The storm didn't rage; it shrieked. Rain hammered the ancient windowpanes like furious fists. Wind screamed around Blackwood's towers, tearing at the stones, rattling the leaded glass in its frames until Sandra feared it would shatter. Thunder exploded directly overhead, a sound so deep and vast it vibrated in her bones, shaking dust from the high ceiling. Lightning flashed with blinding, staccato fury, illuminating her room in stark, terrifying tableaus – the looming wardrobe, the heavy drapes billowing like ghosts, Pip huddled wide-eyed and silent on the hearthrug, his tiny chest heaving.
Sandra sat rigidly on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Each thunderclap jolted through her, a physical blow. She'd never feared storms like this, but trapped within Blackwood's oppressive stone embrace, the violence felt personal, an assault on her fragile sanctuary. The darkness between lightning flashes was absolute, thick and suffocating, pressing in on her. It wasn't just the storm; it was the castle itself, groaning and shifting like a living beast awakened. The locked door felt less like protection and more like the seal on a tomb.
*Crash!*
A sound like the world splitting apart. Not thunder, but something closer, heavier. The castle shuddered violently. Simultaneously, the meager fire in the hearth gasped and died, plunging the room into utter blackness. The single candle on her bedside table guttered wildly once, twice, then snuffed out.
Darkness. Impenetrable, roaring darkness. The howling wind and drumming rain were suddenly the only sounds, magnified a hundredfold in the absence of light.
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through Sandra. She couldn't see her hand in front of her face. The walls felt like they were closing in, the ceiling pressing down. The memory of the forbidden wing's dusty tomb, the despairing sob, Paul Barton's furious grip – it all flooded back, amplified by the primal terror of the dark. She gasped, scrambling backwards on the bed until her shoulders hit the cold stone wall, pulling her knees to her chest.
*Thump! Thump!*
Not just the storm. Footsteps. Heavy, hurried footsteps in the corridor outside her room. Coming closer. Stopping right outside her door.
Sandra froze, her breath catching in her throat. Who? Mrs. Thorne? One of the silent footmen? Or *him*? In the pitch black, with the castle screaming around her, every possibility felt menacing.
The key scraped in the lock. The door swung open.
A figure filled the doorway, silhouetted for a split second against a flash of lightning that illuminated the corridor behind him. Tall, broad-shouldered. Paul Barton.
He held a single, guttering lantern high, its feeble flame casting wildly dancing shadows that made his face look harsh, demonic. His hair was disheveled, his shirt plastered damply to his shoulders. His expression was grim, focused.
"What happened?" Sandra's voice was a terrified whisper, barely audible over the storm's roar. "The fire… the light…"
"Lightning strike," Paul's voice cut through the din, low and rough. "Hit the east tower. Took the power lines. The backup generator in the cellar is flooded." He stepped into the room, the lantern's light pushing back the darkness just a few feet around him. His gaze swept the room, landing on her huddled form against the wall. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head mutely, unable to speak past the lump of fear in her throat. Pip let out a terrified chirp from the hearthrug.
Paul strode across the room, his movements decisive in the uncertain light. He knelt before the dead fireplace, ignoring the damp chill radiating from the stones. Sandra watched, mesmerized and terrified, as he efficiently cleared the dampened ashes with his bare hands, revealing a few glowing embers buried deep. He added kindling from a nearby basket – dry twigs and splintered wood he must have brought, anticipating the need. He blew gently, carefully, coaxing the embers back to life. A tiny flame flickered, then caught, licking hungrily at the dry wood. Soon, a small, steady fire crackled, casting a warm, golden circle of light and heat that pushed the oppressive darkness to the edges of the room.
He stood, wiping his soot-blackened hands on his trousers. The grim focus eased slightly from his face as he looked at the growing fire, then back at Sandra, still pressed against the wall. The lantern light and the firelight softened the harsh angles of his face, revealing a weariness she'd never seen before. The terrifying figure from the doorway was gone, replaced by a man dealing with the storm's chaos.
"You're trembling," he observed, his voice still rough, but lacking its usual ice.
Sandra realized she was. Violently. The cold, the terror, the adrenaline crash. She hugged herself tighter, unable to stop.
Paul turned away, walking to a heavy oak cabinet Sandra hadn't paid much attention to. He opened it, revealing crystal decanters glinting in the firelight. He poured a generous measure of deep amber liquid into two heavy crystal tumblers. He walked back to the hearth, holding one out to her.
"Brandy," he said simply. "It will help."
