The fragile peace of Eleanor's feeding dissolved with the setting sun. As dusk painted the room in long, melancholic shadows, the tiny weight in Paul's arms seemed to grow heavier, not with substance, but with the crushing awareness of her vulnerability. The initial awe had settled into a watchful, bone-deep anxiety. Dr. Evans had retired to a nearby room, instructing them to call him immediately for *anything* – a change in color, a weakening cry, a refusal to feed. Mrs. Bell, her own injuries temporarily forgotten in the face of this new battle, organized a rotation of warmed cloths, fresh milk, and clean linens with quiet efficiency. Eleanor Vance sat sentinel in a corner chair, her gaze rarely leaving the baby who bore her name, a silent testament to resilience watching over its newest incarnation.
Paul didn't relinquish his daughter. He held her through the quiet hours, his massive frame rigid in the armchair beside Sandra's chaise. He learned the terrifying rhythm of Eleanor's breathing – the shallow, rapid flutters, the occasional alarming pause that lasted a heartbeat too long before starting again. He learned the difference between her sleepy murmurs and the thin, reedy cries that signaled hunger or discomfort. He learned the agonizing slowness of feeding her drop by precious drop, the sheer effort it took for her to suckle weakly from the tiny spoon held by Sandra or Mrs. Bell, his own hands deemed too large, too clumsy for the delicate task.
Sandra watched him, her own exhaustion a heavy cloak. The physical toll of the birth, the weeks of strain before it, pulled at her, but sleep felt like a betrayal. Each time she drifted, a sharp spike of fear would jolt her awake – had Eleanor stopped breathing? Had her color changed? She saw the same fear etched in the lines around Paul's eyes, in the unnatural stillness of his posture. He was a fortress wall, but the enemy besieging him was invisible, insidious, striking at the heart of his newfound, terrifying tenderness.
As full night descended, Eleanor grew restless. Her tiny face scrunched, her breathing became more labored, punctuated by faint, wheezing sounds that hadn't been there before. Her skin, which had gained a faint, reassuring pinkness, seemed to pale, taking on a worrying bluish tinge around her lips and tiny fingertips. She refused the spoon, turning her head weakly, her cries dwindling to exhausted whimpers.
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the room. Sandra pushed herself upright, ignoring the protesting ache deep within. "Paul… her color…"
Paul was already staring, his face taut with dread. "Evans!" His voice, though low, cracked like a whip in the stillness.
Dr. Evans was there in moments, shrugging into his dressing gown. His expression was grave as he bent over the baby Paul held out to him. He listened intently with his stethoscope, his brow furrowed. He gently pried open Eleanor's tiny mouth, checked her eyes. "Her breathing is compromised," he stated, his voice clipped with urgency. "Likely the strain of the birth, her prematurity… her lungs are tiring." He looked at Paul and Sandra, his eyes holding no false comfort. "She needs constant warmth. More than blankets. We need to keep her skin-to-skin. Body heat. It regulates their temperature, supports their breathing."
He looked pointedly at Paul. "You, Lord Barton. You run warm. Remove your shirt. Hold her against your chest. Cover yourselves with a light blanket. Keep her head supported, her airway clear. Sandra," he turned to her, "you need rest. Your body needs to heal. Paul can do this. It's vital."
Paul didn't hesitate. With clumsy, frantic fingers, he fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, stripping to the waist, heedless of the cool room air. His broad chest, usually a symbol of strength, looked strangely vulnerable. Dr. Evans carefully unwrapped Eleanor, her impossibly small limbs flailing weakly in the sudden exposure. She let out a thin, distressed cry.
Paul sat back in the armchair. Dr. Evans placed the tiny, fragile body directly onto Paul's bare chest, guiding the baby's head to rest just below his collarbone, her ear over his heart. He adjusted Paul's arms to cradle her securely, then covered them both with a soft, warmed blanket, tucking it snugly around Eleanor's back, leaving only her head exposed.
The effect was immediate, yet agonizingly slow. Paul froze, utterly rigid, his breath held. He could feel every minute tremor running through her tiny frame, the frantic, bird-like flutter of her heart against his skin, the frightening shallowness of her breaths. The bluish tinge persisted. He felt monstrously large, terrifyingly inadequate. How could his heat, his strength, possibly be enough for something so infinitesimally delicate?
"Breathe, Paul," Dr. Evans murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Deep, steady breaths. Your rhythm can help regulate hers. Talk to her. Let her hear your voice."
Paul swallowed hard, forcing air into his lungs. He looked down at the tiny head resting against him, the dark hair damp with perspiration. "Eleanor," he rasped, his voice thick and unfamiliar to his own ears. "Little Eleanor. It's Papa." He took another deliberate breath. "You… you have to fight. Just a little longer. Like your Mama fought. Like… like you already fought to be here." He stroked her back with one trembling finger, the contact feather-light. "We need you. Alexander needs his sister. Your Mama…" His voice broke. He glanced at Sandra, who was watching with tears streaming silently down her face, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other resting protectively over her own healing womb. "Your Mama needs you to be strong. So be strong, little lioness. Please."
He kept talking. Nonsense, mostly. Descriptions of Blackwood in spring, promises of showing her the roses, stories about Alexander's latest escapade with his toy horse. He talked about the stars he could see through a crack in the curtains, about the sound of the wind in the oaks outside. His voice was a low, constant murmur, a lifeline thrown into the terrifying silence surrounding her fragile breaths. He focused on the feel of her, the terrifyingly slight weight, the warmth slowly seeping from his skin to hers. He matched his breathing to the shallow rhythm he willed her to follow – in… out… in… out.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Sandra watched, her heart hammering against her ribs, her prayers a silent litany. Eleanor Vance sat forward in her chair, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, her lips moving soundlessly. Mrs. Bell hovered nearby with warmed cloths, her eyes fixed on the baby.
Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the bluish tinge around Eleanor's lips began to recede. Her breathing, while still rapid and shallow, seemed to gain a fraction more depth. The frantic fluttering of her heart against Paul's chest eased slightly. She let out a small sigh, her body relaxing infinitesimally against his warmth.
Dr. Evans leaned in, listening again. He nodded, a fraction of the tension leaving his own shoulders. "Good," he breathed. "That's good, Paul. Keep going. You're her anchor."
Paul closed his eyes for a second, a wave of dizzying relief washing over him, followed immediately by a fresh wave of crushing responsibility. He hadn't fixed anything. The danger hadn't passed. But he was holding it at bay. With his body, his breath, his voice. He was her shield, her furnace, her steady ground. The Beast of Blackwood had discovered a new kind of strength – the terrifying, relentless power of stillness and warmth.
He opened his eyes and looked down at his daughter. Her eyes were closed, her tiny face less pinched. She looked… not peaceful, but no longer actively struggling against an invisible foe. She was resting. Trusting the massive heartbeat beneath her ear.
"See?" he whispered, his voice rough with unshed tears. He looked up at Sandra, his grey eyes holding hers across the dim room. "She's listening." He adjusted his hold minutely, settling deeper into the chair, the vigil only just begun. The night stretched before them, long and uncertain, but Paul Barton held his daughter against his heart, a silent vow resonating with every steady beat: *I am here. I am your wall. I am your warmth. I will not let go.* The shadows of Blackwood deepened outside, but within the circle of lamplight, a father's fierce, gentle vigil held the darkness at bay, one fragile breath at a time.