This is not a fairy tale.

 

She walked across the neatly-kept grass, not noticing how the dew was soaking her feet. She strode past each gravestone purposefully, knowing that the memorial she sought would not be in plain sight.

 

Ahead of her was a low rusty railing encircling a wild wooded area at the edge of the graveyard. She stopped and casually looked around. No one was near. With one quick movement she was inside the enclosure and moving under the dark canopy of leaves.

 

She knew it was only a few steps ahead. A low stone, covered in weeds, caked in moss. A few seconds work and she would read the engraving, dim as it was under the shadow of the trees. She breathed in deeply, the smell of wet grass provoking countless memories. The wind brushed the trees, and the leaves rustled in response. She allowed her eyes to adjust to the light and read the words:

 

Here lie the mortal remains of Mercy Clearwater.

Born 25th March 1567, Died 18 April 1906.

Aged 24 years.

Rest in peace, your travels have ended.

 

And so it was true. She knew what had to be done.