Page 3 of Nanny for the Minotaur

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LYRA

Iheft my worn leather satchel, double-checking the contents one final time. Dried warroya for fever, bluefrost for sleep, meqixste bark for pain - each bundle nestled in its own pocket, wrapped in cloth to prevent cross-contamination. The familiar ritual steadies my nerves as I climb the steep path toward the mansion looming above.

Black stone walls rise against the morning sky, their imposing facade a stark reminder that this isn't my usual sort of house call. The gardens flanking the entrance tell their own story - untamed grass creeps between stone pavers, and thorny vines sprawl unchecked across what must have once been neat flower beds. A handful of roses struggle upward, their red blooms defiant against the general air of neglect.

My boots crunch on gravel as I reach the massive front door. Before I can knock, it swings open to reveal a human woman. Her neat gray bun and crisp apron a sharp contrast to the wild gardens behind me. The housekeeper's brown eyes scan me from head to toe, and I resist the urge to smooth my travel-wrinkled dress.

"Thank the Lady you're here. I'm Mrs. Bramble, dear." Her shoulders sag with visible relief. "We've been so worried with how Miss Mira hasn't woken since she collapsed. Come in, come in." She ushers me inside with quick, efficient movements.

"How long has she been ill?" I slip past her into a cavernous entry hall, my voice echoing off marble floors and vaulted ceilings.

"Oh, Miss Mira was born with a condition. Some days she's up, running with her brothers, and others-" She wrings her hands in her apron. "Well, you'll see. This way, please."

I follow her brisk steps, noting how quickly she moves despite her age. Every surface we pass gleams with polish - a striking difference from the neglected exterior. Mrs. Bramble may be worried about her charges, but she clearly hasn't let her other duties slip.

The tap of Mrs. Bramble's shoes echoes through corridors wide enough for a minotaur's horns to pass without trouble. My own footsteps sound small and tentative in comparison. Dark wood panels line the walls, swallowing what little light filters through gaps in heavy velvet curtains.

I pause at an alcove where sheet-draped shapes hint at statues or busts underneath. My fingers itch to peek beneath the coverings, to discover what art lies hidden, but I curl them around my satchel strap instead. A healer's curiosity has its place, and this isn't it.

"Mind your step here." Mrs. Bramble gestures at a slight rise in the floor. "The children's wing is just ahead."

The children's wing - as if this place needs wings. My entire cottage could fit in this hallway alone. I duck my head to examine a patch of floor where the runner has worn thin, revealing intricate mosaic work beneath. Even the floors tell stories here, though no one seems interested in listening.

Another covered painting catches my eye, this one larger than the others. A corner of the dust cloth has slipped, revealing a gilded frame and the edge of what might be a formal portrait. Before I can make out more detail, Mrs. Bramble clears her throat.

"Best keep up, dear. The little ones need tending."

"Of course." I quicken my pace, but can't help noticing how the house feels like it's holding its breath. No sounds of servants chatting or dishes clinking from distant kitchens. No squeaking floorboards or creaking doors. Just our footsteps and the whisper of my skirts against the runner.

The morning light struggles to penetrate layers of heavy curtains, leaving pools of shadow in corners and doorways. I've treated patients who had money before - though not as much as this family seems to - but never been in a home that felt so deliberately closed off from the world. My fingers find a sprig of dried rirzed herb in my pocket, drawing comfort from its familiar scent. Whatever darkness haunts these halls, I'm here for the children. Their needs matter more than this house's secrets.

Instead of going straight to the young minotaur's room, Mrs. Bramble takes me to what appears to be a home office. The study door swings open, and I have to tilt my head back to take in the minotaur merchant who fills the frame. His shoulders nearly brush both sides, black fur gleaming in the dim light. Silver rings catch what little illumination filters through the curtains, winking from horns that curve up and back from his broad forehead.

But it's his eyes that hold my attention - amber irises clouded with a father's fear as they flick between me and the staircase. His massive hands clench and unclench at his sides, betraying an anxiety that his otherwise commanding presence tries to mask.

"Mr. Blackhorn?" I adjust my satchel strap. "I'm Lyra, the healer you sent for."

A small movement draws my gaze downward. A young minotaur boy peers around his father's leg, one hand clutching the fabric of those perfectly pressed trousers. His black fur matches his father's, but those eyes - startlingly blue and far too serious for such a young face - study me with careful consideration.

I sink into a crouch, bringing myself to his eye level. Both father and son blink at this, sharing a glance that speaks volumes about how few adults bother to meet the boy at his height.

"Hi." I smile, keeping my voice gentle. "I'm Lyra."

Kai's grip on his father's trouser leg loosens slightly. "I'm Kai. Are you here to treat my sister?" His voice carries that same gravity I see in his eyes. "I'm really worried about her."

"Then we should see what we can do about that, shouldn't we?" I reach into my satchel and pull out a small wooden charm carved into the shape of a sailing ship. It's in my nature to soothe all pain, and I can't stand seeing this little boy so distraught. "But first - would you like to see something interesting? This helps me know which medicines work best."

Kai steps forward, those blue eyes widening with curiosity as he releases his father's leg entirely. "How does it work?"

"Why don't you hold it while I explain?" I offer him the charm, noting how his shoulders relax as he turns the smooth wood over in his hands.

He studies it, turning it over in his hands, and I lift an oil from my bag. "I pour this oil over it, and based on the illness it detects, it will give off a scent. It tells me what I need to know about a patient." I don't add that it only works on colds and infections. I won't need it for the girl I'm here to see.

"Is it magic?" His eyes are wide, and I tense, knowing how much minotaurs hate magic. But his father doesn't snarl at me.

"It's…like magic," I answer carefully, standing and letting him focus on the tool. I face his father. "Is there anything I should know before we go see your daughter?"

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