Page 8 of Nanny for the Minotaur

Sure enough, the next morning Theron appears in the doorway, filling it completely with his massive frame. He freezes at the sight of us all gathered around the table, Mira perched on her special cushioned chair, Kai methodically arranging his porridge toppings.

"Papa!" Mira waves her spoon. "Lyra says sunshine helps make strong bones."

His amber eyes meet mine briefly before skittering away. He settles into a chair that creaks under his weight, careful to maintain maximum distance while still being at the same table. But his gaze keeps drifting to Mira's improved color, the way she actually finishes her breakfast.

I try not to let my eyes take in the minotaur for too long. Even though he's a merchant, he wears a simple tunic and pants, cut close to his frame and blending into his fur. He's massive and muscular, and too often, I find myself wanting to run my hands through his fur, find myself provoking him just to see his personality a little more.

I shouldn't want to, but I want more of him. Though, I'm working on squashing that feeling.

I finally look away to see Kai watching me with sharp eyes that miss nothing. I try to shake it off as we have a quiet breakfast and then go to the garden. But I can't help studying the little minotaur, wondering why he acts so different for a six-year-old.

When I ask him to help me organize my herbs while his sister rests, he practically vibrates with eagerness. His questions are precise, thoughtful - each answer carefully stored away like precious gems.

"Mother's curtains were always closed," he mentions casually, measuring dried rirzed her. "She said sunlight faded the furniture."

I keep my hands steady, though my heart clenches. "Well, some herbs need darkness to dry properly. But others..." I guide him to the windowsill where seedlings stretch toward light. "Others need sunshine to grow strong."

His small fingers trace a tender leaf. Behind us, I hear Theron's heavy footsteps pause in the hallway, lingering just out of sight. The house seems to exhale around us, dust settling in newly illuminated corners, shadows retreating from fresh air and opened windows.

But Kai's words stay with me through the rest of the day.

A timid knockbreaks the midnight silence. I set aside my mortar and pestle, herbs half-ground for tomorrow's treatments. Through the crack in the door, Kai's blue eyes shine wet with unshed tears, his black fur ruffled from tossing and turning.

"I had a bad dream." His voice cracks. He stands rigidly, as if expecting rejection.

"Come in." I pat the massive bed beside me. "I was just working on some healing recipes."

He climbs up, his lanky frame making the bed seem even more absurdly sized. His hooves catch in the blankets as he settles, careful to maintain a proper distance.

"Would you like to see something special?" I reach for my mother's book, its leather cover worn smooth from years of handling. "These are stories about magical creatures my mother collected from other healers."

His ears perk forward despite his attempt to maintain his serious expression. I flip to an illustration of a gargoyle, its wings spread across both pages.

"This healer visited our camp when I was little." I trace the detailed stone. "She said she helped heal its injured wing."

"Really?" He inches closer, forgetting his careful distance. "Wouldn't you be scared to help him?"

"I'd be terrified. But sometimes being brave means helping others even when you're afraid."

He nods solemnly, but his rigid posture slowly melts as we turn pages. His questions tumble out faster now, childish wonder breaking through his usual reserve. When we reach the chapter on sea serpents, he actually giggles at the illustration of one wearing a sailor's hat.

"Mother said stories were a waste of time." He freezes, as if expecting punishment for the admission.

"Stories helped me learn which herbs heal which creatures." I turn another page. "Knowledge comes in many forms."

His head droops against my arm as exhaustion finally wins. In sleep, his face softens, those worried lines smoothing away. For once, he looks his actual age - just a small boy seeking comfort in the dark.

I continue reading softly, letting the familiar words fill the silence. His breathing deepens, tension draining from his small frame with each exhale.

I drape a blanket over Kai's sleeping form, careful not to wake him. His black fur gleams in the lamplight as he curls into a tight ball, making himself small even in sleep. The massive bed swallows his frame, emphasizing how young he really is beneath that serious demeanor.

My herb-stained fingers smooth a wrinkle from the coverlet. Strange how natural this feels - tucking in a minotaur child who is already nearing my height even at six years old. His horn buds peek through his fur, reminding me of spring shoots breaking through frost-hardened earth.

Leaving him to sleep, the oversized armchair next to the bed creaks as I settle into it, my copper braid falling over one shoulder. The familiar scent of healing herbs woven into my hair mingles with the leather and ink smell of my mother's bestiary, still open to the sea serpent illustration that made him laugh.

That laugh. Such a rare, precious sound from a child who carries himself like a miniature adult. My chest tightens watching his face in repose, all those careful masks stripped away. In sleep, his features echo Mira's innocent trust rather than their absent mother's rigid propriety.

These children need more than herbal tonics and breathing exercises. Mira's condition may have brought me here, but there are deeper wounds festering beneath the surface. Wounds left by a mother's cold words and impossible standards. By loss and loneliness and the weight of expectations no child should bear.

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