Anya reaches for the diaper bag we've strategically placed on the front pew. "She might need changing," she suggests, already pulling out supplies with the efficiency of someone who has dealt with fussy infants before.
"Can we do it here?" I ask, glancing around the sacred space with uncertainty.
"Of course," Father Doroshev says with a gentle smile. "God knows children don't follow our schedules."
Maksim appears at my side with a fluidity only he could possess. His strong hands are always ready to help and his strength is what I'm counting on. He's dressed in a black suit that emphasizes his lean frame, and his hair is perfectly styled despite the early hour. "What does she need?" he asks, his voice low and concerned.
"Clean diaper, probably," I reply, already moving toward the pew where Anya has spread out a soft blanket.
We work together with efficiency, two new parents who have learned to navigate these moments as a team. Maksim holds Elena's legs while I unfasten her gown, and Anya provides commentary and encouragement. The process is intimate and ordinary, a stark contrast to the grandeur of our surroundings, but somehow, it feels exactly right.
"There we go, beautiful girl," I murmur as I fasten the fresh diaper. "All better now."
Elena's protests subside to small whimpers, and she blinks up at us with those serious hazel eyes that mirror her father's. Maksim reaches down to stroke her cheek with one finger, and she turns toward his touch with the instinctive recognition that never fails to make my heart clench.
"Ready?" he asks, looking at me with an expression I've learned to read over these past months. There's love there,and pride, and a deep contentment that still surprises me sometimes.
I nod, gathering Elena back into my arms and adjusting her gown. The silk flows around her tiny form like water, and the antique lace catches the candlelight. She looks like a cherub, and I find myself blinking back tears at the sight.
We take our places before the altar, Maksim's hand finding its way to my shoulder. His touch is warm and steady, grounding me in this moment. Father Doroshev opens his prayer book, and the ceremony begins.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to welcome this child into the community of faith," he begins, his voice carrying easily through the small space. "Through baptism, we celebrate new life and the promise of God's love."
Elena seems to sense the solemnity of the moment, settling into quiet alertness in my arms. Her eyes move between the priest and her father, taking in the world around her with that intense curiosity that characterizes her waking hours.
"What name do you give this child?" Father Doroshev asks.
"Elena Maksimovna Vetrova," Maksim replies, his voice steady and proud.
The priest nods approvingly. "A beautiful name for a beautiful child." He dips his fingers in the holy water, and Elena watches with fascination as the liquid catches the light. "Elena, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
The water touches her forehead, and she blinks in surprise but doesn't cry. Instead, she makes a soft cooing sound that might be approval or simply infant commentary on the proceedings. Father Doroshev smiles, clearly charmed by her response.
"May God bless and keep you, little one," he continues, making the sign of the cross over her head. "May you grow in wisdom and grace, surrounded by love and protected by faith."
I feel Maksim's hand tighten on my shoulder, and I know he's thinking the same thing I am—about protection, about the world we've brought our daughter into, about the choices we've made to ensure her safety. The weight of our history shadows this moment, but it doesn't diminish the joy. If anything, it makes it more precious.
The ceremony continues with prayers and blessings, Father Doroshev's voice weaving through the ancient words with passionate devotion. Elena remains calm throughout, occasionally making small sounds that seem to echo in the vaulted space. When he finishes, the priest approaches us with a gentle smile.
"She's lovely," he says, reaching out to touch Elena's hand. "May she bring you both great joy."
"Thank you, Father," I reply, my voice thick with emotion.
Rolan rises from his pew, approaching us with careful steps. His massive presence should feel overwhelming in this delicate moment, but instead there's something almost tender in his expression as he looks down at his niece.
"May I?" he asks, extending his hands.
I glance at Maksim, who nods, and carefully transfer Elena to her uncle's arms. She looks impossibly small against his broad chest, but he holds her with surprising gentleness, his scarred hands cradling her with the same care he might use for spun glass.
"Hello, little princess," he murmurs, his rough voice softening. "Welcome to the family."
Elena studies his face with that serious expression she's perfected, and after a moment, she reaches up to touch his jaw with her tiny fingers. Rolan's face transforms, and Isee a glimpse of the man he might have been in different circumstances—softer, more open, capable of the kind of love that doesn't come with conditions or expectations.
"She's going to be trouble," he says, but there's affection in his voice.
"All the best women are," Anya replies, moving to stand beside her husband. She reaches out to stroke Elena's hair, and I'm struck by how natural this feels—this moment of family, of belonging, of peace.
Father Doroshev begins to pack his prayer book, but he moves slowly, as if reluctant to end this peaceful interlude. "I knew your mother," he says to Maksim. "She would have been proud of this moment."
