Page 57 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Leaning forward, I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. If what she told me is true, and she really helped Kenna escape Hamish at the risk of her own safety, how can this be the woman who killed her friend and her lover a century ago. The woman who killed six people in a single night? Who killed Marsaili?

But she’s admitted it. Has never denied the murders.

She did it.

And yet, I don’t see how she was capable.

The two thoughts refuse to exist together—that this gentle, bonnie lass could be the brutal murderer I’ve hunted for years. No matter how hard I try to mix them, they separate like oil and water.

I push the confusion away because, in truth, it doesn’t matter.

I am here to complete a mission and fulfill my vow. It nearly kills me that I cannae just do it now and move forward. Though even if I still dinnae know how to kill her, there is something I can do. Something that might take my mind off the conflicting emotions swirling through my entire body.

I grab a second dagger, sliding it into my boot, and am buckling my sword belt when I hear it—a shout, then a splash. I rip open the tent flaps, my hand going to my blade. The Washwoman is in the water, finishing her song and her washing. She stands, wading back to this side of the river, her hands clutched to her chest.

“What’s happened?” I ask, my head swiveling, searching for threats.

“It’s nothing,” she says, but her voice is choked with tears. A kernel of guilt settles in my stomach, hot and unwanted. She’s crying. Is she upset over my anger? My accusations?

For a moment, I’m compelled to tell her I believe her. That I don’t think she killed the woman, and that I plan to take care of Hamish immediately. That, in this particular instance, she did the right thing.

But I don’t allow myself to. Not when my head is still spinning, logic and reason battling against emotion. Carefully, I walk around her, giving her a wide berth. Not because I think she will attack, but because I worry if I’m too close to her sorrow, it will further cloud my judgment. She wipes at her eyes with her sleeve at her shoulder.

Her hand is cradled to her chest as she climbs out of the river, blood seeping from her closed fist and staining the dingy white of her dress.

“You’re hurt.” My chest tightens unexpectedly.

“I’m fine,” she says, but she won’t look at me. “There was a knife. In the pocket of a pair of trousers—” She nods to the clothes floating downstream. “I reached in to check for—” She stumbles over her words, “coins. Thread. But I found a small dagger instead. It cut my palm.”

“Is it deep?” I ask, the bloody stain on her chest growing larger by the moment.

She hesitates, then nods. “To the bone. But I will heal, just as I always do.”

My thoughts turn toward my tent where my supplies are, years of training telling me to grab something to stop the bleeding, though, with my dàn of healing, I didnae think to bring bandages. Still, I could use some cloth to tend to the wound. Wash it and wrap it to make sure it doesn’t fester. The river may seem clean, but there are animals that live in it. Dirt and bugs.

I take a step toward her, but stop. I cannae touch her and risk another dàn transferring.

I open my mouth to speak.

“Don’t,” she cuts me off. “I know what you’re going to say. That I deserve this. That it’s a fitting punishment, the Washwoman injured by the very clothes she washes.” Her voice is bitter through her tears. “Satisfied?” She holds out her hand, and blood drips onto her bare feet. “I threw the knife in the river when it cut me. Dive in and find it, if you don’t believe me. Or don’t. I don’t care what you do. Just leave me alone.” Her hands fall into her lap.

I watch the blood spread through her apron for a long moment, an uncomfortable pressure building between my ribs. It would be honorable to help her. Would align with the code I live by.

Instead, I sigh, wading into the water to retrieve the knife. It takes some time to find, and when I pull it out, I realize why. The blade is small and rusted, the brown blending in with the river floor. I pocket it without a word.

“Make sure you take it with you,” she says, her words as sharp as the knife in my kilt. “Wouldn’t want the monster at the river to gut you with it, would we?”

23

BRENNEN

The ride to the village is short, but it gives me time to think. To calm my mind and prepare for what I need to do next.

I’m just about to walk through the doors to the Tavern when Harold catches my arm. “Brennen, a word?” he says, shuffling foot to foot, his eyes darting around nervously. I look around to confirm there are no threats, even though my dàn of warning remains silent.

“Everything alright?” I ask.

“Och, Fine. I um— Am I correct in thinking you’d like to gather information on the Washwoman?”