The fragile bond forged over Paul Barton's desk, the unexpected alliance born from columns of red ink and Sandra's sharp deductions, couldn't dispel the deeper shadows haunting Blackwood. The ledgers offered a puzzle, a battle plan against external predators like Grayson & Sons, but the castle's own secrets whispered from the stones, a constant, chilling counterpoint. The moonlit garden confession – *"They weren't monsters. Neither was I."* – and the desperate plea to leave the past buried echoed louder than any financial calculation.
The key Paul had given her – the heavy iron one unlocking the library's depths – felt like both a privilege and a provocation. He'd shown her his intellect through engineering sketches and his hidden sorrow through poetry. He'd accepted her competence. But the rose bushes, the despairing sob, the vanished wives – these remained the locked doors he forbade her to open. Sandra's resolve, however, had been hardened, not softened, by their strange collaboration. Understanding the financial threat to her family fueled her need to understand the existential threat within Blackwood's walls.
Driven by a restlessness that the library's intellectual sanctuary couldn't quell, Sandra explored the grounds beyond the walled garden during her sanctioned walks. The storm's damage was evident – a large branch torn from an ancient oak lay near the edge of the formal lawns, debris scattered near the east tower where scaffolding now stood. She skirted the workmen, venturing into a wilder, more neglected part of the estate, where ornamental gardens gave way to overgrown shrubbery and skeletal trees.
The path, barely discernible beneath moss and fallen leaves, wound downwards, following the natural slope away from the castle. The air grew damper, cooler, smelling of damp earth and decaying vegetation. The sounds of the castle faded, replaced by the rustle of unseen creatures and the mournful sigh of wind through bare branches. She pushed through a thicket of brambles, thorns catching at her skirt, and stumbled into a small, hidden clearing.
And there it stood.
Tucked against a steep, moss-covered bank, half-swallowed by ivy and creeping vines, was a chapel. It was tiny, ancient, built of the same dark stone as the castle but weathered into near ruin. The arched wooden door hung crookedly on rusted hinges, partially ajar. The few narrow windows were opaque with grime and cobwebs. A crude stone cross, tilted precariously, crowned the miniature bell tower, now silent and home only to nesting birds. It radiated an aura of profound abandonment, a forgotten fragment of faith swallowed by the estate's brooding isolation.
Sandra approached slowly, a sense of eerie reverence mingling with her apprehension. This felt different from the forbidden wing. This wasn't deliberately sealed; it was simply forsaken by time. She pushed the heavy, groaning door wider, the scent of damp rot and ancient dust washing over her. Inside, it was dim and hushed. Slivers of weak daylight pierced the filthy windows, illuminating swirling dust motes. The single room was bare except for a crude stone altar at the far end, covered in a thick layer of grime and fallen plaster. Pews, if there ever were any, had long since vanished.
Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She walked towards the altar, her footsteps echoing softly on the stone flags. As she neared, something caught her eye near the base. Not part of the stonework, but placed there. Faded, desiccated bouquets. Three of them. Tied with crumbling ribbons, their petals long since turned to dust and brittle fragments, their colors bleached to ghostly shades of ivory and grey. They looked decades old. Funeral tributes? Memorials? Left for whom?
A chill unrelated to the damp air prickled Sandra's skin. She knelt, carefully brushing aside loose debris near the altar's base. The stone was rough, pitted. Her fingers traced something carved into its surface, partially obscured by moss and grime. She scraped gently, clearing the area.
Two sets of initials, deeply gouged into the stone, enclosed within a clumsily carved heart.
> *I.L. + P.B.*
Sandra's breath hitched. *P.B.* Paul Barton. But *I.L.*? Isabella Dubois? No. Isabella's initials would be I.D. Eleanor Vance? E.V. Clara Finch? C.F. None matched. This was someone else. Someone before the known wives? Someone whose memorial was this forgotten chapel and these ancient, crumbling flowers?
The implications crashed over her. Another woman? Another loss? Hidden away, erased from the official narrative? The initials, the bouquets – they spoke of a relationship, a connection Paul had never mentioned, existing before the wives society knew about. Who was I.L.? What happened to her? Was *she* the first rose bush? The true beginning of the tragedy?
A sudden sound made Sandra freeze – the snap of a twig outside the chapel door. Her heart leaped into her throat. Had she been followed? Paul? Mrs. Thorne? She scrambled to her feet, backing away from the altar, her pulse pounding in her ears. She peered towards the doorway, half-expecting to see Paul's imposing silhouette framed there, fury in his eyes.
