The fragile sanctuary Paul and Sandra had carved within Blackwood's walls felt like stolen time. The intimacy born of shared danger and hard-won trust was a potent shield, but it couldn't dispel the watchful malevolence radiating from Reginald Barton. He saw their unity. He felt the shift in the castle's oppressive atmosphere. The coded journal entries Sandra had meticulously decoded, exposing his predatory patterns, were more than financial records; they were a declaration of war. The demolition frame had failed. His pawns were no longer playing their assigned roles. The architect of ruin knew only one response: escalation. Obliteration.
***
Reginald Barton didn't pace. He stood at the window of his opulent city study, overlooking the teeming streets below – streets he owned, in all but name. His reflection in the polished glass was a study in controlled fury. The reports were damning. Whispers, subtle but persistent, were circulating in the Exchange – not about Paul's supposed monstrosity, but about *Barton* ruthlessness. Questions about Vance Textiles, about sudden, inexplicable competitor collapses, about convenient disappearances. Sandra Middleton, that quiet, overlooked girl, was moving through society with a newfound, unsettling poise. She wasn't pleading for acceptance; she was observing. Listening. And people, disarmed by her status as the latest Barton bride, were talking *to* her. Carelessly.
His spy within the Middleton household – a maid paid handsomely for snippets of Evelyn Middleton's anxious chatter – had reported Sandra's visit. The description chilled him: the girl radiating cold authority, Evelyn's terrified compliance. *'Slip your notes inside,'* Sandra had instructed. Notes about *what*? Reginald's knuckles whitened on the windowsill. She was turning her own pathetic parents into informants. Using his own tactics against him.
Paul, meanwhile, was recovering with alarming speed, bolstered by that insufferable girl's presence. His solicitors were moving aggressively against Grayson, using evidence that bore the hallmark of Sandra's meticulous mind. They weren't just defending the Middleton assets; they were dismantling a key piece of Reginald's financial machinery. And the unity between them… it was palpable. A united front was an unacceptable vulnerability.
A discreet knock sounded. Mrs. Thorne entered, her face a mask of servile impassivity, but her flinty eyes held a flicker of apprehension Reginald recognized. She knew the stakes.
"Well?" Reginald demanded, not turning from the window.
"The girl," Mrs. Thorne stated, her voice dry. "She grows bolder. Explores sections opened by the Master's key. Asks questions of the younger staff. Subtle, but probing. About the east tower repairs. About… past staff rotations." She paused, the unspoken name *Eleanor* hanging in the air. "The Master… he shields her. Limits my access to her movements."
Reginald finally turned. His eyes, chips of glacial flint, pinned the housekeeper. "She is a cancer. Metastasizing. Paul's judgment is clouded by… sentiment. A fatal weakness." He walked slowly towards his desk, the movement predatory. "The situation requires definitive resolution. The Middleton entanglement must be severed. Permanently. And Paul… Paul needs a stark reminder of the consequences of defiance. Of misplaced loyalties."
Mrs. Thorne went very still. "Permanently, sir?"
Reginald picked up a heavy paperweight, a chunk of polished obsidian. "An accident," he said, the word smooth, devoid of inflection. "Tragic. Unavoidable. Within the castle walls. Something… structural. The recent storm damage provides plausible cause. The east tower repairs… they were necessarily rushed. Shoddy workmanship. A terrible tragedy." He met Mrs. Thorne's gaze. "Her curiosity about the tower is noted. A fatal flaw."
Understanding dawned in the housekeeper's eyes, followed by a flicker of cold satisfaction. Removing the girl had always been her preferred solution. "The workmen… they completed the external scaffolding removal today. The internal supports…"
"Were they adequately reinforced?" Reginald interrupted, a cruel smile touching his lips. "Or were corners cut? Materials… substandard? Pressure to finish quickly can lead to regrettable oversights."
Mrs. Thorne nodded slowly. "Regrettable indeed, sir. The foreman… he was keen to please. Perhaps too keen. The central beam on the third floor landing… it bears significant load. If it were to fail during… say, an inspection…"
"Precisely," Reginald purred. He placed the obsidian paperweight down with deliberate care. "Ensure Paul is occupied elsewhere during the girl's… customary afternoon walk. The tower offers excellent views, I'm told. A shame the access was declared safe prematurely." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "The aftermath must be… clear. Unquestionable. Paul's history… the whispers… they will paint the picture. A distraught husband, known for volatile tendencies, perhaps overcome by grief or rage after discovering her… interference. Or simply tragic negligence on his part, overseeing the repairs." He shrugged. "The narrative is flexible. The result is paramount."
