Page 14 of Nanny for the Minotaur

Mira giggles as we begin the basic pattern. Her small form trembles with excitement, but I support most of her weight, letting her focus on the movements rather than staying upright.

"Now we turn - slowly - and the shield arm comes down while the sword arm rises." I guide her through the motion. Her silver-white fur brushes against my black as she follows my lead, concentrating with all the seriousness a three-year-old can muster.

"Like this?" She sweeps her arm in a careful arc.

"Perfect." The pride in her eyes makes my chest tight. We move through another turn, and her breathing stays steady. No wheezing, no strain. Just pure joy as she masters each new step.

Kai appears at my elbow, his natural grace making the dance look effortless as he demonstrates the next part for his sister. "See? The shield becomes the sword, and back again. It's about balance."

Mira copies him, her movements growing more confident. When we complete the pattern, she beams up at me. "I did it! I really did it!"

For this moment, she's not the fragile daughter everyone whispers about. She's just my little girl, dancing with her father, her face glowing with accomplishment.

The movement catches my eye - a flash of green silk and copper hair. Lyra watches us from across the room, her fingers twisted in her skirts. The expression on her face steals my breath: raw longing mixed with something deeper, more vulnerable than I've ever seen her allow. Her usual quick wit and sharp comebacks are stripped away, leaving only pure emotion as she watches me dance with my children.

When our eyes meet, she startles like prey sensing danger. Her gaze drops to her lap, a blush staining her cheeks. But that unguarded moment burns in my memory, lodging somewhere beneath my ribs.

The evening winds down, and we pile into the carriage for home. The gentle sway of motion soon has both children nodding off. Mira curls against Lyra's left side, silver-white furstark against the green silk. Her small hand clutches a fold of Lyra's dress even in sleep. Kai leans against Lyra's right shoulder, his usual serious expression softened in slumber.

The lamplight through the carriage windows catches the copper highlights in Lyra's hair as she absently strokes Mira's head. Her other hand rests on Kai's shoulder, thumb moving in small, soothing circles. The sight hits me like a physical blow.

She's not just their healer. She hasn't been for a long time.

The truth I've been avoiding rises up, impossible to ignore: this small human woman with her fierce independence and gentle hands has become essential. Not just to my children's well-being, but to mine. The way she challenges me, matches my temper with her own fire, soothes hurts I didn't know I carried - it's woven itself into the fabric of our daily life.

The comfortable fiction that she's merely an employee, a caretaker for my children, lies in ruins. Now I have to decide what to do about it. If I want to act on the thoughts that have been swirling in my head all night or keeping that distance between us.

I carry Mira first, her silver-white fur ghostly in the dim hallway light. Her small form weighs nothing in my arms, lighter than any minotaur child should be. She doesn't stir as I lay her in bed, tucking her favorite quilt around her shoulders. My hand dwarfs her face as I brush back a stray tuft of fur.

Kai proves trickier to manage. Even at six, he's all gangly limbs and sharp angles. I shift him carefully against my chest, mindful of my horns as I navigate the doorway to his room. He mumbles something about books as I set him down, his serious expression finally peaceful in sleep.

As I come back out, I find Lyra in the hallway, her copper hair falling in those beautiful waves I want to run my hands through. She's removed her shoes and looks more relaxed now, nearlydisheveled in her gown and mussed hair. Those bright green eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before darting away.

"They didn't even stir?" Her voice comes soft, mindful of the sleeping children.

"Out cold. Mira's breathing was steady all evening."

"Good. The new tonic seems to be helping."

We stand there, the space between us charged like the air before a storm. The hallway feels too narrow, too intimate. Her scent - herbs and honey and something uniquely Lyra - fills my lungs with each breath.

"Well..." She shifts her weight, but doesn't move. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight." I don't move either.

One heartbeat. Two. Three. Her fingers tighten on her shoes. My hands ache to reach for her.

Finally, she turns toward her door. I force myself to do the same, every step away from her a physical effort.

8

LYRA

The bell above Maya's shop door chimes as I enter, bringing the familiar scent of dried herbs and fresh earth. Bundles of plants hang from the rafters, their shadows dancing across worn wooden shelves in the afternoon light.

Maya looks up from behind her counter, silver-blonde hair catching the sun. But her smile makes my heart leap.

She's practically my sister, having grown up together in the traveling band of humans where we both learned about herbs. But where I went on to heal, she started to garden, and we both ended up in the capital city, setting up our practices.

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