Myra shook her head, tears shining. “No. Grandma flew.”
Rosalinde smiled faintly. “Don’t tell lies, little star. I only fell correctly.”
He still checked her—palms, knees, elbows, each breath measured. When his thumb brushed a red mark on her shin, his jaw flexed. He looked at the rail, at Rosalinde, and then—finally—at me.
“Thank you,” he said to his mother, voice roughened by the fear he wouldn’t admit.
Rosalinde nodded. “Catching my grandchild is easier than catching a knife.”
I stepped forward, all calm grace again, holding out a cloth and a tin. “Are you hurt, Your Majesty? Little one?”
Myra shook her head, clutching the cloth like a trophy. “I almost fell but didn’t.”
“Almost,” Rosalinde echoed. Her gaze flicked to the rail, to the glint of light, then to the cart where the bo
