Page 47 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

He chews on my answer for a minute, his eyes bouncing between my bruised face and the river.

“I deserve to be here,” I say softly, “but that doesn’t mean I’m a danger to anyone. I don’t want to hurt people. I never did. If you believe nothing else, believe that.”

His hands still, and he sets his carving down, standing and stalking toward me. He crouches down to eye level. When he speaks again, his voice is dark, his eyes searching.

“So you can answer my questions,” he says, and dread wraps around my heart. I know where this is going.

“Do not ask me why I did it. I won’t tell you.” I fight to keep my expression neutral.

He shakes his head, standing.

“You’re a coward,” he spits.

I close my eyes, relief that he did not try to catch me flooding my chest, but shame quickly replaces it. He’s not wrong. I am a coward. A monster. But I’m also just a woman trying my best to atone for what I’ve done. It has to be enough, because it’s all I can do.

I pick up a few rocks and work to stack them.

“I am many things,” I say, echoing the words of the muse of love and madness. The wind picks up, the stab of pain behind my breastbone following right behind it. I want to cry as I drag myself to the river’s edge. Everything hurts, and I am so very tired—but the river doesn’t care. Death doesn’t sleep, and certainly not just because I long for rest.

Clothes drift nearer, and I’m grateful when I find the dress and shawl of an elderly woman. She will die of a failing heart in her sleep, but I do not feel sorrow for her. Based on her smile lines, she’s lived a long, good life.

I try not to let my disappointment win when there are no pockets to search for the items to my spell, finishing my song and sending her clothes down into the After, taking an extra second to send a prayer for peace behind them.

My stomach growls, and, biting through the pain, I prepare to stand. It’s been days since I’ve eaten. If I’m to heal, I need something to nourish my body, but I do not have the strength to try to catch a fish today. Nor the stomach to eat it raw.

With a sigh, I turn toward my bramble berry bush, a little more than a dragon’s length away. Even starving, it doesn’t sound appetizing. Nor does it sound filling, but it’s something, and just like always, I can’t afford to hope for more.

I make it to my knees, crying out as I try to put one foot forward to stand. I can’t stop the tears that spring to my eyes—not of pity for myself or frustration, but pure agony.

Somehow, I manage to get almost upright, but the anguish of my ribs twisting overwhelms me, and I stumble, unable to find purchase on the mossy, wet surface beneath my feet. My arms flail as I tumble backward, and I brace myself for impact, but Brennen catches my hand, yanking me up.

The moment our skin touches, fire erupts between us. But as hot and intense as it is, it isn’t painful. The burn grows by the second, shooting up my arm and settling in my chest, plummeting into my belly.

I suck in a sharp breath, and his green-eyed gaze snaps to mine, wide and wild.

He feels it, too.

His eyes trail down my nose and across my lips and jaw, and for a single second, I think he sees me. Not the murderess. Not the Washwoman.

Bea.

For one impossibly long moment, something flickers in my chest. Something dangerously close to hope. He’s not looking at me with his usual anger or frustration. It’s something different that hides deep within his eyes. An emotion I can’t name, but that makes my skin tingle.

The top of my foot grows warm, and this time, the heat does sting. The pain grows agonizing, forcing me to break eye contact as I reach down to grab my ankle. It feels as if someone is pressing a brand into my skin, and I hiss, pulling my skirts up to look.

I suck in a sharp breath.

On the top of my foot, wrapping up the front of my ankle, is a long, straight line with three wavy strokes running through it. Confusion twists in my gut. It’s a dàn. A dàn that hadn’t marked my skin only seconds ago.

So how in the goddess’s name do I have it now?

“Mallachd ort!!” Brennen curses, yanking his hand away, and I nearly fall again. I should. But I don’t. Somehow, I remain standing.

“What have you done?” He stares at my skin for a long moment, then drops to one knee and unlaces his shoe, ripping it off. Beneath it, the skin is bare. I see nothing—and yet the look he gives me is of such fury, I physically recoil.

“How did you do that?” he says, jumping to his feet.

“Do what?” I ask, stepping back. I lift my arms for balance, but this time, the rocks don’t feel slippery, and it takes far less effort to keep myself standing. What’s happening?