Page 50 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

She took my dàn. There's no denying its lack of presence on my ankle. But how?

One moment, she was falling. I’d caught her on instinct, and then my mark was simply gone.

I had touched her, not the other way around. In fact, she's made no effort to touch me since I’ve been here. If she knew touching me would give her magic, magic that could potentially help her to escape, surely she would have tried by now? Or is she trickier than she seems, biding her time while she waits for my defenses to drop before striking?

Cailleach could give the dàn back. Imprint another on my skin with ease. She has that power. But will she lose faith in me if I ask her to? Would she doubt me if I needed her assistance this soon into my post? And more importantly, would she consider this a failure? This assignment is everything I’ve been working toward. My only opportunity to find justice for Marsaili.

And it’s not only my revenge that hangs in the balance. It's my family's lives.

Cillian, Cian, Saoirse, Aiden.

Cailleach’s voice as she stroked their threads echoes like a drum, and my heart nearly stops. I crumple up the paper and toss it to the side. I need a moment to think. To clear my mind.

I pull out my block of wood and knife, my breaths slowing as I whittle away tiny pieces. The robin is taking shape, its beak dainty and wings spread wide, as if soaring above the loch near home.

I’ve been working on this carving since I arrived here. The need to get it perfect has been a constant ache in my chest.

Marsaili loved robins—how they symbolized those we’ve lost visiting us from beyond. How ironic that I search for her in every robin I see now. I never find her, and so I try to make her, but I can never seem to get it right. Somewhere along the way, I ruin it.

A cut too deep, too long, and I have to begin again.

Maybe it’s impossible to create a tribute to the woman I loved while the woman who killed her rests only feet away. I angrily scrape off a sliver near the tail, deeper than I’d intended, and sigh, setting the bird down before I can ruin this carving, too. I will not allow the murderess to ruin anything else.

And I will not allow her actions to harm my family.

Pulling out a fresh piece of parchment, I begin again.

Cailleach,

I write, as you instructed, to let you know I have found the Washwoman. She is still firmly imprisoned. The magic of the curse, as well as her chain, holds strong, and as you stated, the villagers are fearful of her. She is as vile and cunning as you warned. I will remain vigilant and am eager to report back as I learn more.

Your humble servant,

Brennen

I seal the parchment with wax, then pull on my shirt. I don't have to look back at the Washwoman as I leave to confirm she remains where she belongs. I can feel her there. Feel the heat of her gaze between my shoulder blades like a hand pressing against my skin.

I stop, turning to face her.

She’s no longer looking at me, but is staring upstream, waiting for clothing. She grabs a kilt and tunic, her movements slow and tired. Even from here, through the fog and smir, I can see the bruises on her face and neck from the boy’s attack.

I turn to whistle for Sable and my foot slips on the wet earth, not enough to send me falling, but enough to remind me of everything she’s taken from me. Not just my dàn, but Marsaili. The life we were going to have together.

The thought plagues me as I ride, refusing to leave my mind, but as the tavern comes into view, it scatters like dust in the wind.

The building is full, men and women huddled outside the door, heads bowed together with fear in their eyes.

Something is verra wrong.

20

BRENNEN

Harold leans grimly by the front door with a younger man I don't recognize, his long face somehow even more wrinkled than usual, and I push my way toward him, villagers parting for me before I even have to ask.

He stands up straight when he sees me. “Brennen, there you are. You've heard, then?”

“Heard what?” I ask, endless possibilities running through my mind.