Page 104 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

It’s an unwanted emotion, caring about what happens to her, but it’s there, undeniably tucked next to my heart. I picture her blue-grey eyes. The way they crinkle at the edges when she smiles. How impossibly wide they become when she is afraid.

What will Cailleach do to her now that she believes Bea was questioning her power? Is her pride so strong that she would ignore my warning that the women who have disappeared are actually dead, and then punish me, my family, and Bea?

Garrick finally speaks as we pass the loch, the wind off it damp and cold.

“Are you ever going to tell me what's happened with the Cutter? Or am I going to have to pull the reason out of those constantly scowling lips of yours? I mean, really, Brennen. Would it kill you to not look as if you’ve been sucking on lemons?”

I roll my eyes. “I dinnae scowl.”

“He says with a scowl. Now go on. Why did she really send us here?” he asks, and my jaw clenches tight. I dinnae ken where to begin.

“The Washwoman. She's no what I thought she’d be,” I admit, testing the waters.

Garrick bursts out in a belly laugh, and I pin him with a glare. He straightens. “Oh. You’re being serious?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Of course, she’s not the creature from the legend,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Have you heard the version where she has the body of a serpent?” He laughs again, but it dies off as my expression darkens.

He clears his throat. “Right. Okay, then. How is the monster different?”

I meet his eyes, holding his gaze for a long moment as I try to decide exactly how much to tell him. He knows my family, and I’m certain he cares for them. I grew up with him, after all. Joined the Dìdeanair together, and we trained side by side for years. If pressed, I would probably say he is my closest friend. But is that enough for him to keep my secrets from The Cutter?

It has to be.

“I dinnae think she’s a monster at all. Not anymore,” I say, unable to hold it in any longer—the feeling that has been steadily growing with each of Bea’s acts of kindness and compassion. But it’s not the only reason I tell him. If I’m going to convince Cailleach about the disappearing women, I’m going to need help from someone who has her favor.

Garrick stops his horse, his expression shifting from good-natured teasing to pure shock. “You're speaking of the Washwoman, right? The same woman who killed Marsaili?”

I stiffen at the name, a surge of protectiveness washing through me, but not for Marsaili. Garrick had loved her like a sister. Her name on his lips is a comfort. It’s Bea I feel defensive of. “I ken how it sounds, but she's no what we’ve been made to believe.”

He shakes his head. “I dinnae understand. What are you saying? That you don't think she killed Marsaili? Killed her family?”

“No.” My hands clench into fists, and I shake my head. How am I to explain my feelings to Garrick when I can hardly understand them myself? “She did. She’s said as much. But it wasnae really her. Her mind broke that day. She doesn’t remember any of it. Thinks maybe the curse caused her to go mad when she escaped.” I nudge Sable forward again. Garrick follows suit, but remains silent. “You know of the women who have been disappearing?” I ask.

“Of course. What of them?” he asks, his voice wary.

“I dinnae think they're disappearing at all. I think they're dead. That is what I told Cailleach.”

Garrick pulls his horse next to mine. There's disbelief in his eyes, but I can tell he's listening. “Something’s been happening with the Washwoman. She's having visions of the women who are going missing. One of them, Betty⁠—”

“From home?”

I nod. “She disappeared over a week ago. Bea had a vision of her. I saw it with my own eyes. Her gaze went glassy, and she was singing this strange song. It made no sense. I shook her. Shouted her name, but she didn't flinch, didnae react at all. And then when she came to, she was holding something from Betty's house in her hands—a portrait of her parents. I recognized them immediately.”

Garrick grips the reins tighter. “You're certain she didn't have it before?”

“She couldnae have. I searched her myself when I arrived. She has no possessions, and she's chained to the shore. How would she get a picture of Betty's parents without something magical happening?”

Garrick sits up taller. “The Fates control all magic.”

“Do they, though?” I ask.

He stiffens, lifting his chin to assess me, but I dinnae back down from his stare. “What are you saying?” he asks.

My shoulders inch toward my ears at his reaction, and I choose my next words carefully. “All I’m saying is Bea washed Betty’s clothes. She has to be dead.”

“Then the Cutter would know,” he says, and part of me wonders if I’ve made a mistake. Maybe I cannae tell him my fears. My doubts. Garrick is always at the Cutter’s castle. Is it possible he’s closer to her than I thought?