The fragile warmth of the storm night evaporated with the morning light. Grey dawn seeped through the windows, revealing a world battered but intact. The storm had passed, leaving behind a bruised sky and a dripping silence broken only by the distant calls of crows. The fire Sandra had tended had burned down to glowing embers. Pip chirped softly, hopping near the hearth, seemingly unperturbed by the night's chaos. Sandra sat on the edge of the armchair Paul had occupied, the empty brandy glass still cold in her hand, the echo of his quiet "Goodnight, Sandra" lingering like a phantom touch.
He hadn't locked the door. That small omission felt monumental. A crack in the fortress walls. She rose, muscles stiff, and tentatively turned the handle. The corridor outside was empty, silent. The castle felt different – exhausted, like a great beast catching its breath after a fight. The air still smelled faintly of damp stone and woodsmoke, but the oppressive watchfulness seemed momentarily lifted.
The day unfolded with an eerie calm. Mrs. Thorne appeared with breakfast, her expression tighter than usual, her flinty eyes taking in the dead fire and the bird near the hearth with palpable disapproval, but she said nothing. The storm's damage was evident – a large puddle near the window where rain had forced its way in, a fine layer of dust shaken from the high ceiling. Workmen's voices, muffled and distant, echoed from the direction of the east tower.
Sandra spent the morning tending Pip, who grew bolder by the hour, fluttering to the windowsill to peer out at the wet world. She tried to read in the library, but the words blurred before her eyes, replaced by the image of Paul in the firelight – weary, capable, surprisingly human. The brandy's warmth on her tongue, the shared silence, the absence of the locking click – it had shifted something fundamental within her perception of the man she'd married. The monster's shadow felt less absolute.
He was absent all day. Mrs. Thorne, when questioned tersely, stated only that the Master was "attending to the storm damage." Sandra didn't see him at lunch, served silently in her room. By late afternoon, a restless energy replaced the morning's calm. The glimpse behind Paul Barton's mask had ignited a dangerous spark of curiosity, mingling uncomfortably with the lingering fear.
Dusk was painting the sky bruised purple and orange when she heard it – the heavy, rhythmic clop of hooves on the courtyard cobbles below her window. She rushed to look down. Paul was dismounting from a powerful, mud-splattered black horse. He handed the reins to a waiting groom, his movements stiff, lacking their usual fluid grace. Even from a distance, Sandra could see the tension in his shoulders. He didn't look towards the castle; he strode towards the stable entrance, disappearing from view.
Dinner came and went, served again in her room. Paul didn't summon her. The silence of the castle deepened, the day's repairs evidently finished. Sandra paced. Where was he? Was he injured? The stiffness in his walk… Had something happened during his ride? The image of Clara Finch's "riding accident" flashed, unbidden and chilling. Was it reckless? Or intentional? Driven by the strange connection forged in the storm's eye, Sandra made a decision. She needed to know.
Quietly, she slipped from her room. The corridor was dimly lit by widely spaced sconces. She moved silently, guided by instinct rather than knowledge, towards the wing she believed housed Paul's private quarters – away from the main halls, deeper into the older part of the castle. The air grew colder, the stone rougher underfoot.
She turned a corner and froze. Light spilled from a half-open door further down the passage. She approached cautiously, her heart hammering. Peering through the gap, she saw a spacious, masculine study. Dark wood paneling, shelves filled with books and maps, a massive oak desk littered with papers. And Paul.
He stood near a sideboard, his back to the door, pouring water from a heavy crystal decanter into a basin. He'd removed his riding coat and waistcoat, clad only in his white shirt, now stained dark with mud and something else… something reddish-brown near the shoulder. Dried blood? He moved stiffly, wincing as he lifted his left arm to reach for a cloth.
Sandra's breath caught. He *was* hurt. Before she could retreat, he turned slightly, catching her reflection in the dark glass of a framed map on the wall opposite the door. His head snapped around, his grey eyes locking onto hers through the gap. They weren't weary or open now. They were instantly guarded, hard as flint, flashing with a mix of surprise and sharp irritation.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was low, rough with pain or anger, maybe both. "This wing is private."
"I… I heard you return," Sandra stammered, pushing the door open slightly wider, refusing to be cowed. "You were limping. I saw… the stain." She gestured towards his shoulder. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing." He turned fully away from her, dipping the cloth into the basin, his movements deliberately dismissing her. "A branch caught me during the ride. Go back to your room."
But Sandra saw the way his jaw clenched as he pressed the wet cloth to his left shoulder blade. He flinched, a barely suppressed hiss escaping his lips. It wasn't nothing. She stepped fully into the room, the scent of leather, old paper, and now, faintly, blood and liniment filling her nostrils.
