Page 2 of Nanny for the Minotaur

My head snaps up. "Why didn't you-"

"I've been trying to tell you all week, but you've been buried in those trade contracts." Her tone holds no judgment, just concern. "The baker's son had the same symptoms as Miss Mira. He's running around healthy as can be now."

The spark of hope feels dangerous. How many healers have we already tried? How many failed treatments and broken promises?

The study door creaks open. Kai peers around it, his blue eyes wide with worry. "Papa?"

"You should be in bed, son."

He shuffles forward anyway, his small horns barely visible above my desk. "Is there anything we can do? For Mira?"

My chest tightens at his question. Even at six, he carries the weight of his sister's illness. Just like his old man, taking on burdens too heavy for his shoulders.

I reach across the desk and squeeze his hand. "I'm going to do whatever it takes to help her get better. I promise."

"Really?" Hope brightens his serious expression.

"Really." I stand and scoop him up, remembering when he used to fit in the crook of my arm. "But first, you need sleep."

He wraps his arms around my neck as I carry him back to his room. "You promise you'll help Mira?"

"With everything I have, son. With everything I have."

I tuck Kai into bed, making sure his favorite book lies within easy reach on the nightstand. His serious expression mirrors my own as I pull the blankets up to his chin.

"Get some rest, son. I'll look after your sister."

"Promise you'll wake me if anything happens?" His blue eyes - so like his mother's - search my face.

I nod, unable to deny him this small comfort. My hand dwarfs his as I give it a final squeeze before heading back to Mira's room.

The scratch of my quill against parchment fills the quiet space. My normally bold signature wavers across the bottom of the letter, the ink bleeding where my hand trembles. I pause, jaw clenching as I try to maintain the composure expected of a merchant of my standing. The words blur before my eyes.

Mira shifts in her sleep, a tiny whimper escaping her. My free hand abandons the quill to smooth her blankets, checking that she's warm enough. Her silver-white fur feels cooler than it should. I adjust the covers again, though they haven't moved since the last time I fixed them.

Mrs. Bramble stands quietly by the door, her experienced eyes taking in everything. I return to the letter, forcing my fingers to grip the quill properly. The second line comes out just as shaky as the first. I stop, drawing in a deep breath that catches in my throat.

"Perhaps a fresh pot of tea, Master Theron?" Mrs. Bramble's suggestion carries years of knowing when to offer distraction.

I grunt in acknowledgment, focusing on finishing the letter before my composure cracks entirely. My merchant's seal sits heavy in my palm as I press it into the cooling wax. When she returns, Mrs. Bramble takes the folded parchment with a gentle pat to my arm, pretending not to notice how I immediately return to fussing with Mira's blankets.

I'm not sure how long I stay there, the tea Mrs. Bramble brought going cold, when I hear her answer the door. I'm stunned to have gotten such a fast response, but I'm glad nonetheless when she appears in Mira's doorway. I take the letter from her, relief immediately pouring through me.

Tomorrow morning. Just hours until this healer arrives. My fingers trace the letter's wax seal - official confirmation she'll come.

It's hours before I finally peel myself away from Mira's side, worried my restlessness is doing nothing for her. I find myself wandering the dark halls, past the children's rooms where Mrs. Bramble keeps watch instead. My hooves carry me to the solarium's sealed doors. The key feels foreign in my hand - I haven't opened this room since Mother died.

Moonlight streams through the dirty glass panels, casting long shadows across the floor. Dead leaves crunch beneath my hooves. Empty ceramic pots line the shelves, their contents long withered to dust. Mother's prized roses once bloomed here year-round, filling the air with their sweet perfume. Now only their thorny stems remain, twisted and brown.

My horn rings scrape against a low-hanging chain as I duck through the doorway. The sound echoes in the hollow space, stirring memories of Mother humming as she pruned her plants. She would have known what to do for Mira. Would have held my hand and told me everything would be alright.

A broken trellis leans against the far wall. I right it without thinking, muscle memory from countless afternoons helping Mother maintain her garden. The wood feels brittle under my fingers, but the core remains solid. Like my daughter - fragile on the outside, but strong where it counts.

Something catches in my chest as I stare at the empty planters. Mother always said gardens could be rebuilt, no matterhow neglected. "Just needs patience and care, my boy," she'd tell me while showing me how to coax new growth from dead soil.

Maybe... maybe this healer can help us rebuild too. Help Mira grow strong like Mother's roses. For the first time since holding my daughter's tiny form, watching her struggle for each breath, I let myself imagine a future where she runs and plays without fear.

The moonlight catches on my merchant's rings, reminding me of promises kept and broken. But this promise - to help my daughter heal - this one I'll keep. Whatever it takes.

---