Chapter 8 - The Yellow Nursery
The rain had finally stopped. A brilliant autumn sunset broke through the clouds over Chicago, painting the sky in strokes of gold, amber, and deep violet.
Inside Ironwood Mansion, the heavy white linen sheets that had covered the mirrors of the East Wing for two years were gone. Every mirror reflected light, warmth, and life.
In the yellow nursery, the fire crackled softly in the hearth.
Lydia Mercer, dressed in a soft cream cashmere sweater, sat in the rocking chair with her baby girl cradled in her arms. Aurora was awake now, blinking her bright gray eyes up at her mother, her tiny hand reaching out to touch Lydia’s cheek.
Gideon stood leaning against the doorframe, watching them.
The darkness that had defined his soul for twenty-four months felt distant now, washed away by the miracle standing before him.
Lydia looked up, catching his gaze. She smiled—a real, radiant smile that reached her eyes and warmed the entire room.
“You’re staring, Gideon Mercer,” she teased softly, her voice regaining its melodic strength.
Gideon walked across the room, knelt beside the rocking chair, and rested his hand over both of theirs, feeling the warmth of his wife and his daughter beneath his palm.
“I spent two years believing I was cursed,” Gideon murmured, pressing a tender kiss to Lydia’s knuckles, then to the baby’s tiny forehead. “I thought the world only understood blood and iron.”
Lydia leaned down, resting her forehead against his. “And what does it understand now?”
May you like
Gideon smiled, the last ice around his heart finally melting away forever.
“Miracles.”
