Page 63 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Theo looks at me as if I suddenly grew a second set of arms. “No. But she asked me not to tell anyone I’d found her. Said she was afraid I’d get in trouble if I told them where I’d been—and she was right. I dinnae think my parents would have let me leave the house until I was twenty if they’d known who I’d snuck off to see.”

He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the counter. “You know, I wasnae afraid when I saw her, and I haven’t been since. No one died from me seeing her face. Nothing happened at all, actually.”

I tuck away his words, more proof that the tale of her legend has been twisted into something it isnae. “Were you here when… Six years ago, when the murders happened. Were you here?”

Theo nods, his eyes flashing with something akin to regret. “Aye. But we didnae know anything had happened until after. Didnae know the Washwoman had been gone at all. To me, it never made sense. For someone to kill so many people, there has to be a wickedness inside them,” Theo says, shaking his head. “An evil that cannae be tamed or fixed. I dinnae ken how to reconcile the woman I met with the stories of what she’s done. Maybe it’s as easy as what the rumors suggest. A century at the river turned her mad. Far less believable things have happened.”

I don’t say what I’m thinking. That I, like Theo, have yet to see an ounce of evil in the Washwoman. She’s hard-headed, for sure. Stubborn as an ox, in fact. But not a single thing she’s done has shown she wishes to cause anyone harm.

“Maybe,” I say, finishing my ale. I stand to leave, but hesitate.

The Washwoman’s hand was cut to the bone when I left. I shouldnae care. I dinnae care. But I can’t stop picturing the blood seeping from between her fingers, along with the dozens of images that filled my mind as I’d read the journal. A hundred stabs on her body. A slit throat. Burned skin.

My stomach lurches because, even though I shouldn’t, it seems I do care about her pain. At least a little. “Mallachd ort,” I curse under my breath, placing my palms on the bar. “Do you have any bandages? Or clean cloth? And a bit of willow bark?” I add, unable to stop myself.

“I do,” he says, eyes quickly scanning my body. “Are you hurt? I can send a healer.”

“No,” I say, not offering any more information. Theo doesn’t ask further about who the supplies are for. I think he already knows.

He taps his hand on the bar a few times. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

The half-carved block of wood is heavy in my pocket as I wait for him to return, and my fingers itch to grab it. To take out every bit of my frustration on it, but Theo’s back before I even have the chance.

“Here you are,” he says, setting down a neat stack. Added some yarrow to help with clotting.”

“Thank you,” I say, standing.

“It’s kind of you. To help her.”

His words stop me in my tracks. “She’s a murderer. I dinnae think she’s anything more.” I say, but my dàn of truth flares.

“Didnae say you did.” Theo studies me for a moment. “But it takes integrity to separate justice from cruelty.”

I toss a few coins on the bar. “Aye. But it shouldn’t.”

25

BEA

Idon’t see Brennen for hours, and in that time, I let myself pretend he won’t come back at all. That he’s returning to the Cutter to tell her the Washwoman is secure, and his duty here is done. I could return to being alone, unworried about stolen dàn and angry guards. But even as I think about his absence, something deep in my stomach calls me a liar.

My dragon roars, as if she's agreeing.

“You hush, Lolly,” I scold, though she’s right.

Even when he’s angry, which, admittedly, is most of the time, it’s nice not being alone. Having someone other than my dragon to talk to. Someone who, when he wants to at least, talks back, even if most of the time he’s cross with me. So when Brennen’s footsteps return, the flicker of relief I feel doesn’t surprise me.

I turn as Brennen clears his throat and freeze.

He looks wrong. His tired eyes are bloodshot, but it doesn’t seem to be from exhaustion. Not when his teeth are clenched so tight, the muscles in his jaw are jumping.

But it’s not just his expression that catches my attention. It’s the way he looks at me, eyes scanning my body, fingers flexing at his side. He looks bigger in this moment, somehow. Stronger. His shoulders are stiff beneath his tunic, the muscles in his arms bunching as if he’s holding himself back from something, though I can’t place what.

“Are you alright?” The question slips out before I can stop it, and I almost wish I hadn't asked. Based on the haunted look in his eyes, I’m not sure I want to know.

“I’m fine.” He looks away, and something tugs in my chest. An urge to go to him. To demand he tell me what’s wrong.

He sits down, farther away than usual, like he can’t stomach the thought of being within a dragon’s length of me. It’s painful, the distance, though I don’t know why. A stitch in my side, sudden and sharp.