The first frost came early that year, painting Blackwood's gardens in delicate silver filigree. Sandra stood at the nursery window, watching as Paul knelt in the grass below, his broad shoulders hunched against the morning chill. In his arms, Alexander squealed with delight as his tiny fingers brushed the icy petals of Isabella's roses, now glittering like diamonds in the weak winter sun.
"Careful," Paul murmured, catching their son's hand before he could put a frost-covered fist in his mouth. "That's cold, little lion."
Sandra smiled, her breath fogging the glass. Six months had passed since the christening, and with each day, Alexander grew more curious, more vibrant—more *alive* in ways that filled the ancient halls of Blackwood with a lightness they'd never known. The nightmares that had once haunted its corridors had faded, replaced by the sounds of a child's laughter and the steady rhythm of a family finding its footing.
A knock at the nursery door startled her from her thoughts. Eleanor entered, her arms laden with ledgers, her expression unreadable. "The quarterly reports from Riverside Mills," she announced, setting them on the table near the window. "The new looms are performing beyond expectations. Production is up nearly forty percent."
Sandra nodded absently, her gaze drifting back to the garden where Paul was now pointing out a winter robin to their enraptured son. "Good. The workers' housing?"
"Nearly complete." Eleanor joined her at the window, her usual reserve softening as she watched the scene below. "The first families move in next week. There's talk of naming the new square after Alexander."
Sandra laughed softly. "He'll be insufferable when he's older."
Eleanor's lips quirked in what passed for a smile these days. "He's a Barton. It's in his blood." She hesitated, then added, "Clara sent word. Her exhibition in Paris has been extended. She's... happy."
The unspoken *we never thought we'd be happy* hung between them. Sandra reached for Eleanor's hand, squeezing gently. "And you?" she asked quietly. "Are you happy?"
Eleanor looked down at their joined hands, then out at the garden where Paul was now lifting Alexander onto his shoulders, the baby's delighted shrieks piercing the crisp morning air. "I'm... content," she said at last. "Which is more than I ever dreamed possible."
Below, Paul turned, sensing their gaze. Even from this distance, Sandra could see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled—a sight that still made her breath catch. He raised a hand in greeting, and Alexander mimicked the gesture with clumsy enthusiasm, his tiny mittened fingers waving wildly.
"Come," Sandra said, linking her arm with Eleanor's. "Let's join them. The ledgers can wait."
Eleanor hesitated, then allowed herself to be led from the nursery, the ghost of a real smile playing about her lips. As they descended the stairs, Sandra marveled at how natural it all felt—the easy companionship, the shared joy in Alexander's discoveries, the quiet understanding that had grown between them all like ivy on Blackwood's ancient walls.
Outside, the frost sparkled underfoot as they crossed the lawn. Paul met them halfway, transferring Alexander into Sandra's waiting arms. The baby immediately buried his cold nose in her neck, giggling at the resulting shriek she couldn't suppress.
"Traitor," she accused, kissing his rosy cheeks. "Just like your father."
Paul's arm slipped around her waist, pulling them both close. "No," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Like *you*. Stubborn. Clever. Full of light." His gaze took in Eleanor standing awkwardly nearby, and to Sandra's surprise, he extended his free arm, drawing her into their circle. "And surrounded by people who love you," he finished softly.
The frost around them seemed to shimmer brighter in that moment, the winter sun breaking through the clouds to bathe them all in golden light. Alexander crowed with delight, reaching chubby hands toward Eleanor, who—after a moment's hesitation—took him gently, her face transforming with wonder as he patted her cheeks with icy fingers.
Sandra leaned into Paul's side, watching as the first true family Blackwood had known in generations took shape before her eyes. The frost would melt by noon, the gardens would sleep until spring, but this—this warmth between them—would endure. Of that, she had no doubt.