Page 23 of Nanny for the Minotaur

"My family's different," he declares, voice clear and strong. "And we're happy. Which is more than I can say for yours, always complaining about your father's temper."

The words hit like a physical blow - not at the bullies, but at me. When did my serious, quiet son grow so fierce? So proud?

Lyra's hand finds Mira's, drawing her forward to stand beside her brother. My daughter's silver-white fur gleams as she straightens her spine, tiny face set in determination.

The sight steals my breath. These are my children - not broken by whispers and stares, but stronger for them. And there's Lyra, her copper braid swinging as she steps behind them both, one hand on each child's shoulder. The three of them form a perfect picture, one that makes my chest ache with a feeling I haven't dared name.

Somewhere between herb lessons and market visits, between nightmares soothed and scraped knees bandaged, we've become more than just a household. We've become a family.

Marcus' son scoffs, but the group slinks off, leaving the rest of us alone. And I stare at my son in awe.

I guide us toward the art merchant's stall, watching Kai's eyes light up at the display of charcoal sticks and thick paper. Cassandra always insisted drawing was beneath a proper minotaur's dignity - but I can't forget finding his hidden sketches tucked between ledger pages, quick studies of ships and sea birds that showed real talent.

"Which ones would you like?" Lyra kneels beside him, her fingers tracing the different qualities of paper. "These thicker sheets would hold up well to charcoal."

Kai hesitates, his black fur ruffling. "Are you sure it's okay, Papa?"

"More than okay." I rest my hand on his shoulder. "Art is as much about precision as trading - good practice for both."

Mira bounces on her toes. "Can I have colors? Please?"

"Of course, little one." Lyra helps her examine the pigment sticks, explaining how each shade is made. Her copper braid falls forward as she bends to Mira's level, and something catches in my chest at how naturally she touches my daughter's hand, guides her small fingers over the supplies.

No flinching from Mira's hooves. No awkward distance like the tutors who treated my children as obligations. Just pure, gentle attention as she helps Mira select her favorites.

"Look Papa!" Mira holds up a silver stick that matches her fur. "Lyra says I can draw our family!"

Our family. The words echo as I watch Lyra help her into a new dress at the clothing merchant's stall, her movements sure and tender. She adjusts the fabric with practiced ease, never treating Mira's small size as a flaw to be hidden. When my daughter twirls, making the skirt flare, Lyra's laugh rings clear and true - no trace of shame at being seen caring for a minotaur child in public.

She fits with us, I realize. Like she was meant to be here, teaching Kai about herbs and helping Mira find her confidence. The thought spreads warmth through my chest, dangerous and sweet as honey wine.

By the time we get home, everyone is exhausted. Lyra disappears with the kids so they can take a nap before dinner, and I'm not too eager to let them go. But I force myself to put away my new items instead.

I'm arranging the day's purchases in my study when a small package catches my eye, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. My fingers brush the careful knots as I unfold the note tucked beneath.

For your mother's garden. - L

The paper falls away to reveal seeds - not just any seeds, but the exact variety of climbing roses my mother cultivated before her death. The ones I'd mentioned in passing weeks ago while showing Lyra the overgrown garden beds.

My throat tightens. I'd been staring at those thorny vines during our walk, remembering how Mother would weave the blooms into elaborate displays for feast days. Lyra had listened, really listened, as I described the way the petals caught morning light.

The seeds rest in my palm, so small yet weighted with memory. Mother would have liked Lyra, I realize. Would have appreciated her quiet strength, her way of healing not just bodies but hearts.

Like how she steadied Mira's hands at the market today, showing her how to tie ribbons in her fur without once mentioning that most minotaur children her age would have mastered it already. Or how she drew Kai out of his shell with questions about his drawings, treating each sketch like a masterpiece worthy of study.

I sink into my chair, rolling the seed packet between my fingers. The study feels different now - less a refuge from whispers and more a space where new memories wait to be made. Where Lyra's copper braid catches lamplight as she sorts herbs at my desk, where my children's laughter echoes instead of silence.

When did this happen? When did this tiny human woman with her herb-stained fingers and knowing smile become as essential as breathing? The question hangs in the quiet evening air, unanswered but undeniable.

The seeds crinkle in my grip. Such a small thing - yet it speaks volumes about how deeply she sees, how carefully she listens. How naturally she's woven herself into the fabric of our lives.

12

LYRA

The morning dew clings to my herb garden, droplets sparkling like tiny crystals in the early sunlight. I guide Mira through her daily stretches, her silver-white fur almost luminescent against the backdrop of green plants. Her small frame moves with careful determination as she reaches toward her toes, each motion designed to strengthen her heart.

"That's perfect, sweetheart. Three more and we're done."

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