Page 10 of Nanny for the Minotaur

"You did?" Mira's amber eyes widen, matching my own. She leans forward, nearly knocking over her cup before Lyra's quick hand steadies it.

"My mother taught me to cook." The words come easier than expected, loosened by the casual intimacy of the moment. "She'd let me stand on a stool, just like you did today. Said a merchant should know what goes into everything he sells."

"Was she tall like you?" Kai asks, his serious expression softening with interest.

A chuckle escapes me. "No, she was barely taller than Lyra. But she could command a room full of traders with just a look."

"Like how Lyra makes the mean herb-seller give her fair prices?" Mira pipes up, making Lyra laugh across the table.

"Something like that." I catch Lyra's eye, appreciating how she listens without pushing, her presence as natural as breathing. "Mother's specialty was spiced bread. She'd trade recipes with the caravan leaders, said good food opened more doors than gold."

"Can we make her bread?" Kai's question stirs something deep in my chest.

"I..." I clear my throat. "I haven't thought about that recipe in years. After she died, I-"

"Perhaps we could try to recreate it together?" Lyra's gentle suggestion bridges the sudden silence. But there's such kindness in her eyes as she watches me that it has me swallowing back emotion I thought I had crushed. "Between all of us, we might discover something close."

"I help!" Mira declares, her silver-white fur catching the lamplight as she bounces in her seat.

Looking around the table – at Kai's thoughtful nod, Mira's excited wiggle, and Lyra's understanding smile – I realize this room has transformed. No longer a stage for formal performances, but a place where memories can be shared, where new traditions can take root alongside the old.

"I think..." I reach out to ruffle Kai's black fur, so like my own. "I think Mother would have loved that idea."

Instead of retreating to my study as fast as I can, I linger through dinner and helping get the kids into bed. It's clear to me that so much of the house, so much of them, has started to come back to life.

I think that's what possesses me to climb the narrow stairs to the storage room once I leave their beds instead of going to my own, each step creaking under my weight. The lantern's flame casts long shadows across the walls, turning familiar corners into unknown territory. Up here, away from the warmth of the kitchen and the lingering scent of tonight's dinner, the air carries the musty weight of forgotten things.

My horn scrapes the low ceiling as I duck through the doorway. Dust particles dance in the lantern light, stirred by my movement through this tomb of discarded memories. Cassandra's influence lingers here – everything meticulously labeled and sorted, even the things she deemed unworthy of keeping.

The crate I'm looking for sits in the far corner, marked "Common Items - K.B." in her precise handwriting. My fingers trace the letters before I lift the lid. The wood protests, joints stiff from disuse.

Inside, wrapped in yellowed linen, lies the wooden horse. My hands – steady enough to sign contracts worth thousands in gold – tremble as I unwrap it. The carved mane still shows tracesof the deep cherry stain Mother used, though the legs are worn smooth from years of play. She'd carved it during the long winter when fever kept me bedridden, telling stories of wild herds that roamed the northern plains while her knife shaped each detail.

Kai had loved it instantly. I remember his tiny hands clutching it during story time, galloping it across his blankets. Until Cassandra found him playing with it one afternoon.

"A merchant's toy," she'd said, voice sharp with disappointment. "Our son deserves better than common trinkets."

The horse had disappeared that day, along with other pieces of Kai's childhood deemed too ordinary for her noble aspirations. I'd let her do it, too worn down by her constant disapproval to fight another battle.

I brush dust from the horse's carved eyes. In the lantern light, the wood seems to hold warmth, as if remembering the small hands that once loved it.

The carved horse feels light in my hands as I descend the stairs, my steps quieter than usual despite my size. More treasures fill my arms – a set of painted wooden blocks, a cloth dragon with one wing lovingly mended, a tiny tea set Mother gave me that Kai once served imaginary drinks from.

I pause outside Kai's door, arranging the toys in a careful display. The horse stands guard in front, its worn surface catching the hall lamp's glow. My fingers linger on its mane, remembering how Mother would tell me to always sand with the grain. "Like petting a real horse," she'd say, her hands guiding mine across the wood.

The floorboards creak under my hooves as I move away. No note needed – Kai will understand. He's always been too perceptive, watching everything with those blue eyes that see far more than a six-year-old should.

The next morning, I leave my study door open, spilling lamplight into the hallway. I reach for the handle out of habit, the motion as familiar as my morning coffee. But my hand falls away. Through the gap drifts Mira's giggle, followed by the gentle murmur of Lyra's voice from downstairs. The sound winds through the house like a warm breeze, carrying the scent of fresh-baked bread and herbs.

I step back, studying the heavy oak door that once served as my shield. The brass handle gleams from years of use, polished by countless mornings of shutting out the world. Now it stays open, letting in scattered toy soldiers and crayon drawings, letting in life.

My shoulders relax as Kai's voice joins the others, his serious tone giving way to a child's laugh. The sound echoes off walls that used to swallow such joy, transforming my refuge into just another room in a house that's finally becoming a home.

6

LYRA

Ilean closer to the medical text I got today, my copper braid falling forward as I squint at the faded diagrams. Candlelight flickers across the yellowed pages, casting dancing shadows over detailed illustrations of heart chambers and valves. My small desk groans under the weight of stacked books and scattered papers, each one covered in my hurried notes about Mira's symptoms.

---