Page 47 of Nanny for the Minotaur

But what can I offer them? Empty promises? Pretty lies about how everything will be fine? I've seen what false hope does to a household, watched my own father retreat further behind his ledgers each time my mother's disappointment carved another piece from him.

I retreat from their door like a coward, my hooves silent now on the thick carpets. The familiar path to my study offers no comfort - every shadow, every corner holds some memory of Lyra. Here's where she scolded me for working too late. There's where she balanced precariously on a chair to hang drying herbs, refusing my help with that stubborn tilt to her chin.

The study door creaks as I push it open. The scent hits me first - the herbs tangled together in a symphony that makes my throat tight. She's marked this space as surely as if she'd carved her name into the walls. Even my leather-bound ledgers carry traces of her presence, small dried petals pressed between pages where she'd absently tucked them while we talked late into the night.

I sink into my chair, the wood groaning under my weight. The lamp casts dancing shadows across my desk, illuminating the careful organization she's brought to my chaos. Each quill lined up precisely, ink bottles grouped by color, even my trade manifests sorted by date instead of scattered wherever I'd dropped them.

My fingers brush the small tin of healing salve she insisted on keeping here "for emergencies" - meaning the paper cuts and ink stains I regularly collected. The metal is cool against my palm, but I swear I can feel the warmth of her hands from the last time she cleaned and dressed a particularly nasty slice across my knuckles.

"Honestly," she'd muttered, her small fingers so gentle against my rough hide. "For someone so skilled with numbers, you're remarkably careless with sharp objects."

The memory twists like a knife. I shove the tin away, but her presence lingers in every corner. In the cushion she added to my chair - "Your back will thank me" - in the fresh water pitcher she never let run dry, in the dried rirzed herb sprigs tucked into my letterbox - "To help you sleep, you stubborn man."

A bitter laugh escapes me. Even now, hiding in my sanctuary like the coward I am while my children comfort each other down the hall, I can't escape her. She's woven herself into the fabric of our lives so thoroughly that trying to remove her will leave us all in tatters.

I see in the family portrait that is laid on my desk, drawn in Mira's wobbly hand. Five figures - she included Mrs. Bramble - stand in a row, but my eyes keep returning to how she drew Lyra. The copper-haired figure holds hands with my hulking black form, her stick-figure smile reaching past the page's edges. My daughter even added tiny herbs in Lyra's hair, green squiggles that somehow capture the healer's habit of tucking sprigs into her braid.

I grab my ledger, the leather binding creaking under my grip. Numbers. Numbers are safe. Numbers don't leave. They don't weave themselves into your life with gentle hands and fierce determination, don't teach your daughter to braid ribbons into her fur or help your son overcome his fear of thunder.

The columns blur before my eyes. Where there should be neat rows of figures, I see Lyra perched on my desk's edge, lecturing me about working too late. The way she'd tap her foot when I tried to argue, completely unfazed by my size or status. How she'd sometimes fall asleep in that oversized chair by the window, medical texts open in her lap, copper hair catching the lamplight like living flame.

My quill snaps between my fingers. Ink splatters across the page, obscuring last month's shipping manifests. I shove the ruined ledger aside, but my gaze catches on Mira's drawing again. She drew us all holding hands, a chain of stick figures with me in the middle. Even on paper, I tower over Lyra's small form, yet somehow she looks like she belongs there. Like she's always belonged there.

The rings on my horns catch the lamplight as I lower my head into my hands. I could ask her to stay. Three words. That's all it would take. But the words stick in my throat, tangled with memories of Cassandra's cold disdain, of my father's quiet desperation as he watched my mother retreat further into her noble pride.

Better to keep my distance. Better to let her go now, before she realizes what a mistake it would be to tie herself to a widowed merchant and his half-broken family. Before the whispers start about the minotaur merchant who couldn't keep his noble wife alive, now trying to replace her with a human healer.

I reach for another ledger, but my hand betrays me, brushing against the tin of healing salve instead. Her voice echoes in my memory. "You can't solve everything with numbers, you stubborn man."

24

LYRA

The kitchen bustles with familiar energy as I gather ingredients from the shelves. My hands move with practiced ease, selecting dried herbs from their labeled jars while Mira perches on her special stool beside me.

I'm trying to soak up every last second I get with the kids. Kai has been unusually quiet, but Mira is clinging to me. I'm hoping that this farewell dinner I've invited her - invited both of them but Kai declined - to help make will give them a sense of closure.

Not that it's helping me.

"This one smells like summer," Mira holds up a sprig, her silver-white fur catching the late afternoon light streaming through the window.

"That's right, little one. And what do we use it for?" I weave through the kitchen, my skirt pockets heavy with fresh herbs from the garden.

Her amber eyes light up. "The roasted vegetables! Like Papa likes them."

My throat tightens as I nod. Three months of teaching her about herbs, and she's absorbed so much. I pull out the woodencutting board, its surface marked with countless knife scores from previous meals.

"Watch carefully now." I demonstrate how to strip the leaves from their stems. "See how gentle you need to be? Just like when we're picking flowers."

Mira mimics my movements, her small fingers working with surprising delicacy. Her breathing remains steady – a good sign. I've learned to watch for any signs of strain.

"Can I stir the pot?" She peers at the simmering broth.

"Not today, sweet one. Remember what happened last time?" I tap her nose gently, earning a giggle. "But you can help me sort these leaves."

Every drawer I open, every spice I measure feels like counting down moments. The copper pots hanging overhead catch my reflection – my red hair escaping its braid, green eyes perhaps a bit too bright. I blink hard and focus on chopping vegetables.

"Lyra?" Mira's voice is small. "Will someone else teach me about herbs when you're gone?"

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