Page 81 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I hate myself for thinking it, but the thought comes unbidden, crashing into me like a violent, unexpected gust of wind. A vibrant purple marsh violet is tucked behind her ear, and when she looks up at me, her eyes brighten, crinkling at the edges. She smiles, but it quickly drops when she sees my bloody hand.

“What happened?” Bea asks, standing and reaching out to look at the fresh cut. I stiffen, and she stops, but her eyes are full of concern, almost as if she can feel the pain of the wound herself.

“Nothing.”

Her forehead creases. “I still have some willow bark,” she offers.

“No.” I grit my teeth. I want the pain. Need it to distract me from her bloody kindness. From her beauty.

The word hits me out of nowhere once again, and I widen my fingers, purposefully stretching the scar. The scab cracks, and blood trickles through my fingers, dripping onto the riverbank as pain spreads along the puckered line.

Her brow furrows with concern. “I have bandages, too,” she continues. Her words knock me off balance, chipping away at the resolve I’d only just hardened, threatening to crack it. She’s being thoughtful again. “The wolves⁠—”

“I’m no afraid of the wolves,” I almost growl, lowering my chin. She swallows, her brows drawing in. Guilt threatens to claw its way up from where I buried it last night, but I stomp it back down. I willnae allow myself to feel sorry for my rage. It is righteous. But more importantly, it is justified.

“Why are you so angry today?” she asks, her voice hesitant. “If I’ve done something⁠—”

I grit my teeth. If she’s done something… She killed my geallta. That’s what she did.

But she doesnae know that, a small voice says in my mind. Or does she? It kills me that I dinnae truly ken what knowledge she possesses. What she is purposefully hiding from me.

But I’m going to find out.

“You know what you’ve done. And you refuse to talk about it.” I meet her gaze. “I cannae keep doing this. Speaking to you as if you’re not a murderer. Sharing a fire with you like your hands aren’t stained with blood you spilled. I need you to tell me why you murdered those people.” My voice is firm, and my question strategic. Asking her to think about why she killed seems to cause her discomfort.

Maybe, with enough of it, she’ll bend.

She proves me right, closing her eyes as her lips twist into a grimace. “How many times must I tell you?”

“That's the problem,” I say, stepping forward. My voice drops to a harsh rumble. “I dinnae ken any more now than I did when I arrived here at this Fates-damned river. You've told me nothing.”

She meets my eyes, not backing down. “Neither have you. Why should I tell you why I did it, when you refuse to tell me why it matters so much to you?”

I shake my head. I am not the one being questioned. I am not the one who owes the other answers. “I was sent here to gather information. Tell me why you did it.”

“I can’t!” she shouts, putting her hands over her ears and beginning to rock.

“Aye. You’ve said as much. But why? Why can't you?” I ask, pressing harder. I willnae back down. Not this time.

She shakes her head, and a tear streaks down her cheek. “You wouldn't understand.”

I ignore the way her tears twist knots in my stomach, hope sparking deep in my chest. There is a reason, then. “Then make me!” I throw my canteen down, and pebbles fly through the air from the impact. The glen seems to hold its breath, as does Bea.

I lower my voice. “Tell me why you killed them,” I repeat, determined.

She grits through the obvious pain. “Please stop,” she begs, her hands fumbling along the ground as if she's searching for something to hold onto. Something to ground herself. “Stop asking me. Please. I cannot rip myself apart for you. Can’t you see that?” She opens her arms wide, her expression morphing into desperation. “I can’t dig into the worst parts of myself, through my deepest pain, to help you find comfort or answers or to fulfill your duty. That is what you do when you ask me this. You hurt me.” A trickle of red drips from her nose, and I pause. Not just from the blood, but her words.

“Bea,” I say, her name a shard of glass against my throat. Her pain seeps into me, because this isn’t who I am. Someone who causes suffering. And yet, does she not deserve my questioning? She’s withholding answers. Things I need to know.

The roughness in my tone seems to break through her pain, enough for her to meet my eyes. “What happens when you think about that day?” I ask.

She swallows, and I hold her stare, taking a step closer.

“Please. What happens when you think of it?” I ask again, even more gently this time.

She wipes her nose with her knuckles, then stares down at the blood for what feels like an eternity.

“I hear their screams in my mind.” she whispers, refusing to look at me. Her hand begins to shake. “Their cries for help. They scrape against the inside of my skull, pressing outward until it feels as if my head may crack open.” She looks up at me. “I feel their pain, their blood—hot and sticky on my hands, dripping up my arms.”