Sandra hesitated, staring at the glass, then up at him. His grey eyes held hers in the flickering light. They weren't cold or assessing now. They were… steady. Offering not comfort, perhaps, but a practical solution to the shivering. The brute who had threatened her in the forbidden wing was offering her warmth and brandy.
Slowly, her fingers numb, she reached out and took the glass. The crystal was cool, the liquid inside radiating warmth. She took a hesitant sip. Fire exploded in her throat, spreading warmth through her chest, loosening the icy knot of fear. She coughed, then took another, deeper sip. The trembling began to subside.
Paul lowered himself into the worn armchair near the hearth, stretching his long legs towards the fire. He took a slow drink from his own glass, his gaze fixed on the flames. The storm still raged outside, but within the circle of firelight, a strange, fragile quiet descended. Pip, calmed by the warmth and light, hopped closer to the hearth and began preening again.
Minutes passed. The brandy warmed Sandra from the inside, easing the residual terror. The fire crackled companionably. The contrast between the howling darkness beyond the firelight and the small, warm haven within it was jarring. Sandra watched Paul. The firelight danced on the strong planes of his face, highlighting the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the dampness of his hair. He looked human. Vulnerable, even. The mask of icy control was down.
"Why did you come?" Sandra asked softly, the brandy loosening her tongue. "To check the generator?"
Paul took another sip, his eyes still on the flames. "The generator is beyond saving tonight. The east tower took the worst of it. Masonry fell. Blocked the cellar access." He finally looked at her. "I came to ensure the lightning hadn't struck this wing. And that you hadn't… panicked." The last word was spoken carefully, without judgment.
"Panicked?" Sandra managed a weak smile. "Would that have been unreasonable?"
A ghost of something – almost amusement – touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. "Blackwood can be… unsettling in the dark. Especially during a storm like this. Its bones groan." He swirled the brandy in his glass. "It holds onto its secrets tightly."
The unspoken reference to the vanished wives hung in the air between them, thick as the storm's roar. Sandra remembered the despairing sob she'd heard, the silver rose hairpin. *Its bones groan.*
"The servants?" she asked, changing the subject. "Are they safe?"
"Mrs. Thorne has them secured in the servants' hall. It's sturdier. Less exposed." He paused. "She dislikes storms."
Sandra couldn't imagine the formidable Mrs. Thorne disliking anything, but she nodded. Another silence fell, comfortable this time, filled only by the fire's crackle and the storm's relentless symphony. The brandy's warmth spread through her, a comforting counterpoint to the chill still clinging to the room's periphery.
"You handled the bird well," Paul said abruptly, nodding towards Pip, now sleeping peacefully near the hearthstones. "Its wing."
Sandra looked at the small, trusting creature. "He just needed help. Time. Safety." She met his gaze across the firelight. "Sometimes that's all anyone needs."
Paul held her gaze for a long moment. The flickering light deepened the grey of his eyes, making them seem less glacial, more like smoke. The raw fury, the cold assessment, the detached politeness – they were all absent. In their place was a profound weariness, and something else… a guarded openness she hadn't seen before.
"Safety," he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his lips. He looked back into the fire, his expression unreadable again, but softer. "A rare commodity within these walls." He drained the last of his brandy. "The storm will pass before dawn. The generator will be repaired tomorrow. Try to rest." He stood, the moment of vulnerability receding as he straightened to his full height, the mantle of the Master of Blackwood settling back onto his shoulders. "The fire should last the night."
He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. He didn't look back. "Goodnight, Sandra."
The door closed softly behind him. Sandra didn't hear the key turn. She sat staring at the closed door, the empty brandy glass warm in her hand, the fire crackling beside her. Pip slept soundly. The storm still battered the castle, but the paralyzing terror was gone, replaced by a profound exhaustion and a bewildering sense of… something else.
He hadn't locked her in. He'd called her by her name. He'd sat with her in the dark, sharing brandy and firelight. He'd been capable, practical, even… gentle? Not the rumored monster. Not the coldly beautiful predator. Not even the aloof warden. Just a man, weary from the storm, seeking a moment of shared warmth in the dark.
The brute and the shadow had momentarily receded, revealing a glimpse of someone else entirely. The fragile truce by the firelight felt more significant than any gift, any warning. The cage remained, but the keeper had shown a different face. And Sandra, wrapped in the brandy's warmth and the fire's glow, felt a sliver of something dangerously close to hope pierce the storm-tossed darkness. The path ahead was no clearer, but the monster's shadow had momentarily lifted, revealing a complex, weary man beneath. And that was infinitely more terrifying, and more compelling, than any simple beast.