An hour later, the room fell silent as Lady Beatrice tapped a crystal spoon against her champagne flute. She stood at the microphone, looking out at the sea of faces–people she had intimidated, charmed, or shunned for forty years.
“For decades, there was a whisper in this city about the ‘Curse of the Crofts,’” Beatrice began, her voice clear and sober. “They said we turned everything we touched into gold, but our hearts into stone.”
She looked at her sons, William and Malcolm, standing near the bassinet where Hope, Alistair II, and Arthur slept peacefully.
“I was the keeper of that stone,” Beatrice confessed, her eyes glistening. “I taught my sons that silence was strength and that love was a liability. I was wrong.”
She raised her glass toward Victoria. “Tonight, we christen the next generation not in fear, but in hope. The curse is broken. The ice has finally melted.”
The room erupted in applause. William squeezed Victoria’s hand, feeling a profound sense of closure. He didn’t see the shadow moving in the hallway.