Page 71 of Where the Wind Whispers

Violet could remember her whole pregnancy being filled with people telling her to get rest while she could; that the baby wouldn’t give her the chance to after she was out in the world.

The last thing Anastasya did was cause any sort of heartache.

She was far too perfect for that.

Violet had spent the first two weeks after her daughter’s birth in a hazy bubble of happiness. She rarely let the baby out of her sight because she was far too enraptured with watching the cloudy baby’s eyes turn from a dark, milky tone to the same bright gray as her father.

And Kaz …

God, Kaz.

He was … smitten.

From that very first breath and that groggy cry, Kaz had been spun, all caught up in his daughter’s pretty, new web, and he didn’t seem to mind a bit.

Violet remembered waking up one night in the hospital after Anastasya’s birth to find her husband tucked away on one of the corner chairs in the private suite, the baby’s bassinet right at his side. His hand had been hanging inside the bassinet, and even from Violet’s position across the room in the darkness, she could still see the tiny baby’s fingers wrapped tightly around her father’s thumb.

And that, in a nutshell, was how Anastasya made her way into the world.

Softly.

Sweet cries and wild hair.

So loved.

And perfect.

The gentle click-click-click of a camera brought Violet out of her inner musings. She stood back, letting the photographer rearrange Anastasya in her tightly wrapped swaddle inside the white wicker basket of cream furs.

Kaz was so careful with their child—never letting anyone take her from their home for visits, and rarely allowing people in to see the baby unless it was immediate family. Even his own mother had been escorted to the hospital to greet Anastasya after the birth, but only when Irina had finally asked to come in.

And even then, she’d asked Kaz to make himself scarce.

Violet didn't ask her husband why that was, as she had a pretty good idea without the explanation. Whenever forced to be in the same room with her youngest son, Irina could never truly hide the slight sadness in her eyes.

The anger rarely showed, but the sadness was always present.

“We’re almost done, little one,” the photographer said.

Jenny was her name. She was an older woman—in her late fifties, at least, but pleasant and quiet. She did her job in silence, never asking for help and staying out of the way when others were in the room, too.

Violet had asked Kaz to have something set up for photographs before Anastasya got beyond the age where the photos wouldn’t have that sweet, innocent newborn tone. There would be a great deal more photos, to be sure, but these were her very first, the ones that would decorate the walls of their home forever.

They were important.

Violet had assumed Kaz would have it set up so that they went somewhere to have the photos done, but in his usual fashion, he kept his wife close, and now, his child even closer. He had the photographer come to them. They certainly had the space in their mansion, and the photographer had picked several locations to do what she wanted in.

“Why that middle name?” Jenny asked.

Violet glanced over at the woman, the first time she’d taken her eyes off her baby girl since the shoot had begun. “Pardon?”

“My husband is Russian. The middle name you picked—it’s not traditional.”

Ah.

“Kaz thought it was a mouthful to give her the traditional name,” Violet explained.

That was half of the truth.