Ziggy was hard on his tail even as York caught the man with his leg and dumped him off him. RJ couldn’t tell if he was bleeding—probably, but he bounced up and just barely dodged another punch.

York had his feet about him, though, and waiter wasn’t going to last long. Not with Ziggy twenty yards away, and a cadre of palace staff behind her.

The sun was just winking out, a glorious orange haze over the far away purple horizon, a cluster of red caught in the clouds as York launched himself at the waiter.

And then…

Oh…what—?

The scream burbled up even as others gasped, as screams and shouts of horror lifted.

RJ’s knees buckled, and she would have dropped except for Roy’s arms around her.

He didn’t—he hadn’t—

But as Ziggy ran up to the edge of the cliff, looking over, as she turned, her hand over her mouth, turning back to them in a thousand-yard stare, the truth hit RJ like a poison, flushing into her bones, shuddering through her, and then flushing out of her in a full out, body-shaking scream.

York had gone over the side of the cliff.

“No. No—no —”

Roy’s arms tightened around her, even as he spoke into the comms. “Ziggy. Report —”

From the bank, she shook her head.

More castle guards appeared, stood at the edge. Some backed away.

“Ziggy?”

“Take RJ off comms,” Ziggy said softly.

No—no— RJ pushed against Roy, met his eyes.

He let her go.

Then she was up, running hard, kicking off her golden shoes, running barefoot through the garden, onto the grasses, her heart out of her body, even as Roy ran behind her.

Ziggy caught her before she reached the edge — “No, RJ —”

But she tore through Ziggy’s grasp, pushing her way to the edge.

Roy grabbed her around the waist with his good arm, maybe to keep her from going over the edge.

Probably the right move because right then, with everything inside her, she would have. Simply launched herself off the edge in a terrible, wretched grief-stricken act just so she could join the body laying a hundred feet below, at the bottom of the cliffs, wrecked among the waves as they slammed against the rock.

She stood there watching, unable to breathe, unable to think as the waves swept up the body, drew it out, and then, she fell to her knees as it sank under the froth of the sea.

And right then, the sun fell into the darkness, leaving only the bruised sky and the terrible, tragic end of the fairytale.

What happens next?

Chapter 20/Portami a casa: un ricordo della resistenza italiana

I don’t blame Bertie. How can I—he is five, and he doesn’t know the terrible truth of his actions.

Besides, how can I blame a child for the workings of the Almighty?