The weight of Paul Barton's hidden poetry pressed on Sandra long after she'd left the library's hushed sanctuary. The stark verses echoed in her mind, painting a picture of his isolation that resonated with terrifying familiarity. *Stone walls... duty's chains... a vessel cold and stark.* The cold Master, the calculating businessman, was also a prisoner. The revelation shifted the ground beneath her feet, transforming her fear into a complex, unsettling brew of empathy and lingering dread.
Sleep was impossible. The image of Paul hunched over engineering sketches, his mind dissecting the castle's very bones, warred with the raw sorrow bleeding from his hidden poems. The rose bushes – three for three vanished wives – Mrs. Thorne's cryptic warning, the despairing sob she'd heard... it all coalesced into a gnawing need for air, for space away from the oppressive stone walls that confined them both.
Driven by a restlessness she couldn't quell, Sandra slipped from her room long after midnight. The castle slept, wrapped in profound silence. She moved like a ghost through the familiar corridors, her bare feet silent on the cold stone. The heavy iron key to the library burned in her pocket, a symbol of the fragile trust he'd offered, but it wasn't books she sought tonight.
She pushed open the side door leading to the walled garden. The air outside was cool and damp, smelling of rain-soaked earth and decaying leaves, a welcome contrast to the castle's stale chill. A full moon hung low in the sky, casting the neglected garden in stark monochrome. Silver light etched the tangled rose bushes into thorny skeletons, gleamed on the lichen-streaked statues, and painted long, distorted shadows across the uneven flagstones.
She walked the familiar path, the gravel crunching softly underfoot, the silence broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth. The moonlight offered a strange kind of clarity, stripping away the castle's daytime gloom, revealing the garden's melancholy beauty in sharp relief. She paused near the lilac bush where she'd found Pip, the spot now empty, a reminder of small victories.
Then she saw him.
Near the far end of the garden, where the moonlight pooled brightest, Paul Barton stood before the three distinct, overgrown rose bushes. He wasn't tending them. He wasn't inspecting them. He was simply standing, utterly still, his back to her, silhouetted against the silver light. His shoulders weren't squared with their usual rigid control; they were slumped, bowed under an invisible weight.
Sandra froze, her breath catching. Instinct screamed to retreat, to slip back into the shadows. This was private. This was raw. This was the man behind the poetry, exposed in the moon's unforgiving gaze. But the image held her captive – the powerful, feared Master of Blackwood, standing vigil over the memorials to his lost wives, looking utterly broken.
Before she could move, a sound cut through the silence. A low, guttural sound, choked and ragged. A sob. Not the ghostly echo she'd heard before, but real, visceral, tearing from Paul Barton's throat. His frame shuddered, a violent tremor racking his broad shoulders. He brought one hand up, pressing it hard against his eyes, his head bowing lower.
The sight was more shocking than any display of fury. This was vulnerability laid bare. The stoic mask shattered. Sandra stood transfixed, her own heart hammering against her ribs, a wave of horrified empathy washing over her. This wasn't the monster. This was a man drowning in grief and guilt? Or something else entirely?
He didn't seem aware of her presence. Lost in his private torment, another harsh sob escaped him, muffled against his hand. He swayed slightly on his feet, as if the weight of his sorrow might physically crush him.
Driven by an impulse stronger than fear, Sandra took a hesitant step forward. Then another. The gravel crunched softly beneath her bare foot.
Paul's head snapped up. He whirled around, his hand dropping from his face. Moonlight caught the wet tracks glistening on his cheeks, the raw, reddened eyes wide with shock and instant, defensive fury.
"You!" The word was a ragged gasp, thick with emotion he hadn't yet reined in. He took a step back, bumping against the stone bench behind him, his posture instantly coiling into a defensive stance, the vulnerability vanishing beneath a mask of icy rage. "What are you doing here? Spying?" His voice was low, dangerous, trembling with the effort of control.
Sandra flinched but held her ground. "No! I… I couldn't sleep. I came for air." She gestured helplessly towards the garden. "I didn't know you were here."
His eyes, blazing with a mixture of fury and shame, scanned her face in the moonlight, searching for deceit. "Air?" he echoed, the word dripping with sarcasm. He wiped fiercely at his face with the back of his hand, erasing the evidence. "Find it elsewhere. This garden is not your refuge tonight."
