The prison courtyard was a study in contrasts—cold spring sunlight slicing through iron bars, the scent of recent rain mixing with the ever-present stench of human misery. Paul adjusted his grip on Alexander's carrier as they approached the visitor's entrance, his son's tiny face peering out with wide, curious eyes. Sandra walked beside him, her hand tucked securely in the crook of his arm, her posture straight despite the tension radiating through her.
"You're certain about this?" Paul asked for the third time since they'd left Blackwood.
Sandra's fingers tightened briefly on his sleeve. "He should see his grandson," she said quietly. "Before the sentencing. Before... everything."
The warden, a grizzled man with a permanent squint, led them through a maze of corridors to a small, high-walled courtyard—the only place in the prison deemed suitable for a viscount, even a disgraced one. Reginald Barton sat on a stone bench, his once-impeccable posture slightly stooped, his fine clothes replaced by rough prison garb. But his eyes, when he looked up, were as sharp and calculating as ever.
"Paul," Reginald said, his voice hoarse from disuse. "And the infamous Mrs. Barton." His gaze dropped to the carrier, and for a fleeting moment, something like vulnerability flickered across his face. "So the rumors are true. An heir."
Paul set the carrier carefully on the bench beside Reginald, positioning himself protectively between his father and his son. "Alexander Reginald Barton," he said, the name deliberate. "Born three weeks ago."
Reginald's hands, gnarled and spotted with age, hovered over the baby as if afraid to touch. "Reginald?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
"A reminder," Sandra said, stepping forward. "Of what he could have been. Of what you chose not to be."
Reginald withdrew his hands as if burned. "You brought him here to gloat? To show me what I'll never have?"
"No." Paul's voice was steel. "We brought him so you would understand what you lost. Not just a legacy, but a family. A future."
Alexander chose that moment to fuss, his tiny face scrunching up in displeasure. Without thinking, Reginald reached out, his finger brushing the baby's cheek in an instinctive gesture of comfort. The moment stretched, fragile and surreal—the ruthless tyrant reduced to a trembling old man, touching his grandson for the first and likely last time.
"He has your eyes," Reginald murmured, almost to himself. Then, with visible effort, he straightened, the mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Sentencing is tomorrow, I'm told."
Paul nodded. "Life imprisonment. The evidence was... overwhelming."
Reginald barked a laugh. "Evidence. As if that ever mattered before." He looked at Sandra, his gaze piercing. "You did this. Turned my son against me. Made him weak."
Sandra didn't flinch. "I showed him his strength," she corrected. "The strength to choose a different path."
The baby began to cry in earnest now, his wails echoing off the stone walls. Paul gathered him up, rocking him gently. "We should go," he said to Sandra.
Reginald watched them, his expression unreadable. "Alexander," he said suddenly, as they turned to leave. "It's a good name." A pause. "Tell me... will he know about me?"
Paul hesitated, then nodded once. "He'll know the truth. All of it."
Reginald's shoulders sagged. "I suppose that's fair." He turned away, staring at the patch of sky visible through the bars. "Go on, then. Take your son home."
The walk back through the prison felt infinitely longer. Alexander, soothed by his father's movements, had quieted, his tiny fist curled around Paul's finger. Sandra kept close, her shoulder brushing Paul's with every step.
At the gates, Paul stopped suddenly, turning his face up to the sun. "It's over," he breathed, as if he couldn't quite believe it.
Sandra reached up, brushing a tear from his cheek—one he hadn't even realized had fallen. "No," she corrected gently. "It's just beginning."
As they climbed into the carriage, Alexander nestled safely between them, the prison's shadow receded behind them, replaced by the open road and the promise of home. The past was settled. The future, bright and uncharted, stretched ahead. And for the first time in his life, Paul Barton faced it without fear, without chains, with only the weight of his son in his arms and the love of his wife at his side. The lion's den was behind them. Blackwood—their Blackwood—awaited.