Page 83 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Could what she’s saying really be true? That she didn’t choose to kill anyone at all?

My heart thunders, an emotion I can't name coiling around it. Not confusion. Not regret or shame, but a jumbled mix of them all, growing stronger by the second. And not for the first time since she took it, I wish I still had my dàn of truth.

“But there is a reason,” she says, wrapping her arms around her waist as if she is about to shatter, and is trying to hold herself together. “Something’s wrong with me, Brennen. I just don't know what. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Never. And yet, when I wasn’t chained to this river, that’s exactly what happened. Maybe the curse binding me here corrupted my soul. Or maybe it was corrupted long ago. Maybe there are bigger consequences to leaving this shore than the Fates told me.”

“It's why you wish for death,” I say, breathless, and she finally meets my eyes, giving me a sad smile.

“Aye. It is. I told you, I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I meant it. But I don't want to be here, either, living in constant shame, guilt eating away at me. No one is meant to live forever. To suffer forever. I’d like to think before I go, I’ll find a way to pay my debt to Ban-dia a’ Bhàis. That maybe in the After, I’ll be able to find the peace I will never find here.”

My mind whirls, tiny cracks forming in my protective shield of anger.

When she looks away again, her eyes are brimming with tears. “Does that satisfy your question? Will you stop asking me about that night, now?” she asks, swallowing. She’s trying not to cry. To keep those tears within the boundaries of her long eyelashes. Her lips tremble, and she presses them together.

I nod, sensing that if I were to press her, I wouldn't get any more information. Not now, when she seems so raw and vulnerable. When she truly doesnae seem to remember. What would I even ask? If she regrets it? It’s clear as the river that she does. That she would take it back if she could.

The cracks in my resolve spread, tiny fissures branching outward.

I stand. “I’m going to hunt.” I clear my throat, an uncomfortable pressure settling on my shoulders. “Do you want me to catch you something?” I ask. She doesn’t eat often. Though maybe she simply doesn’t need to. Not like the rest of us mortals. She said her body doesnae change.

She sniffles, clearing her throat as she discreetly wipes her eyes with the palm of her hand. “No. I’m not hungry.”

“Alright,” I say, even though I’m not, either. I cannae imagine eating anything right now, but I need to move. To work off some of the discomfort building inside me, because suddenly everything seems so much more complicated. Because Bea isn't a monster at all. Mad from her curse, perhaps. Dangerous, certainly, but every part of my body believes she never intended to kill anyone, and I now have proof that she isn’t the vile, cold-blooded killer I was warned she would be.

She is simply a victim of her mind, and it changes everything.

But even worse, it changes nothing.

34

BRENNEN

Iabandon hunting after an hour of wandering the glen, my mind too preoccupied to focus on tracking, or anything really, for that matter. Sitting down at my writing desk, I pull out a quill and parchment. And yet, as I stare at the paper, I’m unable to write a single word. It remains blank, completely unblemished. Because what is there to say?

It feels as if I’m playing a game I have no chance of winning. I have to update Cailleach with something, but what? Should I tell her the Washwoman now has several of my dàn? That she begged me to ask her to stop torturing her with visions of joy and life?

I sigh, rubbing the scruff along my jaw, then pick up my quill.

Cailleach,

I hope this letter finds you well. I write to make you aware that something has changed with the Washwoman. She is seeing visions of life before deaths that dinnae follow the typical pattern.

I pause, unsure how to continue. I dinnae want to accuse the Cutter of not having control of her power, and yet, what if the change Bea is describing is unknown to her? If so, it’s my duty to inform her. Even if Bea seems to think she’s doing it to torture her, it doesnae feel right in my mind. Something else is happening.

I’m sure you are aware of these deaths and that the change is intentional, so it is only with the most cautious intent I write to inform you, on the nearly impossible chance that these deaths are somehow occurring outside of your all-powerful will. I will continue to work on our mission.

Your humble, loyal servant,

Brennen.

I quickly fold up the letter and seal it with wax before I can second-guess anything I wrote. I could spend hours dissecting my words, making sure nothing could be twisted, but it will do no good.

I pull out a second piece of parchment. One I dread almost with equal intensity.

Lillian,

I start, but no other words come. Not this time. I stare at her name, waiting for something, anything, to come to me to write. I’m sorry for your loss? It feels trite. Doesn’t express that I understand the gravity of what happened to her sister.

I set the quill down, frustrated.