"I heard you," Sandra said softly, the words escaping before she could stop them. She saw him stiffen, his jaw clenching so tight she heard the click. "I didn't mean to… I just…" She took a shaky breath, forcing herself to meet his furious gaze. "Who were they, Paul? Truly?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and dangerous as the thorns on the roses behind him. The silence stretched, taut and electric. The fury in his eyes didn't diminish, but it warred with something else – a profound weariness, a deep-seated pain.
He didn't answer immediately. He looked past her, his gaze sweeping over the moonlit garden, the crumbling statues, the towering walls that imprisoned them both. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw, but devoid of its earlier heat. It was flat. Haunted.
"They weren't monsters." He said it quietly, almost to himself. "Neither was I." He looked back at her, his grey eyes holding hers in the silver light. They weren't cold now; they were deep pools of old, unhealed anguish. "That's the cruelest joke of all. The whispers paint me a beast, devouring innocent brides. They paint them victims, fragile flowers crushed by darkness." He gave a short, bitter laugh that held no humor. "But the reality… the reality was far more banal. And far more tragic."
He paused, his gaze drifting back to the three rose bushes. "Isabella," he said, the name sounding like a sigh torn from his soul. "Eleanor. Clara." He listed their names, each one a weight. "They weren't monsters. They were… pawns. Like you." He looked directly at Sandra again, the intensity in his eyes almost painful. "Caught in a game far bigger and uglier than themselves. Used. Discarded when they ceased to serve their purpose." He swallowed hard, the muscle in his jaw working. "And I…" His voice faltered. He looked away, towards the dark silhouette of the castle. "I failed them. Utterly."
The raw confession, the admission of failure, hung heavy in the moonlit air. It wasn't an explanation, but it was more than he'd ever given. It shattered the simplistic narrative of the monster and his prey. Sandra's mind raced. *Pawns? Used? Discarded?* By whom? His parents? The relentless pressure for an heir?
"Failed them how?" she whispered, taking another cautious step closer. The stone bench stood between them, a cold barrier. "Paul, what happened to them? Where did they go?"
He flinched as if struck by her use of his name. His gaze snapped back to hers, filled with a sudden, desperate panic that eclipsed the fury and the sorrow. "No," he rasped, shaking his head violently. "No more. I cannot…" He pushed himself off the bench, stumbling slightly. The raw vulnerability she'd witnessed moments ago was gone, replaced by a frantic need to escape. "Some graves are best left undisturbed, Sandra. For your sake. For mine."
He turned abruptly, his movements jerky, uncoordinated. He took a few hurried steps towards the castle entrance, then stopped, his back still to her. His shoulders rose and fell with ragged breaths. The moonlight glinted on the dampness still clinging to his collar where tears had fallen.
"Go back inside," he ordered, his voice thick with emotion he couldn't fully suppress. "Forget what you saw. Forget what you heard." He paused, a tremor running through him. "Please."
The single word, raw and pleading, hung in the air. Then, without waiting for a response, he strode away, disappearing into the dark maw of the castle doorway, leaving Sandra alone in the moonlit garden.
She stood frozen, the cool night air suddenly chilling against her skin. The scent of damp earth and roses felt cloying now. He hadn't denied the wives were gone. He hadn't claimed innocence. He'd spoken of them with sorrow and guilt. He'd admitted failure. And he'd pleaded with her to stop digging.
*Pawns. Used. Discarded. Failed them.*
The words echoed, painting a picture far more terrifying than simple murder. It hinted at systems, manipulations, forces beyond Paul Barton's control – or perhaps forces he was complicit in. The rose bushes stood as silent sentinels, their thorns glinting like accusations in the moonlight. The keeper of the cage wasn't just a prisoner; he was a haunted man, bearing the crushing weight of a past he couldn't escape and a guilt he couldn't absolve. The path into the labyrinth had taken a darker, more treacherous turn. Sandra shivered, not just from the cold, but from the chilling understanding that the true monsters of Blackwood might not be the ones locked within its walls, but the ones who pulled the strings from the shadows. And Paul, for all his power, might be as much a victim as the women memorialized by the roses.