The first morning of Alexander's christening dawned with a crispness that hinted at the approaching winter. Sandra stood at the nursery window, watching as the groundskeepers put the final touches on the gardens below—arranging chairs, stringing delicate lanterns between the ancient oaks, transforming Blackwood's usually somber grounds into a scene of celebration. Behind her, Paul adjusted the tiny velvet jacket on their squirming son, his large hands surprisingly deft with the intricate silver buttons.
"He'll outgrow this before the ceremony even starts," Paul grumbled, but the warmth in his voice betrayed him. Alexander gurgled happily, grabbing at his father's cravat with tiny, insistent fists.
Sandra turned, smiling at the sight. "He has your determination," she observed, crossing the room to smooth the dark curls that were already so like Paul's. "And your stubbornness."
Paul caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "And your perfect nose," he countered. "And your infuriating ability to get exactly what you want."
The door opened quietly, and Eleanor slipped in, her arms laden with fabric. "The christening gown," she announced, holding up the delicate white garment. "Freshly pressed and—" She stopped short at the sight of Paul attempting to disentangle Alexander's fingers from his hair. "Oh dear. Perhaps we should have chosen something with fewer buttons."
Sandra laughed, taking the gown. "We'll manage. Is everything ready downstairs?"
Eleanor nodded, her usual reserve softened by the occasion. "Clara arrived last night—she's been helping Mrs. Bell with the flowers. And your parents..." She hesitated, glancing at Paul. "They're in the blue parlor. Your father seems... subdued."
Paul's expression darkened briefly, then cleared as Alexander let out a particularly enthusiastic squeal. "Let him be subdued," he said, lifting his son into the air, much to the baby's delight. "Today isn't about the past. It's about him." He brought Alexander down to cradle against his chest, the baby's wide eyes staring up with utter trust. "Our future."
The chapel, usually so cold and imposing, was transformed. Sunlight streamed through the newly cleaned stained glass, casting jewel-toned patterns across the gathered guests. Clara had outdone herself with the flowers—white roses and ivy twined around the ancient pews, their scent mingling with the beeswax of hundreds of candles. Sandra walked down the aisle on Paul's arm, Alexander a warm, wriggling weight in her arms, her heart full to bursting at the sight of their assembled friends—Eleanor and Clara in the front row, Mr. Davies dabbing at his eyes unabashedly, even her parents sitting quietly, their usual bluster muted by the solemnity of the occasion.
The priest, an elderly man who had known Paul since childhood, beamed as he took Alexander into his arms. "Alexander Reginald Barton," he intoned, the name echoing through the chapel, "today we welcome you into the light..."
As the holy water touched their son's brow, Paul's hand found Sandra's, their fingers intertwining tightly. She glanced up at him, surprised to see tears tracking silently down his face—not tears of sorrow, but of a joy so profound it overflowed without warning. In that moment, with their son's cries mingling with the priest's blessings and the sunlight painting them all in gold, Sandra understood the true weight of the crown they bore—not as a burden, but as a privilege. The Barton name, once synonymous with fear and darkness, would mean something different for Alexander. It would mean love. It would mean home.
After the ceremony, as guests milled about the gardens enjoying the unseasonably warm afternoon, Sandra found herself momentarily alone near Isabella's roses. The white blooms nodded in the breeze, their petals brushing against a new addition—a tiny rosebush, planted just that morning in honor of Alexander. Paul's voice startled her from behind.
"Penny for your thoughts," he murmured, slipping an arm around her waist.
Sandra leaned into him, watching as Clara cooed over Alexander nearby, the baby enthralled by the flash of her silver locket in the sunlight. "I was thinking about names," she said softly. "About legacies. About how heavy they can be... and how beautiful."
Paul followed her gaze to their son, his expression softening. "He'll never bear it alone," he vowed. "Not like I did."
Sandra turned in his arms, pressing a kiss to his lips—a promise, a seal, a new beginning. "None of us will," she whispered. And as Alexander's delighted laughter floated to them on the breeze, the roses seemed to bloom brighter in agreement.