There is no debt
The fire in her hearth is low but still gives off heat. Karen removes her boots and pulls the quilt from her bed. She wraps herself in it and sits beside the grate. Castle’s rough dismissal was not a complete surprise, but frustrating. She knits her fingers together and presses joined thumbs to her lips. She thinks.
The night slips away from her and Karen wakes by the cold grate in the deepest part of the night. The house is still and dark. She stands unsteadily and begins to tug at the laces of her bodice. Her clothes are heavy and significantly wrinkled from her time on the floor. With a sigh, she pulls the laces free and shrugs out of her dress. Karen steps free of the stiff wool and stretches luxuriantly in her petticoats.
She lifts a leg to the mattress and begins to roll down one stocking when a sharp crack sounds from downstairs. She startles, straightens sharply with a gasp. Karen holds perfectly still, waiting for the rest of the house to rouse and acknowledge what’s happened.
Stillness.
A long pause.
Another sharp impact. It is coming from the front hall and carries the dooming sound of something heavy striking the front door. A cold wash of fear spreads through her limbs, settling in her stomach like a stone. Scenes flash through her mind – Adele and Leo murdered in their beds. The house is upturned. The beast of five points howling for blood.
Panic becomes resolve. Mind clear, Karen pulls her dressing gown over her shoulders and removes the remaining stocking. If only she has heard the intruder, then she is the only defense.
She cannot think of a time when all has been so clear: the shapes of her room are well-defined in the dark. Bed, door, weapon. Karen knocks a candle stub from its heavy candlestick and grips the cold metal in one hand.
Another great crash. Why does no one stir?
Karen’s hand finds the door quickly, and she steps into the hall on silent feet. Moonlight picks lacework patterns in the darkness ahead. She crosses to the landing and looks down into the foyer. All is dark but for the shape outlined in the stained glass of the front door.
It moves.
Karen gasps, catches the sound in one cupped hand, then squeezes the candlestick. The carpeted steps beneath her bare feet seem to flow, carrying her in a single determined wave from the relative safety of the landing to the cold floor of the entryway. She can make the shape of the door handle as it rattles just a few feet away.
She will never be able to describe the passion that seized her at that moment – she will only remember the swift upward motion of raising the candlestick, and then opening the door to surprise whoever waits on the other side…
…then leaping back as they tumble through the door before she can strike. A body falls heavily at her feet.
She recognizes the sweep of beard and the peculiar shape of his ears.
“Mr. Castle?!”
He is curled on his side in the low light from the street, writhing on the threshold with his long legs still on the step outside. He groans again, rasping out a guttural “Help” before collapsing entirely. One great hand locks around Karen's bare ankle and the touch is something galvanic.
Karen leaps back, concentration scattered in the wake of this surprise. He does not move again, his hand trails where she once stood. Karen comes to in the present and realizes at last what is before her. She rushes back, kneeling at his shoulder and shaking it hard.
“Wake, sir! Wake up!”
Karen makes small, helpless sounds. Her hands flit from his shoulder to the broad spread of his back – all is strangely damp and a scent of copper threads through deeper notes of sweat and mud. She brings her fingertips to his clammy brow. He moans.
“Is there a flood?”
“No, sir. I think it’s blood. Get up; you’ve fallen through the door.”
Castle rolls to his side with great effort. He stares up into Karen’s face with a mixed look of confusion and disbelief.
“In the name of– Miss Page?”
Karen does not reply again. She squares herself and leans in to take hold of him by the arms. Castle lifts inelegantly, wheezing with an unseen injury. When he is upright, Karen straightens.
“I’ll call Mrs. Nelson.”
“NO!” he whispers fiercely, “Just you – “He makes a soft, struggling sound and curls in on himself.
Karen sinks into a grave silence, pausing to consider their options. A few rooms way Sam and Dinah sleep in their quarters behind the kitchen. Mrs. Nelson’s parlor is only a few steps beyond that. If anyone were to wake now they would find a bloody scene and Karen at the center. On the second floor, Leo and Adele are close – they cannot be made aware of the events unfolding here.
Through the darkness, Karen’s gaze alights on the open door of Castle’s study.
“Come,” she breathes, fitting her arm and shoulder under the master of the house and heaving him to his feet. He stifles another groan and does his best to move with her. Once inside, he reaches away from Karen’s grasp and collapses into his wingchair. The deep blackness of the empty hearth swallows his outline. Karen pulls the door shut, presses her back against it to close it firmly.
There is only the sound of their mingled breaths.
“Help,” he croaks. Karen pushes herself to her feet and rushes back to Castle.
His legs kick slowly, boot heels scraping along the fireside carpet. When Karen places a hand on his forearm, he grasps at her fingers inelegantly. She starts, gulps as he pulls her hand across his chest – lower, then lower still – and presses to a wide slash in the fabric of his shirt. It is warm and sticky with spent blood. Karen can feel the ragged edges of a deep wound there.
“Tell me –” He begins again in a low, breathless murmur, “Are governesses seamstresses as well?”
She swallows audibly, nodding before she realizes he cannot see her response. “Of course.”
“The basket under the bookshelf. Bring it here with a candle.”
Karen withdraws, feeling along the furniture until she reaches the bookshelf. The basket is tucked beside a low set of canvas-bound books. She draws it out and collects a candlestick, returning to Castle in a few quick steps. He is drawing shallow breaths, but they are even.
