Page 45 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“Aye. It doesn't,” Theo says softly, almost as if he feels sorrow for the monster. “Though a century of being bound to that freezing river could change anyone, I think.”

“She deserves every minute of that century and more,” I say, and I mean it. “But the rest. I don't… I don't like that the boy knew such violence. That he seemed to view her as less than human.”

“Well, she's not human at all, is she?” Theo walks around the bar, pouring his own drink and sitting next to me. “She’s immortal. Cursed. The ghost of the river Bàsail. They fear her, and so they hate her.”

“I hate her. I loathe her. But I would give her a swift death. I believe even the monsters among us deserve that.”

Theo studies my face for a moment, assessing my sincerity, I think. But he’ll find no reason to doubt me. I mean every word. Cruelty disgusts me, and I have no use for it. Let the wicked fall with a single, efficient arc of the sword, and let it be done.

“It seems as if you dinnae like suffering,” he observes, and I nearly laugh.

“Who does?”

“Those who’ve had suffering inflicted upon them. Sadists. There's no lack of suffering in the world, and someone always causes it.”

“I've experienced enough. I don’t relish in anyone else being able to say the same.”

He takes a second, pretending to clean an already spotless glass. “You’d truly kill her then, if you could?” he finally asks.

The answer is automatic. “Of course I would.”

He nods, not judging, but not agreeing either.

“Wouldn’t you?” I ask. Once again, I can’t shake the feeling Theo knows more about the Washwoman than he’s letting on.

He shakes his head, an odd look crossing his face. “No. I dinnae think I would. But I can't blame you for wanting to. For you, it’s personal. She's never hurt anyone I've cared about.”

I stiffen. “How could you know⁠—”

Theo holds up a hand. “You seem like a good man, Brennen. I think you want to do what’s right. Wouldn’t relish in taking a life. There's only one thing that turns good men into killers.”

“What’s that?” I ask, finishing my drink in two large gulps.

He tilts his head, finally putting the glass down. “Love.”

I spin my glass around.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” he asks.

My heart squeezes as I picture Marsaili’s teasing smile. Hear her melodic laugh. There’s a flash of anger, and I swallow tightly. The unexpected reminder of the woman I loved is like being thrown into a fire, and I stand, not answering him. This wound is mine, and mine alone. I do not wish to share it.

And I refuse to reopen it. Not when I fear it would bleed me dry.

“Thank you for helping them,” I say, tossing several more coins on the table than needed to cover the ale. “I’ll let you know when I find them other lodging.”

“I'm sorry. I didnae mean to pry,” Theo says, and I hold up a hand to stop him.

“Let me know if the husband shows up,” I say, my palm burning as I stalk back to Sable to return to the woman who stole everything from me.

18

BEA

Sunlight filters across thick planks of wood, the floors swollen with time and slightly warped. I’m in an empty room, one that feels ancient in a way I can’t put my finger on. Dust motes dance in the slanted light from the window, and there are symbols carved in long lines around the hearth. There's a heaviness in the air, mixed with a faint dampness that clings to the walls.

A cloud passes over the sun, the scene darkening, and my vision shifts. The room is no longer empty, but I can’t make out what else is here. It’s fragmented. Vague colors and shapes with pieces of the image missing.

Then I hear it. Rhythmic tapping. The toe of a shoe against the floor.