6. Lyra
6
LYRA
I lean closer to the medical text I got today, my copper braid falling forward as I squint at the faded diagrams. Candlelight flickers across the yellowed pages, casting dancing shadows over detailed illustrations of heart chambers and valves. My small desk groans under the weight of stacked books and scattered papers, each one covered in my hurried notes about Mira's symptoms.
My fingers trace the intricate lines of a particularly detailed drawing, following the path of blood flow through a minotaur calf's heart. Something about this feels familiar - the irregular beats, the shortness of breath, the stunted growth. I grab my notes from Mira's last examination, laying them side by side with the text.
"There you are," I whisper, tapping the page. All the symptoms match up.
A rare congenital defect, one that twists the heart's chambers during early development. My excitement at the discovery fades as I read further. If caught early, the condition responds well to a combination of herbs and careful monitoring. But left untreated...
I push aside several books, reaching for the clinic's archived records. Dust puffs up as I flip through them, making me sneeze. When I find Cassandra's pregnancy file, it's thin - too thin. My heart sinks as I read entry after entry of refused treatments, each one marked with the same note: Patient declines care from healer. It doesn't take me long to realize she only wanted help from noble born healers.
"Damn noble pride," I mutter, running a hand through my hair and loosening strands from my braid. The candle gutters, wax pooling on my desk as I stare at the damning evidence. All those months of missed care, of preventative treatments rejected - no wonder Mira struggles so much now. Even if Theron doesn't seem to share the same sentiments, it's an uphill battle for his daughter.
I gather my herbs closer, breathing in their earthly scent to center myself. Getting angry at a dead woman's prejudices won't help her daughter. But understanding the root cause means I can finally build a better treatment plan. I pull a fresh sheet of paper close and begin writing, determined to make up for lost time.
I spent all night planning how I want to improve the pathway for Mira, knowing that in the morning, I'll have something more concrete to tell her father. That's what has me up before dawn, before the kids are even awake, going to talk to him.
I square my shoulders before knocking on the heavy oak door of Theron's study. My research is solid. The evidence clear. Still, my heart pounds as his deep voice rumbles, "Enter."
The morning sun streams through tall windows, highlighting the silver rings in his curved horns as he looks up from his ledgers. His amber eyes narrow at the stack of papers clutched to my chest.
"I found something about Mira's condition." I spread the medical texts and notes across his desk, pushing aside trade manifests. "It's a congenital heart defect, one that develops before birth."
Theron leans forward, his massive frame making the chair creak. "And you discovered this in human medical texts?"
"Yes, but the anatomy is sound. Look-" I point to the detailed diagrams. "These complications match Mira's symptoms exactly. If it'd been caught during pregnancy-"
"If?" His nostrils flare. "What exactly are you implying?"
I take a steadying breath. "According to the clinic records, Cassandra refused most prenatal treatments. Treatments that could have prevented-"
"How dare you?" He surges to his feet, towering over me. "You have no right to question my late wife's choices."
"I have every right when those choices are still hurting your daughter!" I slam my palm on his desk, refusing to back down despite our height difference. "Mira's struggling because of the way your wife-"
"Enough!" His roar rattles the windows. "You forget your place, human."
"My place is helping that little girl, regardless of what you or your precious traditions think." I gather my papers with shaking hands. "When you're ready to put Mira's health above your pride, you know where to find me."
I storm out before he can respond, slamming the door hard enough to make the hinges protest. Only when I'm halfway down the hall do I realize I'm trembling - with anger, with frustration, with something else I'm not ready to name.
I thought Theron was different…
The rest of the day, I keep my focus on the kids, but I avoid their father. I thought Theron would want to know if I had learned what was wrong with Lyra, how we could help. But it seems his pride is far too strong to take the criticism from a human.
Once the kids are asleep, I head back out to the garden, the cool evening air hitting my flushed cheeks. I'm still angry about what happened, as I kneel beside the moonflower bed, their silvery petals unfurling in the growing darkness. The familiar scent of earth and herbs grounds me, slows my racing pulse.
"Foolish," I mutter, yanking weeds with more force than necessary. "Absolutely foolish to challenge him like that." Maybe the problem was because I thought I could. I thought he would actually listen to me.
I've gotten far too comfortable.
Heavy hoofsteps crunch on the gravel path. My shoulders tense, but I keep working, pretending fascination with a particularly stubborn flower. The steps pause behind me, followed by the rustle of leaves as Theron attempts to navigate between the delicate rows of herbs. A snapped stem makes him curse under his breath.
