Page 2 of The Minotaur's Nanny Bride

I scoop him back up, his cries now interspersed with hiccupping sobs that break my heart. His face is bright red, his little fists balled up in rage or distress—I can't tell which.

"I've negotiated trade deals with fierce minotaur sailors and even the occasional dark elf," I mutter, trying to read the formula instructions while holding a squirming, screaming infant. "Surely I can figure this out."

Twenty minutes later, the milk is too hot, then too cold, then spilled across my kitchen counter when Ellis kicks the bottle from my hand. My usual cheerful confidence is crumbling faster than poorly made pottery.

"Please, Ellis," I beg, offering the fourth attempt at the bottle. "Your uncle Dex is trying his best here."

He turns his head away, wailing with renewed vigor. My chest aches—not from his weight, but from the crushing feeling that I'm completely out of my depth. What would Iris do? What would she say if she could see me now, fumbling through this simplest of tasks?

The thought of my sister makes my throat tight. I sink down onto the floor, cradling Ellis against me.

"I miss her too," I whisper, grief ripping through me. "I'm sorry I'm not her. I'm sorry..."

Ellis pauses his crying just long enough to look up at me with those wide golden eyes, so like mine, yet so like Iris' in their intensity. Then he resumes his protests, perhaps even louder than before.

Night falls. Ellis refuses to sleep in the makeshift crib I hastily assembled from a drawer and blankets. He won't take the bottle. He soils his wrappings faster than I can clean him, each change more disastrous than the last. My hands—steady enough to thread a needle in a storm at sea—fumble with the tiny fastenings of his clothes.

"What am I doing wrong?" I pace the floor, horns lowered in dejection. My usual booming laugh, my ready smile—both seem like memories from another lifetime. The merchant who can charm anyone can't soothe one tiny minotaur. "I can't do this. I can't, little one."

Ellis cries on, inconsolable, and in that moment, I've never felt more lost or alone.

2

MAYA

Iawaken to the amber light of dawn filtering through my herb-strewn curtains. My back complains from yesterday's harvest as I push myself upright, blinking away sleep. My small apartment above the shop is exactly as I left it—comfortably chaotic, with books stacked beside my bed and dried herb bundles hanging from every available beam.

"Morning already?" I mutter, running fingers through my silver-blonde hair. It sticks up at odd angles, but who's here to see it?

The familiar scent of herbs embraces me like an old friend. I breathe it in, letting it clear the fog from my mind. Unlike most women my age in Karona, my mornings aren't punctuated by a husband's snores or children's demands. Instead, there's just the soft rustling of Shade, my onyx-feathered bird, hopping along the windowsill with impressive determination.

"You're impatient today," I tell him, swinging my legs over the bed.

Shade cocks his head, beady eyes fixed on me. His morning ritual never changes—inspect the window for threats, preen dramatically, then judge me for sleeping past sunrise.

The floorboards creak familiar paths as I move through my morning routine. I splash cold water on my face, catching my reflection in the small mirror—gray eyes, a touch of exhaustion beneath them, and that stubborn streak of practicality my mother always complained about. I trace the scar on my right hand absently, the raised tissue a permanent reminder of choices I don't regret.

"Worth every stitch," I whisper to no one.

Downstairs, my shop waits in predawn stillness. Glass bottles catch the early light, sending prisms dancing across walls lined with shelves of dried herbs and neatly labeled potions. Everything has its place, even if that place sometimes looks like organized chaos to visitors. I can find any ingredient blindfolded—a point of pride.

The garden beckons through the back door. While Karona still sleeps, I step outside, dew-covered grass tickling my bare feet. My little sanctuary spreads before me—beds of medicinal plants arranged by properties rather than aesthetics. Beauty has its place, but function rules my world.

"Let's see what needs harvesting today," I murmur, fingertips brushing against mint leaves that release their sharp scent into the morning air.

I kneel beside a row of healing herbs, carefully selecting mature leaves while leaving younger growth intact. My knees sink into the soft earth as I work, dirt collecting beneath my fingernails. The Silverleaf family would be appalled—a genteel healer's daughter on her knees in the dirt like a common laborer.

Shade lands on a nearby fence post, watching me with that judgmental tilt of his head.

"What?" I ask him, securing a bundle of feverfew with twine. "This life suits me just fine."

He caws sharply.

"I don't need a husband to provide for me." I cut another stem with more force than necessary. "And I certainly don't need children to give my life meaning."

Another caw, this one somehow sounding skeptical.

"I'm content," I insist, the words familiar on my tongue. I've repeated them so often they should feel true by now. "I built this place from nothing. My own shop, my own rules. No family prejudices dictating who deserves healing."

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