Page 152 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I turn toward the fire, Brennen's carving knife glinting beside it along with a block of wood, and I stand, brushing off my dress. He's already started the carving, one side whittled into the smooth arc of a bird’s breast, the other still blocky and angular. I pick it up, looking into the After where Saoirse’s soul now rests, thinking of the little lamb in her pocket.

She'd asked me to make it a friend. Brennen's words echo in my head. They’d been so heavy with regret. Is that what he’s thinking about now? That he let his littlest sister down, and will never be able to make it right?

I grab the knife.

This won’t help. I know it won’t. I can feel his devastation pulsing through the forest, so intense, I know nothing will make it right. But still, I have to do something.

Holding back tears, I settle beside the fire. My hands shake as I scrape the blade across the wood. It's softer than I expected, and the blade slips, lancing into the meat of my thumb. I hiss in pain, placing the small cut in my mouth until the bleeding stops. With my dàn of healing, it only takes a few moments, and I wipe off the blood and begin again, more gently this time.

The night is quiet, heavy, and wind rustles through the heather like a dirge, as if the river and her glen are mourning alongside us. As if the goddesses themselves are. Lolly circles the stars, staying close, and I’m grateful. Even if Brennen wishes to be alone, I do not. Not when it feels as if the foundation of the earth is shattering.

Dragon fire—that’s what killed Saoirse, and it’s not a coincidence. First Harold. Now this.

The Cutter is responsible.

Fury slashes through my sorrow, and I scrape too hard, almost cutting off one of the lamb’s ears, ruining the carving just as Brennen has for the last several months. I stop for a moment, taking a slow breath to steady my hands.

The time for anger will come, but not now, when Brennen needs me.

I bite my lip, focusing, and to my surprise, a shape begins to emerge. Curved edges, four uneven and somewhat blocky legs. A head, too large for the body.

I carve out two ears, then narrow the nose, and by the time I finish, I think I've done it. It’s not perfect by any means. The lamb doesn't look realistic, or even good, but you can tell it's a lamb, at the very least.

I turn it around in my hands, marveling at the little carving. I think Saoirse would be happy with it, even if it’s not as good as the one Brennen made.

Thinking his name sends a jolt of worry through my blood. He’s been gone for hours. Over half the day. What is he doing out there in his sorrow? Has he left to return to his siblings? Am I only feeling the remnants of the pain he left behind? I’d go to my family if it were me. Destroy their dedication dàn and disappear.

I scan the treeline. Listen for movement within the forest. My chain sits heavy on my ankle, taunting me. Reminding me that I cannot follow him. Even if he shouldn't be alone right now.

And he shouldn’t. Not after experiencing such a great loss. Especially when I’m certain he's blaming himself.

I stand, my hands tired from the carving, and grab a thin, buoyant piece of wood, then kneel. The tears I’ve fought to hold in fall as I place the little lamb on top of it.

It feels like too little, this gift to a child who deserved a full, happy life.

“I'm so sorry, sweet Saoirse,” I whisper. “I'll try my best to take care of him and the rest of your family, too.” I place the wood plank in the river and am about to release it when a hand on my shoulder stops me.

“What's that?” Brennen’s voice is strained.

I exhale, relief that he’s returned wrapping around my heart. I turn to look at him. To make sure he’s okay. His hair is wild, as if he’s run his hands through it a thousand times, and his face is lined with grief and exhaustion, but he appears to be uninjured. He’s staring at the piece of wood in my hands intently, his eyebrows lowered, and suddenly, I fear I crossed a line. I hadn’t asked Brennen how he would like to honor his sister. Maybe this isn’t what he envisioned. Maybe he planned on doing it himself.

I hold it up, keeping my voice soft. “I know it’s not perfect, but I tried to carve⁠—”

“A lamb,” he finishes for me, his voice cracking. He closes his eyes and squeezes my shoulder. “You carved a lamb for Saoirse. So hers could have a friend.” He reaches out, caressing the crude angles with his fingers. “Thank you,” he rasps, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

I nod, my throat so full of emotion, I don't think I can speak without falling apart completely. Brennen kneels behind me, his chin resting on top of my head. His chest presses against my back as he wraps his arms around me and lays his hands on mine. His magic immediately floods my body, but I do not allow it to settle. I push it back into his skin, and it listens.

Our fingers linger on the wood for what feels like an eternity, as if holding onto it might change something.

As if it can undo what’s already been done, even though we both know it cannot. I don’t push him, giving him all the time he needs to mourn.

“I dinnae think I can let go,” Brennen finally says.

I close my eyes, the pain in his voice worse than a thousand cuts of a blade. “Do you want me to do it?” I ask. His breath shakes as he exhales, and he nods, sliding his hands back just slightly so that they no longer touch the wood.

“Rest well, Saoirse,” I say, then with a silent prayer, I set the wood adrift in the moonlight. Brennen wraps his arms around my waist, clinging to me as if I am the only thing that can hold him up, and I bring my hands to his biceps. If I must be a pillar for him, I will. I will become whatever he needs me to be.

We cling to one another as the wood slowly floats downstream, and as the After accepts our offering, I close my eyes.