"You'll destroy my entire garden at this rate." I don't look up. "The moonflowers are sensitive."
"I-" He clears his throat. "I came to… apologize. For earlier."
The words hang between us, unexpected enough that I finally turn. Theron stands awkwardly among my plants, his massive frame seeming somehow smaller in the soft moonlight. His amber eyes avoid mine as he studies the flowers.
"Seven healers." His deep voice is quiet. "Seven of the finest minotaur healers, and not one could tell me why my daughter couldn't breathe properly. Why she stayed so small while other calves thrived." His fists clench. "I watched her struggle, day after day, and could do nothing. And I know that Cassandra was wrong. I just didn't want to hear… Well, it was my fault that Mira has turned out this way. That I let her do what she thought was best when I should have pushed her."
"Here." I pat the ground beside me, surprised when he actually kneels. "Hold this basket while I harvest. Moonflowers are strongest when picked at night."
We work in silence for several minutes, his large hands carefully steadying the basket as I clip stems and strip leaves. A father's love radiates from every careful movement, every gentle touch to avoid crushing my herbs.
"I know you want what's best for her," I finally say.
"I failed her," he whispers, and the anguish in his voice hurts me, too. I didn't mean to bring that on him. "By not questioning Cassandra's choices. By not fighting harder for proper care."
My fingers brush his as I place another flower in the basket. "You're fighting now. That's what matters."
A moonflower stem catches my eye - perfect, unblemished petals glowing in the dim light. I reach for it just as Theron's hand extends toward the same bloom. Our fingers collide, his dark fur brushing against my skin. The contact sends a jolt through my arm, like touching a heated stone after a winter chill.
His hand dwarfs mine, strong fingers marked with calluses from years of working despite his merchant status. The silver rings in his horns catch the moonlight as he freezes, neither of us pulling away. My pulse quickens at the gentle press of his palm against my knuckles, the careful way his claws avoid scratching my skin.
The moonflowers sway in a gentle breeze, their silvery petals dancing around our joined hands. My herbs release their night-sweet scent, mixing with the earthy musk that always surrounds him. Time stretches like honey dripping from a comb, each heartbeat marked by the warmth of his touch.
His amber eyes meet mine, something unspoken passing between us. The gruff merchant who bellowed at me hours ago seems transformed in the garden's ethereal light, his features softened by shadows and starlight.
It's the first time that I've really been alone with him, and he's even more handsome up close. His fur is so soft, and I want to run my hands through it, to explore his muscular body beneath.
But I know I shouldn't.
Withdrawing, I swallow hard. "Do you want me to show you how to brew some of the medicine? So you know?"
He nods. "I'd like that."
We make our way to the kitchen, my basket of fresh moonflowers swaying between us. The familiar space feels different at this late hour - intimate, with only a few oil lamps casting a warm glow over the worn wooden counters.
"First, we'll need to crush these." I spread my collection across the work surface. "Similar to how you'd prepare trade spices, but with a lighter touch."
Theron picks up the pestle, his massive hands adjusting their grip. "Show me."
I guide him through the motions, demonstrating the careful pressure needed to release the moonflowers' essence without bruising them. His amber eyes focus intently on each movement, the same concentration I've seen him use when examining trade contracts.
"Like this?" He grinds the pestle with surprising delicacy, his black fur stark against the silvery petals.
"Perfect." I measure out dried herbs from my stores. "Now we'll add warroya. The proportions must be exact."
He nods, reaching for the measuring spoons. His merchant's precision serves him well as he portions each ingredient, checking twice before adding them to our mixture. The familiar scents of my workroom blend with his earthy musk, creating something new and unexpectedly pleasant.
"You're a natural," I say, watching him stir the brewing tea. "Most people rush this part."
"Trading taught me patience." His deep voice softens. "Though apparently not enough to listen when a healer tells me uncomfortable truths."
I touch his arm briefly. "You listened when it mattered."
As we work, I notice how he remembers each step after being shown only once, how his massive hands handle my delicate tools with the same care he shows his daughter. This proud merchant, who hours ago roared at me for questioning his traditions, now stands in his kitchen learning what he can for his daughter.
Later, in my small study, I open my treatment journal. By candlelight, I add a new entry. But I find it hard to focus when all I can think about is Theron's gentle touch and the kind nature that seems to be hiding beneath his gruff exterior.
It makes me want to know more.