The evening sun poured its final golden hues over the estate, bathing the high-vaulted halls in amber light as if setting the scene for his arrival.
The smell of fresh bread drifted in from the kitchens, mingling with the faint perfume of lavender that always clung to the curtains Jasmine loved so much.
Near the large arched window, little Basil stood on tiptoe, hands pressed on the wall, as he tried his best to peer out with the seriousness only a three-year-old could muster.
"Where's Papa?" he asked for the third time in the last ten minutes, turning his curly head back toward his mother. He tugged gently at the hem of her deep green gown that mirrored her eyes , his tiny fingers bunching the soft fabric.
Jasmine, seated on a cushioned bench with one hand resting on the gentle rise of her round belly, looked down with a soft smile. Her other hand reached down, warm and delicate, brushing through Basil's dark, unruly curls.