But only weak daylight filtered through the ivy-choked entrance. Silence descended again, deeper than before. Perhaps it was just an animal. Yet the feeling of being watched, of trespassing on sacred, sorrowful ground, intensified.
She fled the chapel, pushing back through the brambles with less care, scratches stinging her arms. The path back to the castle seemed longer, the woods more watchful. The discovery of the initials *I.L. + P.B.* felt like uncovering the first thread of a much darker, more complex tapestry than she'd imagined. Paul's past held more ghosts than three vanished wives. The chapel, the bouquets, the carved heart – they whispered of a deeper wound, a hidden chapter that predated the official tragedies. Who was I.L.? And how did she fit into the chilling pattern of loss that haunted Blackwood?
***
Returning to the castle felt like stepping back into a gilded cage after glimpsing the raw graveyard of its secrets. Sandra avoided the main halls, slipping through a side entrance near the kitchens. She needed a moment to compose herself, to process the unsettling discovery. The scent of baking bread and roasting meat felt jarringly normal after the chapel's decay.
She turned a corner into a dimly lit service corridor, intending to find a back staircase to her room. A figure materialized from a shadowed doorway, blocking her path. Mrs. Thorne.
The housekeeper stood rigid, her arms crossed over her flat chest, her silver hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch the skin of her skull. Her flinty grey eyes fixed on Sandra with unnerving intensity, missing nothing – the scratches on her arms, the dust on her skirt, the lingering pallor of shock on her face.
"Lost again, Miss Middleton?" Mrs. Thorne's voice was dry as old bones, devoid of inflection, yet carrying a weight of disapproval that filled the narrow corridor.
Sandra forced herself to meet the piercing gaze. "Just taking air, Mrs. Thorne. Exploring the grounds." She kept her voice steady, hoping it didn't betray the tremor within.
"Exploring." The word was a slow, deliberate indictment. Mrs. Thorne took a step closer. The air grew colder. "Some paths are best left untrodden, girl. Some sights are best left unseen." Her eyes flickered towards Sandra's scratched arms, then back to her face, sharp as daggers. "The past bites. Savagely. And it doesn't care for curious souls who go digging where they shouldn't."
Sandra's heart hammered against her ribs. Did Mrs. Thorne know about the chapel? Had she followed her? Or was this a general warning? "I don't know what you mean," she managed, though the denial felt flimsy.
A thin, humorless smile touched Mrs. Thorne's lips. "Don't you? The gardens are one thing. The woods… the old ruins…" She paused, letting the implication hang. "Blackwood holds its secrets close. And those who try to pry them loose…" She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper that seemed to slither through the dim corridor. "They vanish, girl. Like the others. Isabella. Eleanor. Clara. Good girls, mostly. But they asked questions. They poked at shadows. And the shadows… swallowed them whole."
Sandra felt a fresh wave of icy dread. This wasn't just disapproval; it was a direct threat, veiled in the housekeeper's customary cryptic menace. "What happened to them?" Sandra breathed, unable to stop the question.
Mrs. Thorne's smile vanished, replaced by glacial hardness. "That is not your concern. Your concern is your duty. Be the good wife. Keep your head down. Tend to your… purpose." Her gaze dropped pointedly to Sandra's stomach for a fraction of a second. "Give him the heir he needs. That is your only safety. That is the *only* shield you have within these walls." She straightened, her voice regaining its dry, authoritative tone. "Curiosity is a luxury you cannot afford. Remember the roses. Remember the silence. And stay away from places that are best… forgotten."
With a final, searing look that promised dire consequences for disobedience, Mrs. Thorne turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing sharply on the stone floor before fading into the depths of the servants' wing.
Sandra stood frozen in the dim corridor, the housekeeper's warning echoing in her ears, far more terrifying than Paul's anguished plea. *They vanish, girl. Like the others.* Mrs. Thorne hadn't just confirmed the danger; she'd framed it as an inevitability for those who pried. And she'd explicitly linked Sandra's survival to her fertility, to becoming the vessel the Bartons demanded.
The discovery of the chapel and the initials *I.L. + P.B.* had felt like finding a key to a deeper mystery. Mrs. Thorne's chilling words felt like a hand closing around her throat, warning her that using that key would be fatal. The cage now had a visible jailer, one who watched, who warned, and who seemed intimately acquainted with the shadows that had swallowed Paul Barton's wives. The path into Blackwood's labyrinth had just revealed a new guardian of its secrets, and the cost of curiosity had been named: vanishing without a trace. Sandra Middleton clutched her arms, the scratches stinging like brands, the weight of the housekeeper's threat pressing down heavier than any stone.