Page 75 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

The wind calls, and I rise with a sigh, washing the clothes of a man who will die in a brawl. I place my hands into the icy water, but I do not feel its chill. The feeling is indescribable. A gift from the goddess, and I almost yearn to dive into the river’s depths. To see how far I can push the dàn’s power, but I still haven’t eaten and am low on energy.

Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I will bathe. I will take my time, not be rushed by the cold. I will catch a fish and cook it over the fire. My heart leaps at the thought. The river calms, and I say the prayer of the Three of the path, the clothes drifting away.

When I turn back, Brennen is sitting by the fire, his stern features illuminated by the flames. He watches me intently as I return to my side. I raise my hands in the air, exaggerating my intentions to stay far away, and his lips twitch up into an almost smile.

Only for a second, but it was there.

My heart leaps.

Maybe my dàn isn’t the only thing warming to me.

31

BEA

I've just let a sturdy brown shirt trail from my fingers when the river turns angry, and I brace myself for what I know is coming. In a blink, the world shifts, my head swimming and my vision going fuzzy as the ground disappears from beneath my feet. When the haze clears, I'm no longer at the river. I'm standing outside the window of a small stone cottage, watching as a woman removes what looks to be a pie from the hearth. I take an involuntary step forward, my mouth watering. My stomach grumbles, cramping. This time, I almost don’t care that I'm in a vision.

The temptation of food is too great. Even just the scent of it fills something inside me. I lean forward, peering into the cottage.

The woman inside is beautiful, with tawny skin and warm brown eyes. She opens the window, setting the pie to cool, and the song she's singing floats outside.

There's bread in the oven, a pie on the sill.

A fire in the hearth that will fight off your chill.

Best to believe nothin’s happenin’ at all.

Cause the higher you climb, then the harder the fall.

It’s the same melody I’ve heard in all the visions, and I step closer, trying to hear more. There has to be a reason for this song. Something that connects the visions, but it sounds like a simple pub song. Something I would have once sung in another life, gathered with friends enjoying a dram. Frustration churns beneath my sternum, and I rub it away.

My movement catches the woman’s attention through the window. Her eyes meet mine, and I stiffen.

I wait to be pulled back to the river, the same way I always am soon after whoever I’m watching notices me. But it doesn’t happen.

My breath catches in my throat. Could this be different, somehow? My eyes dart toward the trees, and for a moment, I think about running. Maybe this time, I won’t be pulled back. I take a single step.

“Well, hello there,” the woman says, and I stop, looking back at her. Her eyes fill with concern, and I look down at my dress, still damp around the hem and dirt staining the thin wool. She tilts her head to the side, considering me for a moment, and an embarrassed flush spreads up my neck.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

Just the mention of food makes my stomach grumble, and I press my hand against it, my shame and embarrassment only growing. “I couldn't⁠—”

“Och.” She waves me off. “Come in then. Let's get you a bite. I’ve been on a bit of a tear with my baking, and I have so much I’m afraid I couldn't eat all of it if I tried.” She disappears from the window, and a second later, the front door swings open wide. “Come, come. Dinnae want to let the cold in.”

My feet move, the friendliness in her tone too alluring to back away from. I hide my stained hands behind my back as I step across the threshold. The woman’s home is warm. Not just in temperature, but in appearance, and there are touches of love everywhere. A hand-fasting tie on the mantle and what appears to be hand-painted vases and candle holders on the table.

I peer around for anything that might be dangerous. Anything that could cause her harm. I do not want to wash this woman’s clothes.

“Is anyone else here?” I ask, tentatively.

“Och, no.” She waves a hand, walking to her table. “Just me.”

My stomach plummets, and I close my eyes for a moment against the pain of the realization that hers is the death I will cleanse once this vision inevitably ends. I wring my hands together behind my back. Should I tell her? Warn her?

No, I quickly decide. It would be torture, knowing you were about to die. But maybe if I can figure out what’s going to kill her, I can stop it somehow.

“Hungry?” she asks, pushing a large chunk of warm bread with salt and freshly churned butter toward me.