"Let me see," she said, her voice firmer than she felt. She walked towards him, stopping a few feet away. "Please."
Paul turned slowly, his expression unreadable. The irritation was still there, but warring with something else – reluctance, perhaps. Weariness. He studied her face for a long moment, his gaze searching. Finally, with a curt, almost imperceptible nod, he turned his back to her again, presenting the injured shoulder.
Sandra stepped closer. The white linen of his shirt was torn and darkened with dried blood and dirt over his left shoulder blade. Carefully, she peeled the damp, clinging fabric aside. The wound beneath wasn't deep, but it was ugly – a long, ragged scrape, raw and angry-looking, clearly from a heavy impact. Dirt was ground into the edges. It needed proper cleaning.
"It needs cleaning," she said, echoing her thought. "Properly. That cloth won't get the dirt out." She looked around the study, spotting a small cabinet. "Do you have clean cloths? Soap? Water?"
Paul gestured wordlessly towards the cabinet. Sandra found clean linen cloths, a cake of strong soap, and a bottle of clear liquid that smelled sharply antiseptic. She brought them back to the basin, adding fresh water. Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced them steady.
"This will sting," she warned, dipping a clean cloth in the soapy water.
He didn't reply, merely braced his hands on the edge of the sideboard, his knuckles white. Sandra began, gently at first, washing away the dried blood and grime. He remained rigidly still, but she felt the tension coiling through him, the suppressed flinch as the soap touched the raw flesh. She worked methodically, rinsing the cloth, applying the antiseptic with careful dabs, ignoring the heat radiating from his body, the powerful line of his back under her ministrations. The brute strength was palpable, yet he held himself perfectly still under her touch.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions. How did this really happen? A branch? It looked more like a fall. An argument? With whom? The rival businessman, Crawford, from the gossip? She didn't dare ask. She focused on the task, cleaning the wound until the skin, though inflamed, was clear of debris. She patted it dry with a fresh cloth.
"It should be covered," she said softly. "To keep it clean."
Paul straightened slightly, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder. His expression was complex – irritation warring with grudging acceptance, perhaps even a flicker of something like gratitude buried deep beneath the stoicism. "There are bandages in the top drawer," he said, his voice still rough, but the edge blunted.
Sandra found the bandages and carefully applied a clean pad, securing it with strips of linen. Her fingers brushed his warm skin as she worked, sending an involuntary shiver through her that had nothing to do with fear. He remained impassive, a statue under her hands.
Finished, she stepped back, wiping her hands on a cloth. "There. It should heal cleanly now, if you keep it clean."
Paul turned fully to face her. He buttoned his shirt slowly, wincing only slightly. His gaze held hers, the grey depths less guarded now, more contemplative. The raw anger from the forbidden wing, the icy control of their first encounters, the weariness of the storm night – all were present, layered beneath a new, unreadable expression.
"Thank you," he said, the words low and unexpected. Not effusive, not warm, but genuine. An acknowledgment.
Sandra nodded, suddenly feeling awkward. "You're welcome." She gathered the soiled cloths, avoiding his eyes. The intimacy of the moment, the feel of his skin, the quiet gratitude, was overwhelming.
As she turned to dispose of the cloths, Paul spoke again. "Sandra."
She stopped, looking back at him.
He walked to his desk, picked something up, and held it out to her. It was the small, brass key to her journal.
"You left this," he said. "In your room. After the storm."
She hadn't even realized she'd dropped it. She took it, the cool metal familiar in her palm.
"Write," he said, his gaze intense. "Or don't. But keep it locked." He paused, his eyes holding hers. "Safer than wandering."
The words carried the old warning, but the tone was different. Less threat, more… advice? A strange echo of his earlier comment about the bird needing safety. He wasn't locking her in tonight, but he was reminding her of the bars.
Sandra clutched the key. "I will."
He gave a curt nod, a silent dismissal. Sandra left the study, the heavy door closing softly behind her. She walked back through the dim corridors, the brass key digging into her palm. The bruise on Paul's shoulder was a visible mark of violence, a glimpse of the shadowed world he navigated. But the feel of his skin under her hands, his stillness under her care, his quiet "thank you" – these were new, confusing pieces of the puzzle. The monster had shown vulnerability, accepted her aid. The cage remained, but the keeper had allowed her closer, revealing not just his capacity for violence, but also his capacity for pain and, perhaps, a sliver of trust. The journal key in her hand felt heavier than ever, a symbol of both confinement and a fragile, dangerous connection. She understood his warning: *Safer than wandering.* But the path she was on felt increasingly like a labyrinth, and the center held a man who was both shadow and, increasingly, a compelling mystery.