Page 51 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

His lips press into a grim line, his eyebrows furrowing. “Another woman has gone missing,” he says. Dread slips down my throat, hot and oily.

“You’re certain?” I ask, hoping it’s only a rumor, because if not, the disappearances are picking up at an alarming rate. The last one was only a few days ago.

“Aye,” he says grimly. “The third in the last fortnight that’s disappeared from a village within a two day’s ride. And there are whispers of another in Braestill.”

I run a hand across my scruff, trying to think of any similarities Braestill might have with the other places the women have disappeared from. “Has it been reported to the Fates?” I ask.

“Of course it has.” He leans back, his brows drawing together as if affronted I asked.

I lift my hands. “I’m just doing my job, Harold.”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Aye. I know. But it has me—has all of us—on edge. And understandably so. What if our daughters are next? Our sisters and mothers?”

The question hits me like a throwing knife in the center of my chest, and I take a deep breath. “Of course.” I nod. “I didnae mean to imply anything. Only that the Fates need to know so they can stop it. So what you’re afraid of doesn’t happen.”

He nods. “Aye. They’ve been told,” he says, more calmly this time.

“Good. Did they have any answers for what might be happening?” I ask, and Harold laughs.

“You think the Fates discuss their threads with any of us?”

Frustration prickles along my skin. How am I to solve these disappearances with no information to go on? “What do we know, then?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from becoming harsh. It’s not Harold’s fault the Fates keep their secrets close.

“She was from Donsgraff, a three-hour ride away. Her husband came looking for her. Said she came through here days ago.”

“Her husband?”

“Aye. Angry fellow. Theo took care of him.” He leans closer, his voice dropping low. “But it seems he’s back. Insisting she never left this village.”

My stomach drops at the implication. “I don't understand. He thinks she’s hiding here? Or that someone has her?”

“No. He thinks she's dead.” He says it so bluntly, I physically recoil, scanning the room.

“Why? Did he find blood? A body?” My mind races, trying to decipher what Harold’s telling me.

“No. But she was here, and now she’s gone.” He sighs, pulling me inside and to the bar. “You want to know what I think?”

I turn my palms up, gesturing for him to continue, and he leans forward, his voice dropping low.

“I think the Washwoman got her.”

“Excuse me!” Theo calls out, climbing up on the bar. “We're closing for the afternoon! Everyone, go home. Check on your families, and for anything that might appear different. Signs of a struggle. Blood. Anything that could be helpful. If something seems amiss, report back immediately.” He hops down, his eyes locking on mine. “Brennen. A word?” He inclines his head toward the back of the bar.

The patrons grumble, but no one argues as they gather their things and begin to file out, and I take a seat as Theo ushers out the last of them.

He grabs a bottle, along with two glasses.

“Is that a robin?” he asks, and I look down at my hands. I hadn’t realized I’d even grabbed my carving, but there it is, twisted in my fingers. I pocket it.

“Aye,” I say. Sharp. Definitive. I have no interest in discussing the carving with him, and I want him to know it.

“My ma loved robins,” he says, lifting the bottle to pour me a drink, but I raise a hand, stopping him. I want to keep a clear head. I’m unsettled by the missing women. From losing my dàn, not to mention the letter to the Cutter sitting heavy as a stone in my pocket.

“Suit yourself,” he says, putting one of the glasses back behind the bar. I take the letter out and set it on the counter, tapping it a few times on the rough wood.

“You have someone who handles the post here, I assume?”

Theo holds out a hand. “He comes through every four to five days. I’ll see it gets delivered.”