Page 3 of The Minotaur's Nanny Bride

Shade flutters down, landing beside the scar on my right hand. He pecks gently at it, then looks up at me with those knowing eyes.

"Fine," I mutter. "Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes I wonder." I gather my harvest, cradling the herbs against my chest. "But wondering isn't the same as regretting."

Shade caws at me again, louder this time.

"You're calling me a liar," I translate, laughing despite myself. "Keep your opinions to yourself, bird. Not everyone needs what everyone else has."

But as I turn back toward my shop, arms full of the day's work, Shade's accusation follows me like a shadow I can't quite outrun.

The morning flows into the afternoon as customers trickle in and out of my shop. I've wrapped delicate pain remedies for an elderly man with gnarled hands, mixed a tincture for a young woman with moon-cycle cramps, and advised a nervous father about fever treatments for his daughter. By midday, my shelves have noticeable gaps where popular remedies once stood.

"Looks like a market run," I mutter to myself, mentally cataloging what I need. "Yellowroot oil, gankoya root, and those glass vials from Tauros the glassblower."

I flip the shop sign to "Returning Soon," grab my market basket, and step into Karona's bustling streets. The city pulses with midday energy—merchants hawking wares, food vendors calling out their specials, children darting between stalls like schools of fish. The smell of fresh bread mingles with spices and the salt-tang from the nearby harbor.

My first stops are quick and efficient. I bargain hard but fair, maintaining the reputation I've cultivated over years. Most merchants know better than to try overcharging "the herb woman with the silver hair and sharper tongue."

"Maya!" Demetrius, my favorite spice merchant, waves me over. His stall overflows with exotic offerings from across the seas. "I've been saving something special for you."

"If it's another marriage prospect, I'll pass," I say, approaching his counter with a raised eyebrow.

He throws his head back in laughter. "No, no. Though my nephew still asks about you." He produces a small packet wrapped in waxed paper. "Rare meqixste from the interior mountains of Osiris. Stronger than what you usually buy."

I take a whiff and nearly stagger back. "Gods, that's potent."

"Good for your special remedies, yes?" He winks conspiratorially.

"At the right price." I cross my arms, settling in for our usual haggling dance.

Three stalls and four successful negotiations later, my basket grows heavy with supplies. I'm examining glass vials at Tauros's stall when I notice her—a young woman, perhaps twenty, with dark circles under her eyes that speak of sleepless nights. She struggles to balance a market basket while a red-faced toddler tugs at her skirts, wailing with impressive lung capacity.

"Please, Nyzie," she pleads, shifting her heavy basket. "Just a little longer, then we can go home."

The merchant she's trying to buy from looks increasingly irritated as the child's screams escalate. Other shoppers cast sidelong glances, some sympathetic, others clearly annoyed.

"Here," I say to Tauros, placing coins in his hand. "I'll take these six."

Without fully understanding why, I find myself moving toward the woman. Perhaps it's the exhaustion etched on her face—I recognize a soul at the end of its tether.

"Excuse me," I say, reaching into my pocket for a small sachet of lavender and chamomile I keep for nervous customers. I kneel to the child's level. "Hello there, little one. Would you like to smell something magical?"

The boy pauses mid-wail, curiosity momentarily overriding his tantrum. His mother looks at me with equal parts suspicion and desperate hope.

"It's just herbs," I assure her. "Nothing harmful."

I offer the sachet to the boy, who grabs it with pudgy hands and immediately brings it to his nose. His eyes widen in surprise, and the crying stops as abruptly as it began.

"Pretty smell," he declares, clutching the small pouch.

"A miracle worker," his mother says, relief washing over her face. "Thank you. I'm Thea."

"Maya," I reply. "No miracle, just distraction."

As the merchant completes Thea's purchase, I help steady her basket. "Let me carry this to the next stall for you."

"You're too kind. Nyzie's father works at the shipyard—dawn to dusk. It's just me and this little whirlwind most days." She looks down at her son with a mixture of exhaustion and fierce love that makes something twist in my chest.

"Do you have children?" Thea asks as we walk.

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