Page 122 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

53

BRENNEN

Aweek passes in the same routine. Days of sitting by the fire reading through Harold's journal, Bea beside me, dagger clutched firmly in her hand. Nights where we lie beside each other, never touching. Barely sleeping. Barely breathing.

She's had two visions since the blacksmith, and neither of the women’s clothes floated down the river.

Her plan is working.

Though her eyes are tired, her soft smile doesn't fade, and in that smile, I feel I understand her a bit more.

She has a purpose now. A reason to live, and that terrifies me.

As does the way I cannae stop watching her. Every shift catches my eye. Every sound my ear.

As if taunting me, she looks up, and my gaze finds hers immediately. Our eyes lock, and my chest tightens. I clear my throat, standing. I need some space from this. Some distance from the monster who is not a monster at all. I whistle for Sable.

“You’re leaving?” Bea asks, stopping me.

“Aye. It’s been long enough for me to go back to the village safely. “I should return this,” I say, lifting the book. “And I need to get more food.”

She ties her hair back, and my hands itch to undo it. To unbind her curls and watch them blow wildly in the wind. It only solidifies my resolve to get some space. I cannae be thinking of her like this. Not now, or ever.

She presses her lips together. “Do you think maybe there are more books where you got that one? Something other than journals? I'd love something to read. But of course I understand if⁠—”

“I'll ask,” I say, growing more desperate to leave the glen by the second. Her gentle smile grows, and the unwanted feeling coiling beneath my ribs twists tighter. I try to ignore it, but even as I walk away, as I ride Sable toward Dalbàsail, pushing her to jump over fallen logs and dart through trees, the feeling stays with me. It refuses to ease. More stubborn than even my shadow.

It isnae until the now familiar gates to the village appear that a small fraction of the pressure in my chest loosens. Here, I can just be. There is no war inside my mind. No one I must kill.

It starts to snow as I tie Sable to Harold's gate and make my way toward the tavern—thick, fluffy flakes, and before I even make it to Theo's doorstep, there's a dusting on the ground.

I push my way inside, kicking my boots against the doorframe. It's still somewhat early, but a few guardians sit around the tables playing a game of knucklebones. I do not recognize them, but based on the single stripes on their uniforms and lack of dàn adorning their necks and forearms, they’re low ranking.

I clear my throat, and they jump to their feet, placing their hands behind their back. It's a sign of respect, one I've performed thousands of times to higher-ranking guardians than I, but in this case, it feels wrong. Forced, almost.

They are here because of Cailleach’s anger at me. Because she wants me to feel the pressure of her presence and remind me that she is always watching.

Remind me that my family’s strings are in her hands.

“Please,” I say, nodding at the chairs. “Sit.”

“Join us,” one of them says. I do not allow my eyes to flick around the room to look for Theo, pulling out a chair even though the last thing I wish to do is share a drink with men searching for reasons to report my misdeeds.

What I want is to talk to Theo. To gather information about what’s happened since I saw him last, and learn the kinds of questions Cailleach’s guardians have been asking.

“I see Cailleach sent me some assistance. What a nice surprise,” I say.

“You didn't know we were here?” one of them asks.

“No…” I let the word trail off, raising my eyebrows.

“Bradley.”

“Bradley. I just arrived back from a visit to my family this morning. I appreciate you all filling in in my stead.”

“It's no trouble,” another one says.

“And you are?”