Page 80 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Another gust rattles the tent poles.

I somehow sense her shiver this time, even without looking at her.

“Damn it,” I say, rolling to face the opposite direction. Her warmth, or lack thereof, isnae my problem. Nowhere in the Cutter’s instructions did she say, ‘Find a way to kill the Washwoman, and make sure the murderess stays comfortable in the meantime.”

Another gust nearly extinguishes the fire, carrying its embers off into the dark of night. I feel its warmth leave me, and I stiffen.

No. I will no get up. I will no lose the little body heat I have left beneath these blankets.

The wind howls again, even stronger.

“Goddess below,” I hiss, throwing my blanket off and grabbing another before I can stop myself. Bea startles when I throw it on top of her, her eyes filling with surprise and her lips parting, but I dinnae give her the chance to speak. I don’t want to hear her thanks or appreciation.

Because I shouldnae be doing this. Shouldnae care if she's cold or comfortable.

“Just take it,” I snap. “In fact, keep it this time,” I push as much dominance into my voice as possible, forcing it to come out like an order and lacing each word with enough bite to make sure she hears the warning beneath it. I dinnae want her to argue with me or thank me. Dinnae wish to prolong this moment of weakness for even another second. I seem to be making a habit of giving her blankets, and I don’t want to linger on the reason why.

“Alright. Tha⁠—”

“Goodnight,” I say sharply, ending the conversation. A flicker of hurt flashes in her eyes as I turn away, but I dinnae care. I cannae care. I have done what my honor called me to do. What any decent man would do, and nothing more.

I yank my blankets back over my shoulders, pulling them tight enough to smother any other possibilities of why I care if the woman is cold, and try to sleep.

Except I cannae rest. I toss and turn, a different kind of guilt settling in my stomach. One even worse than the guilt of watching Bea freeze, because, though it pains me to admit, I cannae deny that I feel for the Washwoman. Not only the anger I arrived here with, though it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface.

But also sympathy. Pity. Emotions the person who murdered Marsaili, or anyone else, doesnae deserve.

And yet no matter how I try, I cannae squash them.

The pity mixes with fury. Disgust at myself festering in my gut. Marsaili’s memory deserves better.

I close my eyes, silently begging the vow on my palm to burn. To give me that bite of pain so I can feel my need for vengeance burn hot again, but it doesnae come. The absence of it taunts me, and before I even realize it, I’m reaching for my dagger. I sit, staring at the Washwoman’s sleeping form in the firelight. I can no longer see her. Even her head is covered by the blanket, but it doesnae matter. She is right there—the target of my vengeance.

I dinnae owe her anything, and I need to remember that.

I slice the dagger along the scar that marks my unbreakable vow, whispering a silent apology to Marsaili as the sharp bite of pain spreads through my palm. The sting of it calms my racing heart, grounding me. There’s a reason I made this vow in the first place. One I knew the consequences of not fulfilling.

I may feel sympathy for the woman outside my tent, but how could I not? I’m an honorable man, and she is a broken woman. Beautiful, but broken.

Maybe she's changed in her century of punishment, but that doesnae change what I must do.

I willnae break my vow.

I cannae break my vow.

33

BRENNEN

Iemerge from the tent in the morning with my resolve strengthened. I’ve been failing in my duty of gathering information. Let the pain and suffering I’ve witnessed distract me from my mission. My vow, and it has to change.

If I’m going to kill the Washwoman, and I am going to kill her, I need to know how she changed her thread. Why she killed Marsaili and her family. I’ll no allow her to continue to hide the reasons for her punishment from me.

It’s what brought me here, after all. The reason I spent the last six years hunting her, and I owe it to myself, and Marsaili, to get her to admit what she did and why.

The fresh scar on my palm burns as I grip my canteen and take a swig from it, and I relish the feeling, grabbing the bite of pain and tucking it into my chest. This is exactly what I needed. A physical reminder of why I am here, and what I must do. Of the agony the Washwoman has caused me.

I turn, ready to demand answers, but stiffen when I see her. The burn in my scar turns into an ache, spreading through my entire palm, the sight of her like pressing against a bone-deep bruise. She’s sitting by the fire, drawing in the mud. Little speckles of dirt dust her cheeks, nestled in among her freckles, like she was so engrossed in her drawing she didn’t notice mud spattering about. She looks beautiful in the morning light, her wild red hair braided loosely down her back, escaped tendrils framing her face.