Mrs. Thorne dipped her head. "Understood, sir. The opportunity will present itself." She turned to leave.
"Thorne," Reginald's voice stopped her, cold as the grave. "Cleanliness is next to godliness. Ensure *all* loose ends are swept away. Including any… inconvenient notes my daughter-in-law might have encouraged her parents to collect."
The housekeeper's back stiffened almost imperceptibly. "Of course, sir. Discretion is paramount."
Alone again, Reginald returned to the window. The city sprawled beneath him, a chessboard awaiting his next move. Sandra Middleton was a pawn who had dared become a queen. Time to take her off the board. Permanently. And in doing so, break his rebellious son once and for all. The endgame had begun.
***
Sandra felt the prickle of unease as she approached the east wing corridor leading to the damaged tower. The air was colder here, smelling faintly of new plaster and sawdust. Paul was meeting with his lead solicitor in the study, finalizing the Grayson assault – a necessary distraction, but one that left her feeling exposed. Mrs. Thorne had been conspicuously absent, which should have been a relief, but instead felt ominous.
She paused near the roped-off entrance to the tower's lower stairs. The heavy velvet rope was gone. A hand-scrawled sign pinned to the newly plastered wall read: *'Repairs Complete. Access Permitted.'* It looked official, but the handwriting was unfamiliar. Unease tightened her chest. Paul had been adamant the tower wasn't fully safe yet, despite the scaffolding being removed. He'd mentioned lingering concerns about the load-bearing beams on the upper floors.
Yet… curiosity warred with caution. The tower offered a panoramic view of the estate. More importantly, it was the site of Clara's "accident." Sandra had avoided it, the memory too raw after Paul's confession. But now… was this a sign? A chance to see the place for herself? To understand the mechanics of Reginald's violence? Mrs. Thorne's warning echoed: *'Curiosity is a luxury you cannot afford.'* But knowledge was her weapon.
Driven by a mix of defiance and the investigator's instinct that had served her so well, Sandra pushed open the heavy oak door. The stairs beyond were dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of damp stone and fresh timber. She ascended slowly, her boots echoing on the stone steps. The repairs seemed thorough – new wooden beams crisscrossed the walls, fresh plaster covered old scars. But high above, on the third-floor landing, she could see where the lightning strike had hit. The stone was blackened, a massive new timber beam spanning the gap where the old one had shattered.
She reached the third-floor landing. Weak afternoon light filtered through a narrow arrow-slit window. The new central beam Paul had worried about loomed overhead, massive and dark. It looked sturdy, bolted securely into the stone walls on either side. Sandra walked towards the window, drawn by the sliver of grey sky visible outside. The view *would* be impressive from the top.
As she passed directly beneath the massive new beam, a sound froze her mid-step.
A low, ominous *groan*.
It wasn't the usual settling sigh of the ancient castle. This was deeper, more visceral. A sound of immense weight protesting. It seemed to come from the beam itself, or the stones holding it.
Sandra looked up, her heart leaping into her throat. Was that…? A fine shower of dust drifted down from the join where the beam met the right-hand wall. A hairline crack, almost invisible a moment ago, seemed to widen infinitesimally in the weak light.
*'Shoddy workmanship…'* Reginald's cold words, reported by her mother's terrified note, flashed in her mind. *'Pressure to finish quickly… regrettable oversights…'*
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through her. It wasn't curiosity. It was a *trap*.
She whirled to flee back down the stairs. At that exact moment, a deafening *CRACK* split the air, like a gunshot amplified a hundredfold. The massive central beam shuddered violently. The stone socket holding its right end exploded outwards in a shower of rubble.
Time seemed to slow. Sandra saw the beam tear free, its splintered end plunging downwards, aimed like a spear at the spot where she had just been standing. She threw herself sideways, towards the relative shelter of the stairwell arch.
Too late.
The world dissolved into chaos. The plunging beam struck the edge of the stone landing where she'd been a heartbeat before. The impact was cataclysmic. The ancient flagstones shattered like glass. The entire section of the landing floor beneath Sandra's feet gave way with a roar.
Screaming, Sandra plummeted. Falling stone, timber, and choking dust filled the air. She struck a jagged outcrop of collapsing masonry, a searing pain exploding in her side. Then she hit the debris-choked stairwell below, the breath knocked from her lungs, the world spinning into terrifying darkness punctuated by the relentless thunder of Blackwood Castle collapsing in on itself. The last conscious thought that flickered through the pain and dust was Paul's face, and the chilling certainty that Reginald Barton's endgame had found its mark.