A match is produced and the candle flares to life.
It is worse than she could have imagined.
Deep purple bruises flower across Castle’s face, shining beneath a sheen of sweat, mud, and blood. Rich red slashes pepper his face and hands. His knuckles are open and raw. Castle wears all black; knit gansey, mud-caked canvas trousers, and thick leather boots. Karen lifts the candle close to his body to see the extent of the damage.
The gouge in his side is vicious but clean, a vertical slash across his ribs with smooth, straight edges. His shirt’s trailing threads are soaked in blood, catching in the clots of his wound. Karen picks delicately at the mess and pulls some of the offending ends away.
“Can it be mended?” Castle manages, his neck straining.
“It must be cleaned first.”
“Whiskey – the sideboard.”
Karen fetches the decanter and returns, pulling the stopper and handing him the bottle.
Castle inclines his head with a weak smirk, lifting the whiskey once in a small toast. He takes a deep pull, then arches his back and draws the shirt over his head. His body is a network of scars and healing injuries. Beneath these he is formed like a Hellenistic sculpture; chest broad and muscled, covered in a light dusting of dark hair. His stomach is firm and waist sharply defined where it disappears beneath the heavy leather belt of his trousers. She freezes. It is the most she has ever seen of another human, let alone a man.
Karen draws a shaky breath, blinks fast. He is aware of her discomfort and moves to pull the discarded shirt across his body.
“Apologies, I don’t mean – “
Karen stops Castle’s hand with her own. Shakes her head once, ‘No’ and sinks to her knees by his side. She takes the bottle from him, puts her lips to it and takes a sip for bravery.
It burns her tongue and sends tears to her eyes. She coughs, covers her mouth with the back of her hand. When she looks back, her gaze is firm. Karen hands back the whiskey and turns her attention to the basket.
Inside are neatly organized skeins of silk thread in soft spring colors. There is a folded handkerchief with a partially completed pattern of forget-me-nots and twining vines spread across one starched corner. The needle is still threaded with cornflower blue and pinned across an unfinished edge. The letters ‘MC’ are executed in deep grey.
“Any shade will do.” He says, managing a light tone.
Karen pulls up several inches of blue and snips the thread free with sewing scissors. As she prepares the needle, Castle stretches back in the chair and pours a liberal dose of the whiskey across his injury. When Karen approaches, he meets her look of determination with one of his own.
“Try not to move, sir.”
He nods and turns his head away.
Karen finds the procedure not unlike stitching heavy canvas. She works neatly, knotting off each suture and trimming the ends as she goes. It seems to take days to close the wound. They are silent, though he makes occasional grunts when she pulls the thread tight or presses hard. When the job is done Karen sits back on her heels and sighs deeply. Castle sprawls in the chair, his head rolling back with fatigue.
An exhausted weightlessness creeps into her bones. Karen tips her head up, drawing breath in deep, slow gulps. Silent minutes pass, and Karen is aware of slow, even breathing. Castle has fallen asleep. She thinks of the open front door, the blood in the foyer, the state of his clothes and now his study. It will take a good hour to clean – but dawn is nearing, and the house cannot rise to find this scene.
She stands, joints complaining from the cold floor. Karen tidies away the sewing kit, stoppers the whiskey and moves to lift the candle from the side table.
“I will manage the mess.”
His voice is disembodied – the poor light does not show the movement of his lips, but Karen can perceive his dark eyes are open and fixed on her.
“You must rest, sir.”
“No,” he replies, pulling himself upright and then to his feet. His is tall, even as he slumps to guard the injury. “No, you’ve exhausted yourself at my expense. Return to your bed, Miss Page. I’ll finish this.”
Whiskey and exhaustion fraying her judgment, Karen steps forward to ghost fingertips over her handiwork. The sweat and blood have dried on his skin, and the texture is curiously tacky.
“… sir. What caused this?”
Castle looks down to their point of connection. A breath passes between them before he takes her fingers in his and guides them away gently.
“Nothing that will threaten the safety of this house.”
“But how will you – “
The sneer of hours ago has paled, softening to a wry smile. “I will account for the state of affairs.” He has not released her. Karen watches his chest rise and fall with his breath; detects a slight hitch as he says, “Say nothing of tonight, or your… embroidery.”
She nods silently, unable meet his gaze for fear he may see the sudden tumult that has taken hold behind her eyes.
Castle weaves on his feet, weak from blood loss but determined to remain sturdy. “Miss Page, I would have died on my front step if not for you. I –” He pauses, dips his head low to catch her gaze. “I have the pleasure of owing you my life.”
Karen wets her lips, presses them together. “There is no debt.”
She is aware of him moving closer, the sound of his breath like the sea. “There are so few I would trust, Miss Page, or protect. People talk of natural sympathies… You…”
He is lost in thought then, eyes flickering from her face to their hands and back again. He licks his lips and a warning bell chimes in the back of her mind.
“Good night, sir.”
“You would leave?”
Karen’s mouth is dry. The heat of him engulfs her and she is overwhelmed. There is skin and mingled scents, married with a retreating tide of adrenaline that leaves her feeling weightless. She is tethered only by his grasp on her fingers.
“I am cold.”
He nods, head heavy, lifting his free hand to grasp her elbow once, firmly.
“Go.”