Page 52 of Nanny for the Minotaur

The pestle nearly cracks in my grip. "Your indigestion, Mr. Steelhorn. When did it start?"

"Oh, just this morning." He waves a hand, rings catching the light. "Though I expect it will clear up once certain business matters are settled. Theron's always been stubborn about maintaining independence, but without distractions..." His smile widens, showing teeth. "Well, let's just say he's more amenable to tradition these days."

My hands shake as I measure out the herbs, anger burning in my chest at his smug satisfaction. This isn't about indigestion - it's about marking territory, about showing me how easily he can manipulate Theron - manipulateme.I just don't know what he wants besides being a goddess-damned asshole.

I mix a simple digestive tea, keeping my movements precise despite my trembling hands. Marcus takes it with barely a nod,making a show of sipping slowly while watching me over the rim. After what feels like hours, he finally leaves, his parting smile sharp with victory.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of minor ailments and herbal remedies. When the last patient departs, I bolt the door and drag myself up the narrow stairs to my new quarters.

Moonlight spills through the window, turning everything silvery and strange. The small room feels even more foreign in the darkness, my few possessions casting unfamiliar shadows. I sink onto the narrow bed, finally letting my careful composure crack.

My hands fumble in the drawer of my bedside table, pulling out the folded paper I'd tucked away this morning. Kai's careful lines stare back at me - he'd spent hours getting the proportions just right. In the drawing, Mira's silver-white fur practically glows, her smile taking up half her face. Kai drew himself serious and tall beside her, already protective at six years old. Behind them all towers Theron's broad form, his strong hands resting on his children's shoulders. And there I am, holding Mira's tiny hand in mine, herbs braided through my hair just the way she loved.

A tear splashes onto the paper. I quickly dab it away before it can smear the charcoal. Kai had been so proud when he presented it to me, his blue eyes earnest as he explained how he'd practiced drawing hands for days to get them right.

"It's our family," he'd said simply, and those words break me now.

I curl around the drawing, pressing it to my chest as sobs wrack my body. The emptiness of the room echoes back my grief - no thundering footsteps, no childish giggles, no rumbling voice calling my name with such tenderness. Just silence and shadows and the bitter taste of doing what I thought was right.

A sharp rap at my door startles me from my misery. I quickly wipe my tears, stuffing Kai's drawing back into the drawer. Through the frosted glass, I make out Mrs. Bramble's distinctive silhouette, straight-backed despite her age. But she's already retreating when I make it to the door.

My heart leaps as I retrieve the letter she slides underneath. Her neat handwriting fills the page, starting with clinical details about Mira's herbs - measurements for her heart tonic, timing for the strengthening tea. Just making sure that everything is still right. But between those careful instructions, other words catch my eye.

The halls seem longer these days, she writes.Master Theron's footsteps echo through them late into the night. The study door remains closed, though light spills from beneath until dawn.

My fingers trace the words, imagining Theron's powerful frame moving restlessly through empty corridors, his amber eyes haunted in the lamplight.

Miss Mira asks for her bedtime story, the letter continues.The one about the brave healer who saved the silver fawn. Master Kai tries to tell it, but she says it's not the same without the proper voice.

Fresh tears blur my vision. I'd created that story for Mira during one of her bad nights, weaving herbs into my hair as I spoke to distract her from the pain. She'd loved watching the dried flowers fall like snow when I shook my head at the exciting parts.

The roses droop despite proper care, Mrs. Bramble notes.The kitchen herbs wither. Even the house itself seems to have lost its shine, as if missing a vital spark.

I press the letter to my chest, breathing in the faint scent of Mrs. Bramble's rirzed herb soap that clings to the paper. Mynarrow bed feels cold and strange as I curl up, still clutching her words.

In my dreams, I walk familiar halls where children's laughter echoes. Strong arms wrap around me from behind, and a deep voice rumbles my name with such longing it aches. But when I reach for that warmth, my fingers find only empty air and tear-dampened paper.

27

THERON

Istand in my study doorway, staring at the row of herbs drying in the window. Lyra's delicate handiwork - each bundle tied with precise knots, labeled in her flowing script. The sight twists something in my chest.

My heavy footsteps echo through empty halls that once carried the melody of her humming. The kitchen, usually filled with the scent of her healing brews, sits cold and unused. Even Mrs. Bramble's attempts at cooking lack the warmth Lyra brought to every meal.

"Papa?" Kai's voice draws my attention to the library. My son hunches over his desk, quill untouched beside his practice sheets. Dark smudges under his blue eyes match the ink stains on his fingers. He hasn't written a word all morning.

"The letters look wrong today." He pushes the parchment away, shoulders slumping. "Mrs. Bramble tried to help, but..."

But she's not Lyra, who would sit beside him for hours, praising each wobbly attempt until he got it right.

A crash from upstairs sends me running, Kai close behind. We find Mira in her playroom, silver-white fur standing on end as she stares at the shattered remains of her favorite tea set.

"I just wanted to make tea like Lyra does." Her bottom lip quivers. "But I couldn't."

I scoop her up before she can step on any pieces, feeling her tiny heart racing against my chest. She's been so happy and full of life, but without Lyra, I've seen less of those improvements in Mira.

Now my daughter buries her face in my shirt, her words muffled. "When is she coming back?"

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