Page 79 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Bea’s spent the day studying me. Every few minutes, her eyes press against my skin, needling.

“You should move your tent closer,” she finally says, tilting her head.

I clench my teeth, though it’s not because I believe she’s suggesting it because she has a nefarious plan to kill me and escape. It’s because I am meant to be in control in this situation. In all situations. But here I am, without my dàn of warmth and no way to remedy it.

“The wind will come from that way.” She points upstream. “You could build it right here.” She pats the moss beneath her. “Put your bedroll next to the fire and leave the flaps open. The tent will block the wind, and you’ll feel the fire at your front. It's your best chance at staying warm.” She holds her hands up to the flames even though she doesn’t really need to, a mirror image of me.

“The dàn will keep you from freezing, but if it gets much colder, you'll still feel the chill,” I say. She looks up, a soft smile spreading across her face, and my chest tightens uncomfortably.

“I’m the warmest I've been in a very long time,” she says, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

My lips begin to tip up, her happiness over not being cold contagious, but I school my expression back into neutrality. She stands. “Come on. Move your tent, then.” She claps her hands together, her expression turning stern.

I bristle outwardly at her order, scowling, but inside, I know she’s right. I may verra well freeze without a fire, and my tent is much too far away from it, and Bea, to do me any good. “Where would you sleep?”

“If you set up here,” she points to the top boundary of her bed, “I’ll still have room there at the bottom. I'll be fine. I can gather more moss tomorrow to make it bigger. I’ll even let you help me.”

The thought of her sleeping on a three-foot sliver of ground in the cold while I have a soft bed only feet away makes me uneasy. Prisoner or not, it feels wrong. Like I’m taunting her with something she cannae have.

“I'll be fine,” she says again, as if reading my mind. “But you,” she gives me a pointed stare, “do not have an immortality dàn. Nor a dàn of warmth. This cold will kill you. And it'll only get worse as the night goes on. Even colder over the coming weeks.”

I shiver at the thought. The valley seems to hold the chill in an unnatural way. It’s so much colder here than back home or even just through the forest in Dalbàsail. My breaths come out in white puffs, and despite having several blankets on my shoulders, my teeth chatter.

She stands, moving out of the way and gesturing to her patch of moss. “Come on,” she orders. “Do it before I'm forced to wash your clothes before your time.”

“Would you really care if you did?” I grumble, standing. I’ve told her I’m here to kill her, after all.

She sighs, meeting my eyes. There’s a sadness in them, and an honesty that makes my skin prickle. The bright grey-blue sparkles in the light of the fire, piercing my skin.

“Yes. I would. I've caused enough suffering. I have no interest in allowing others to experience more, especially if I have the ability to stop it. Get up. Let’s go,” she says, as if she hadn’t just offered to give up her comfort for mine, waving a hand toward the tent. Once again, I bristle at her commanding tone, but begrudgingly, I obey. I dinnae have a good argument for why I won’t move it.

Nor do I have a good argument for why her offer makes me want to find enough wood to build a shelter for her, too—a feeling I dinnae want to examine too closely. She took my dàn, so why should I freeze to death for her comfort?

It doesn't take long to move the tent. I position it where she suggested, blocking the wind from the top of the river, covering a little more than half of her bed of moss. Bea helps me arrange my things inside, her chain clanking as it hits the metal poles. The skin around her ankle is red and angry from all the movement, and unease slips across my shoulders. Should I get her more willow bark to help with the pain?

My satchel falling off the desk interrupts my thoughts, the items inside scattering across the floor. Bea rushes to clean up the mess, nothing more than fishing hooks, some leather straps, dried meat, and a few coins. She’s quiet as she turns each item over, examining them before placing them back in the bag.

It must have been a long time since she's seen such things, and for a moment, I consider offering them to her as thanks for her help moving the tent.

“Much better,” she says, clapping her hands together, her face glowing with satisfaction.

She's right. The temperature difference is staggering. The heat from the flames fills the tent almost instantly, and its thick canvas blocks the frigid wind. I position my bedroll close to the fire, then grab a few blankets.

Bea gives me a timid smile as I set up my things inside, tucking her hair behind her ears, and I clear my throat, my chest tightening uncomfortably. She looks so proud of herself for the idea, genuinely happy that I will be warm now, and once again, I’m unable to reconcile that this is the same woman who killed all those people. It may have been her hands, but… All I have seen from her is kindness and selflessness. The two women can’t be the same.

And yet, they are.

I need to remember that.

“Sleep well, then,” she says, suddenly timid as she steps over my bedroll. She lies down on what remains of her makeshift bed, putting her head on the rock she calls her pillow and curling into a ball.

A strong gust causes my tent to lean, the wind howling outside it, and I tense.

It doesn’t let up, and despite myself, I glance back at her.

She’s hugging her knees, shoulders hunched and head down, as if she can hold on to her body heat by sheer will. She looks small in the flickering fire. Vulnerable.

I grit my teeth and roll onto my back, pulling the blanket higher over my shoulders. Trying to ignore my conscience. The Washwoman has endured this before, and without the dàn. She’ll be fine. She might find herself chilled if the temperature continues to drop and the wind doesnae let up, but she cannae die, and she has a fire. Something she’s never had before.