Page 67 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

He shakes his head, his eyes flashing with sadness. But I’m not sure if it’s because of my answer, or lack of one.

“I’m sorry,” I say, covering my ears. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracks.

He doesn’t respond, and in the tense silence, the screams fade away. I uncover my ears. The sound of his heavy breathing is the only noise in the glen, as if his presence made the birds and fish scatter. Even the river seems to be holding its breath.

I look up at the sky as the screams fade, searching for Lolly.

He stands abruptly, and for a moment, I think he’s going to leave.

Instead, he grabs the satchel and holds it out to me, careful not to touch my skin. His movements are sharp. Almost rehearsed.

“For your hand.” He looks at my scabbed palm, his voice rough. “That much bleeding—” He clears his throat. “I dinnae want the wolves to smell it. You might not be able to die, but I can.”

Shock ripples through my chest. Even if it really is only for his sake, which I don’t believe it is—Brennen could take down a whole pack of wolves without breaking a sweat—it’s a kindness. He’s seeing me as a human, and the dignity that gives me is a balm itself.

I reach for the bag, my fingers stopping just short of his, close enough to feel his heat in the space between us. “Thank you,” I say.

He doesn’t acknowledge me, instead turning and stalking toward the trees as if to gather firewood, his shoulders tight with tension.

I open the satchel, and my heart stalls. There are bandages, clean and white, as well as yarrow to cause clotting. It will speed up my healing considerably.

But that’s not what causes my breaths to turn shallow and my heart to flutter.

It’s the willow bark.

A lump forms in my throat.

Brennen said he’d brought me these things to stop the bleeding. To keep the wolves at bay. But willow bark does not deter wolves, and pain is not what draws them to feed.

So why is it, then, that he brought it to me?

26

BRENNEN

Tension creeps into my shoulders as I lift the cover of Harold’s journal. A volume that shouldn’t exist, and not only because it’s illegal. It’s a crime punishable by death, and even though it could contain information that could help, I can’t shake the feeling that I should throw it in the fire, as well as turn Harold in for hiding it.

And yet, even though that’s what duty is calling me to do, I don’t.

Harold is a good man. And it’s clear, based on the aged parchment and fading ink along with the multiple different styles of handwriting, that the book really has been passed down through generations.

If these were Marsaili’s words, written by her own hand, I would do everything I could to hold onto them, too.

I flip the page to where the list of spells begins. Simple runes I haven’t seen before, with instructions on how to use them.

For a good turnip harvest: Coat the end of a rowan branch in honey, and carve three spirals into the dirt, moving counterclockwise.

To cure a fever: Steep nettles in hot water beneath the moon until the water turns cold. With a healthy hand, use the tea to draw a circle on each temple and the center of the forehead.

My shoulders relax as I turn the pages, carefully reading each one. If nothing else, I can feel relief that the magic inside the book, if it even works, is harmless. To relieve hunger. For fair weather. Harold hadn’t lied when he said the spells were only to help them survive. There’s nothing in here that even hints at taking power or harming others.

It’s still illegal, but these spells will not help a rebellion form. They do not reveal ways to gain real magic.

I flip the page.

The Epoch is approaching, but with magic becoming scarce, I’m not sure how we will survive it. It’s foretold this one will be worse than the last, and if so, how will we bear it? My grandfather told me stories of the monster who hunted him last time, and it still haunts my nightmares—its gaping, bloody maw and bright yellow eyes imprinted on my mind forever.

It is cruelty in its most evil form—to take our magic and leave us to fend for ourselves against the creatures that will come. For how can you leave your kingdom so defenseless?