Page 51 of Nanny for the Minotaur

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LYRA

Itrail my fingers along the freshly painted walls, the scent of herbs from downstairs mixing with lingering paint fumes. My new healing practice - the one I opened with Theron's money - should represent everything I've worked toward - independence, purpose, a chance to help others. But these bare rooms above the shop mock me with their emptiness.

A copper pot catches the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, and for a moment I see phantom reflections of Mira's copper curls as she'd dance through the mansion's halls. The silence presses in where her giggles should be. Even little Rowan's thundering footsteps are missing, no more races down corridors or hiding behind curtains.

I pull herbs from my pocket and begin weaving them into my braid, letting the familiar motions ground me. The window beckons, and I find myself drawn to it, hoping to catch a glimpse of something familiar. But instead of Theron's meticulously tended roses with their climbing trellises, I see only the dusty street below. No towering figure moving between the bushes, checking each bloom with those surprisingly gentle hands of his.

The room feels too small, the ceiling too low after the mansion's soaring heights. I've arranged my healing supplies with precision - bandages rolled tight, tinctures lined up by ailment, poultices ready to be mixed. But without Theron's presence filling every space with his quiet authority, without the children's energy brightening each corner, it's just...stuff.

"This is what you wanted," I remind myself, voice sharp in the quiet. "Your own practice. Your own space."

But my fingers keep reaching for herbs that aren't in their usual spots, and my feet keep trying to take paths through rooms that don't exist here. The golden light slants through windows that face the wrong direction, painting unfamiliar shadows on walls that don't feel like mine.

A knock at the door startles me from my brooding. Maya bustles in, arms laden with fresh herbs from her farm.

"Brought you some of that feverfew you wanted." She dumps the bundle on my work table, sending up a cloud of earthy scents. "And don't argue about payment. Consider it a shop-warming gift."

I try to smile, but it feels brittle. "You don't have to-"

"I know I don't have to." She starts sorting the herbs with practiced efficiency, her scarred hand moving swift and sure. "But you're going to need stock, and I need someone to offload these on before they wilt."

We work in companionable silence, arranging dried bundles and fresh stems. Maya doesn't push conversation - it's one of the things I love about her. She just keeps shooting me those knowing looks as I pause too long over certain herbs.

The bell downstairs chimes, and voices drift up. My first patients.

A woman leads in two children - a boy with a scraped knee and his younger sister hovering anxiously nearby. The boy's serious expression, the way he tries not to wince as I cleanthe wound, hits too close to home. Kai wore that same look whenever Mira fell, trying to be brave for her sake.

"You're being very brave," I tell him, voice steady despite the ache in my chest. The sister peers around him, amber eyes bright with curiosity, and suddenly I'm seeing Mira's face instead, the way she'd watch me mix remedies in the mansion's kitchen.

Maya squeezes my shoulder as she hands me a clean bandage. I focus on wrapping the knee, on explaining proper care to their mother, on maintaining my professional mask. But after they leave, I have to grip the edge of my work table, breathing deep.

"They're not them," Maya says quietly.

"I know." The words come out rough. "I just... I didn't expect it to be this hard."

Maya doesn't offer empty comfort. She just hands me more herbs to sort, letting me lose myself in the familiar motions while tears I refuse to shed burn behind my eyes.

The bell chimes again just as Maya and I finish organizing the feverfew. Heavy footsteps climb the stairs, each deliberate step making the wooden boards creak. The sound reminds me of Theron, but lacks his natural grace.

Marcus Steelhorn fills the doorway, his steel-gray bulk blocking most of the light. Gold rings glint on his horns - too many, gaudy against the polished black. His perfectly tailored jacket stretches tight across his shoulders, the fabric so fine it probably cost more than my first month's rent.

"Healer." His cold blue eyes sweep the room, lip curling at the simple furnishings. "I find myself in need of your... services."

Maya's hand brushes my arm as she slips past him. "I'll bring up more supplies later," she murmurs.

I straighten my spine. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Steelhorn?"

"Just a touch of indigestion." He settles into my strongest chair, which groans under his weight. "Though I must say, it's quite convenient finding you here. Much more accessible than your previous arrangement."

My fingers clench around a sprig, my words come out like venom. "I'msoglad I can be of service to you now that my previous contract is up."

"Ah yes, yourpreviousclient." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Poor Theron, letting such a valuable asset slip away. Though I suppose he's grown used to loss by now."

I busy myself grinding herbs, refusing to rise to his bait. "How long have you had the indigestion?"

"Speaking of Theron," he continues as if I hadn't spoken, "we've been discussing a potential merger of our trading companies. Well, less discussing, more... inevitable acceptance on his part. These things go smoother with a united front, especially now that he's lost his..." His gaze flicks over me dismissively. "Support system."

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