Page 66 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

My throat tightens. “You know the answer to that,” I say. “As we’ve established, you have a dàn of truth.” I gesture to his wrist.

He nods, but pauses, his eyes narrowing. “How did you recognize the dàn of truth? It’s not one gifted by the Fates often.”

“No, but I studied dàn, once upon a time. A book came down in a kilt pocket, and I read it until the pages crumbled to dust. And you’re not the first Dìdeanair to visit me. Their loved ones are no safer from the Cutter than a lonely farmer’s. I think most men with dàn of truth are drawn to military service.”

He looks surprised, but people do irrational things when they’re desperate—even soldiers.

He shakes his head. “That’s against our code. Dìdeanair dinnae harm people for no reason.”

I laugh, an ugly, bitter sound. It’s unexpected, the anger his words stoke inside me, but it’s justified. How is this grown, adult man so naive? A man who has seen battle. Death. And yet, he does not see the shades of grey that exist in the world.

“Is that why you’re bothered by the things the villagers did to me? Because you’re not supposed to harm people without orders? You don’t know the half of it, and it seems you’re the only one who lives by that code. Tell me, aside from saying I hadn’t seen the woman who disappeared, have I lied to you since you’ve been here?” I ask calmly, trying to force him to follow my breadcrumbs of reason.

“No,” he says, but the word is tight, as if it pains him to say it.

“So to answer your question,” I say, “I may be a murderer, but a liar, I am not.” I cross my arms and take a deep breath. “My offer stands. You can touch the dàn if you’d like. See if it will transfer back to you. But I don’t know what will happen—and that’s the truth.”

I hold his stare, daring him to challenge me.

“Alright then,” he says, picking up a new block of wood and beginning to carve.

I lean back, stunned. Does he actually believe me? Is he truly letting this go?

I look back to my hem, my anger fading. “Alright then.”

A heavy quiet descends upon us, and while it’s a bit uncomfortable, I don’t feel the need to fill it this time. It’s almost like we’ve made some progress toward understanding one another. Not toward fixing anything, or him hating me any less, but at least now we’ve spoken our minds.

“I went to find him,” he says, breaking the silence. “The husband of the woman.”

My fingers still on my skirt. “He’s still here?” I ask, my heart rate picking up. The longer that man stays, the more likely it is he’ll figure out the rule he missed—that he did not catch me—and if he does… I don’t even want to think about it.

“I believe you,” he says. “About Hamish. He isnae a good man, and I willnae allow him to hurt anyone else.” His eyes darken, his throat working as he swallows. “You dinnae need to worry about him,” he says. “I took care of it. He’s on his way out of the village as we speak, and he willnae be returning.”

I almost shudder with relief. “Thank you,” I say, and it’s genuine. Brennen may want to kill me, but I deserve it. The woman I saved did not.

“Bea?”

I freeze at his use of my name. Not Washwoman or murderess.

Bea.

Tears sting my eyes, but I do not allow them to form, worried they’ll scare him into pulling back again. When I look up, my own emotions hidden, his hard exterior has softened slightly, and where his eyes once held only anger, I see true sorrow.

“Yes?”

“Why did you do it?” His voice is quiet this time. “Why did you kill all those people?” he asks again, and my heart aches, because I feel like I finally see him. Finally know why he asks so often. Why he needs the knowledge so fervently.

This man believes there is right and there is wrong. That there’s no in-between, and if he’s going to kill me, he needs to know I’m a monster who deserves it.

And yet, I cannot tell him that.

I meet his gaze as the echo of screams grows in my ears, but even so, I try to find the words to make him understand. Like always, I can’t.

“I wish I hadn’t,” I whisper. The screams grow louder, and I wince.

“That’s not an answer.”

I pick up a stick to draw in the mud, then throw it down and grab a handful of rocks, building a cairn. “Does it even matter? I can’t take it back.” I finish the stack, then knock the cairn over and begin again. Then again, the repetitive motion taking the edge off the chaos in my mind. I'm almost pleading, but I need this conversation to end before the screams make me ill. Before I feel their blood between my fingers. Before it runs from my nose.