the forbidden wing. Keep your curiosity contained to paper.* "The lock," he added, his eyes meeting hers with sudden, chilling directness, "is for your privacy. Or your secrets. Choose wisely what you commit to its pages."
He turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. Sandra heard the distinct, metallic *click* of the lock engaging from the outside.
She stood frozen, staring at the closed door, then at the small, plain journal lying on the table. A gift? Or another kind of cage? An outlet, he said. A safer outlet. Yet, he had locked her in again. And the warning about the lock on the journal itself… *Choose wisely what you commit.* Was it truly for her privacy? Or was it a way to monitor her thoughts? To see if her curiosity persisted?
Her gaze drifted to the injured sparrow, sleeping fitfully in its sock. Paul Barton had seen her tenderness. He'd seen her defiance in tending to something helpless. He hadn't condemned it. He'd given her this… thing. This small, locked book.
Slowly, she walked to the table and picked up the journal. The leather was smooth and cool under her fingers. The brass clasp felt solid, unyielding. She ran a thumb over the blank cover.
It was an olive branch wrapped in barbed wire. A gesture of… something… layered with threat and control. The brute had shown his teeth last night. Today, the beautiful, enigmatic man had shown a glimpse of… not gentleness, perhaps, but a strange, detached acknowledgment. He didn't harm the helpless bird. He'd given her a tool, however ambiguous.
Sandra looked from the locked journal in her hand to the locked door of her room, then to the small, vulnerable creature by the fire. The first crack in the monolithic terror Paul Barton inspired had appeared, not through kindness, but through the shared, silent observation of a broken sparrow. The cage remained, but its keeper had revealed a fraction more of his complex, contradictory nature. He was both the man who locked doors and the man who noticed a wounded bird. Sandra Middleton clutched the journal, the key to its clasp cold and heavy in her palm. What secrets, she wondered, would she dare to write within its pages?