Page 6 of Nanny for the Minotaur

Dex's grin widens. "How thoughtful. And how's our little Mira doing under your care?"

"Much better." She pours the tea with steady hands, the delicate movements highlighting how small she is compared to the minotaur-sized porcelain. "Though her father still hovers like I might break her."

"I do not hover," I growl.

Her knowing smile makes my grip tighten on my whiskey glass. The crystal creaks ominously.

"Of course not." She sets a cup before each of us. "You just happened to pass by the garden eight times during our lesson today."

Dex's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. I resist the urge to throw something at him.

"Thank you, Miss Moonweaver," I manage through gritted teeth. "That will be all."

She dips a small curtsy - probably to provoke me - and leaves, the scent of healing herbs lingering in her wake. While she might be good with the kids, she does not fear me, and with each passing day, I don't know how to deal with that.

"Not. One. Word." I point at Dex's smirking face.

"I didn't say anything." He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Though your cracking glass might."

I consider throwing it at him. Instead, I down the damn thing and glare at him. It only makes Dex laugh.

He stays a while longer before I finally kick him out. I miss dinner, though that's not unusual, but late into the night, I still can't focus. I finally decide to take a break, knowing I won't be able to sleep, and find myself wandering the halls instead.

I pause outside Mira's door, my horns nearly brushing the frame. The house creaks and settles around me, familiar sounds that usually bring comfort during my late-night wanderings. Tonight, they only emphasize the unusual silence from my daughter's room.

No labored breathing. No muffled coughs.

My chest tightens as I ease the door open. Moonlight spills across Mira's bed, illuminating her silver-white fur. She's curled on her side, one tiny hand clutching her favorite blanket, her chest rising and falling in smooth, even breaths.

"By the Lady of Light," I whisper, moving closer. It's the second time I've seen her rest so easy, and I think I could have a lifetime of this and never stop thanking the goddess.

Something catches my eye – a leather-bound journal on the bedside table. I recognize Lyra's neat handwriting on the open page:

Day 6 - Mira's lung capacity improving steadily. Morning exercises showing marked progress. Note: She responds better when we make it into a game. Taught her to pretend she's breathing fire – the visualization helps her focus.

Afternoon tea blend adjusted: Added more fylvek to counter the bitter herbs. She drank it all today! Must remember to praise her bravery.

The pages are filled with detailed observations, sketches of herb combinations, and little notes about Mira's preferences. Lyra's documented everything from my daughter's favorite stories to which breathing techniques work best when she's anxious.

Important: bluefrost tea before bed seems to help most, but only if served in the blue cup with the painted flowers. She says it makes her feel special.

My fingers trace the careful diagrams showing optimal sleeping positions. The dedication in these pages... it's not just medical knowledge. Every observation is infused with genuine care for my daughter's comfort, her happiness.

Because she's a good healer, I remind myself.

Mira stirs slightly, mumbling in her sleep. I freeze, but she just hugs her blanket closer and settles again. The peaceful expression on her face makes my heart ache.

I close the journal gently, something unfamiliar and warm uncurling in me as I study my sleeping daughter. For the first time since her birth, she looks truly at peace.

Dawn's first light creeps across Mira's floor when Mrs. Bramble's familiar shuffle breaks my reverie. I'm still holding Lyra's journal, my large fingers careful not to crease the pages filled with her meticulous notes.

"Sometimes the best healing comes from unexpected places." Mrs. Bramble's voice holds that knowing tone she's perfected over decades of service. She adjusts her pristine white apron, her steel-gray bun as precise as ever.

I grunt, not ready to examine the truth in her words or why I've spent hours poring over Lyra's careful observations of my daughter. The leather cover feels warm from my grip as I set it back on the nightstand.

My hooves are silent on the thick carpet as I leave Mira sleeping peacefully. The walk to my study feels different this morning – lighter somehow. At the doorway, I pause. My hand hovers over the heavy oak door I've kept firmly shut since... since Cassandra.

The sound of Lyra's voice drifts up from below, bright and clear. "Good morning, Kai! Ready to help wake your sister?"

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