Page 52 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“It's important,” I say, handing it over. Theo nods, pouring his own ale and moving around the bar to sit next to me. “What did you want to speak about?” I ask.

He takes a sip. “A few things, really," he says, tenting his hands together. “First, I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?” I furrow my brow.

“I overstepped, asking about— When we were talking about loss. It was none of my business. Sometimes, I find myself trying to figure out what makes people work. Why people do what they do. I think it’s my dàn, and it's not intentional. I tend to get too involved. I’m only trying to help, but it doesnae matter. I overstepped.”

I wave a hand. “It's fine. I—” I clear my throat. “Is there something else?”

Theo’s jaw ticks, and he grips his ale with both hands. He pauses, as if carefully weighing what he wants to say. “The woman who's missing from Donsgraff…” He sighs, putting his mug down and crossing his arms. “I didnae want to tell her husband… I mean, I don't trust him. There's something off about the man.” He rubs the back of his neck, nervous.

“What are you saying, Theo?” I ask, leaning forward.

He meets my eyes, lifting his chin, but I can’t tell if it’s in challenge or an attempt to show sincerity. “I know where she went.”

My body goes rigid. “Where?”

He meets my eyes, and it’s then I see the flicker of hesitation.

“Where did she go, Theo?” I ask. My dàn of dread flares of its own accord, and Theo’s face goes white.

“She went to the river.” His voice shakes when he speaks, and I force the dàn to dim, even though my hands clench into fists.

“How do you know?” I ask.

He looks away for a brief moment, but when he meets my gaze again, there’s a resolve in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He squares his shoulders. “Because I’m the one who sent her there.”

I stand on instinct, hand flying to the hilt of my sword as the stool crashes to the ground behind me.

“You sent an innocent woman, alone, to a murderer?” I bite out.

He holds his hands up. “Brennen.” I stiffen at his casual use of my name. “She came here asking about the Washwoman. Her face was bloodied. Her eye black and swelling shut. Her lip was split, and she kept looking over her shoulder as if she thought someone was chasing her. The woman was terrified. She wanted to know if the rumors were true. If the Washwoman could answer a question. I told her it was, and I told her how to get there.”

I do not miss that he believes parts of the Washwoman’s tale after all—that she can answer your questions. How many questions have I asked that she’s refused to entertain, just another part of her legend twisted over time?

He swallows, and I force myself to wait, sensing this isn't the end of the story.

“I made her promise to come back after she saw her. Said I would help her. I told you when you brought Anna here, this isn't the first time I've helped a woman in a situation like this, and it won't be the last. I already told you, people in need of help seem to be drawn to me. I’d say this is half tavern and lodging, half safe house, at this point.”

“And it's getting worse with the Epoch approaching,” I finish for him.

He nods grimly. “She promised she'd come back, and I was preparing a room for her when her husband tore in here, furious. Hamish, he said his name was. I wouldn’t tell him where she went, and he was in an absolute rage when he left. Bloody drunk, screaming at me and my patrons. He broke a chair, and I had to threaten him to get him to leave. The woman never came back.”

I clench my teeth against my anger. Violence is bad enough, but when it’s against a woman? I can almost forget my moral compass. “Do you think he found her?”

“I dinnae ken anything about either of them. But Brennen, I don't want that man here.”

I look over my shoulder.

“No. Not here, in the Tavern. Here in the Dalbàsail. He keeps coming back, drunk and ranting. Breaking things. He willnae listen to me. But maybe he’ll listen to a Dìdeanair.”

I pick up the stool from the floor and sit back down. “Aye. What does he look like?”

“Tall, with dark hair. Heavy build. Bloodshot eyes and a ruddy face. There’s a scar from some sort of burn on his hand.”

I nod, grabbing Theo’s ale and taking a swig. If he minds, he doesn’t say anything. “You’re asking me to find him and convince him to leave?”

“If you would.”