The wind died.
It happened in an instant. The howling stopped, replaced by a profound, ringing silence.
Through the gaps in the velvet curtains, a beam of pale, winter sunlight cut through the room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
And then, a soft, high-pitched wail broke the silence.
Beatrice held the baby up. “A girl.”
Victoria collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaming down her face as William took the baby and placed her on Victoria’s chest. She was tiny, perfect, and furious.
“Hope,” Victoria whispered, kissing the damp head of her daughter. “Her name is Hope.”
Beatrice stepped back, wiping her hands on a towel. She looked at the scene: Malcolm rocking his twins by the fire, William and Victoria huddled over their daughter in the sunlight. The room was warm. The storm had broken.
For the first time in the history of the Croft Dynasty, the house wasn’t filled with secrets or schemes. It was filled with life.
Beatrice walked to the window and looked out at the pristine, white world covering the estate. She had spent a lifetime destroying things to protect this family. Today, she had helped build it.