Page 109 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Three hearts. Three minds. Three pairs of hands, created to work together to allow the passage of life to be gentler for all. The living would not suffer past their time. The Cutter would not have to end her own children’s lives.

And so the river born of her tears gently flowed, nourishing the After.

For a time, they worked together. There was balance.

Until the day a thread frayed. A thread belonging to a girl meant to be the youngest of three mortal sisters. Her life had been woven into theirs before her thread ever came to be, but somehow, it was incomplete.

The Weaver believed she should destroy the thread and begin again.

The Measurer insisted she must work within the length that had been woven.

The Cutter, uncomfortable with imperfection, yearned to cut away the damaged edge, regardless of her sister’s measurement.

And because they could not agree, they did not act. The thread sat ignored, and without magic to sustain it, it turned to dust.

Unease fills my gut at the image, and I falter.

“Keep going!” Saoirse says, impatient as ever.

Garrick finally looks at me. “Aye, Brennen. Keep going.”

I narrow my eyes at him, returning to the story.

For the first time since its creation, the river faltered. The water surged, and the deep black mist of the After crept up from below. At the river’s end, darkness rose, overtaking the earth. The earth rotted where it touched; anything alive unable to survive it.

And inside the deep black mist, the frayed soul was trapped, desperate for release. Afraid and alone.

As the soul haunted the river, anger and resentment hardened the Three. One by one, pride blinded them, and each believing they knew best, began to do as they wished.

The Weaver wove threads as long as she pleased.

The Measurer measured lives too young, only to spite her.

The Cutter cut without regard to the Measurer’s will. Magic faltered, and the earth grew dark. A rift formed in the sky, and monsters descended.

“The Epoch,” Saoirse says, her delicate features flickering in the firelight.

“Precisely,” says Garrick. “Is this scary enough for you?”

Saoirse gives a tight nod. And while I do see fear in her eyes, there’s excitement there as well. “Well, what happened?”

I tuck her closer. “Is it too scary? I can read you a different story.”

Her eyes open wide. “I’m not a baby, Bren, and I’m not afraid of the Epoch. You’ll protect me from it.”

I press a kiss to her blonde curls. “Aye, I will,” I say, picking back up where I stopped.

The two mortal sisters felt the pull of their missing piece, and so they followed the river, their hearts aching without her. But when they found the young girl haunting the shore, she could not be saved.

But if she could not leave, they decided, neither would they.

Hand in hand, they stepped into the darkness that destroyed all it touched, and the river held its breath.

But the goddess had been watching.

She had seen the Fates selfish ways. Witnessed their ploys for power. But in the mortal sisters, she saw something new—selfless, sacrificial love.”

Saoirse squeezes me tighter.