Page 45 of Nanny for the Minotaur

Marcus Steelhorn's been making his rounds at the merchant council. He's spinning tales about the 'impropriety' of an unmarried human healer living under a widowed minotaur's roof. Claims you're taking advantage of Theron's grief to 'worm your way' into a noble house.

You know I don't give two figs what that pompous ass thinks, but his words carry weight with the old families. He's threatening to bring it before the council formally. I don't want to see you run out of town or worse - punished by those who are too stubborn and stuck in their ways.

You need to decide what you really want, how you really want to live. Because the way you are now will get you nowhere.

Be careful.

- Maya

The paper crumples in my grip. Of course Marcus would do this. My fingers brush the healing herbs in my braid - a habit when I'm distressed. The irony tastes bitter: I have to leave to protect their reputation, to protect Theron, but leaving will destroy the fragile happiness we've built.

I smooth the letter, folding it carefully. Three months ago, I would have laughed at anyone suggesting I'd find a home here, among these towering halls and even taller minotaurs. Now the thought of walking away makes my chest constrict worse than any of Mira's attacks.

But I'm not fit to be their mother, to be Theron's bride. And this is only a reminder of it.

Mrs. Bramble's hand settles on my shoulder. "Whatever's in that letter, dear, remember - sometimes the hardest path is the right one."

"And sometimes," I whisper, "doing the right thing feels like tearing your own heart out."

She squeezes gently before leaving me alone with Maya's warning and the weight of impossible choices.

Through the library window, I watch darkness creep across the gardens. I walk to the desk in the corner where Kai left a family portrait he drew, his careful lines capturing details only a child would notice - the way Mira's dress always has mud at the hem, how Theron's horn rings catch the light. He even included me, standing beside them, herbs woven through my copper braid just as I wear them now.

My fingers trace the charcoal lines. Such a simple thing, to be drawn as part of their family. Yet it cuts deeper than Marcus's threats ever could.

Rising from the window seat, I make my way to my chambers. Each step echoes with memories - teaching Mira to identify healing herbs in the garden, reading stories with Kai, those moments when Theron's gruff exterior softened into something warmer.

My healing supplies lie arranged on the dresser, each bottle and packet meticulously labeled in my flowing script. Everything I did because I cared for them.

My hands shake as I wrap each bottle in cloth. The glass clinks softly, a discordant melody to match my fractured thoughts. The wooden box Maya gave me years ago - my first proper healer's kit - seems too small now. How did so much of my life become entwined with theirs in just a few months?

I fold my spare dresses mechanically, leaving behind the ones Mrs. Bramble had made for me. They belong here, like so many pieces of my heart I'll have to abandon. The practical earth tones I arrived in feel coarse against my skin after months of finer fabrics.

A dried sprig of rirzed herb falls from between the folds - the first herb Mira successfully identified on her own. I press it between the pages of my notebook, next to the detailed records of her recovery. The evidence of my success. The proof I'm no longer needed.

The thought brings fresh tears, but I force myself to continue packing. Each item I place in my bags feels heavier than the last, weighted with memories I'll have to leave behind.

I'll wait until Theron comes home. And then I'll go.

I just wasn't ready for it to be so soon.

23

THERON

Ishake off the road dust as I enter my home, expecting the usual chaos that has started to fill my home. Instead, silence greets me, too much like the way it used to before Cassandra passed. My hooves click against the wooden floors, each step echoing through the empty halls.

The dining room door stands ajar. Inside, my children sit around the long table, heads bowed over their plates. No squabbling, no laughter, no tales of their day's adventures. Just the soft clink of silverware against porcelain.

My chest tightens. The scene strikes too close to memories I've tried to bury - of formal dinners where Cassandra's disapproving gaze kept everyone rigid in their seats, afraid to speak out of turn. Those blue eyes of hers could freeze a summer day.

"What's this?" I loosen my traveling cloak, letting it fall heavily across the back of my chair. "Did someone die while I was away?"

Neither of them look up. Kai - gods, he has his mother's eyes - pushes his food around his plate. Even little Mira, usually bouncing with energy, sits still as a statue.

The silence claws at me. Our home has become so much better than this quiet, the kind that followed me through my own childhood and into my marriage. Yet here it sits at my table like an unwelcome guest.

My rings catch the lamplight as I grip the back of my chair, the silver bands marking my merchant status suddenly feeling heavy. "What's going on?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, scratching against my throat like sandpaper.

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