Page 88 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“I don’t want to get your bedding all wet.”

His eyes fall to my soaked dress and stop. My skin burns with awareness, his gaze locked onto the fabric clinging to my breasts, outlining more than I would like. My breaths tighten, the movement of my chest beneath my dress causing a rush of shivers through my sensitive skin. His throat bobs, and he looks away abruptly, as if severing a thought mid-sentence. He rubs the cut on his palm, moving to a stack of clothing and shuffling through it. He hardly seems to notice what he’s chosen, handing me a long-sleeved green tunic and stepping out of the tent, all the while avoiding my gaze.

I stand there in shock. He’d given me his shirt. A new, thick shirt not covered in stains and mud. I lift it to my nose, taking a deep breath, and the scent of juniper, smoke, and metal wraps around me—the smell of Brennen. I’ve caught hints of it on the wind when he’s standing upstream, but smelling it like this makes my head swim. The cloth is extraordinarily soft, and I rub it against my cheek.

For just a moment, an image of Brennen wearing the shirt flashes through my mind. The scent enveloping me because his arms are wrapping around me. Because he’s⁠—

No. I shake my head, forcing the thought from my mind. Why am I thinking this way? Picturing him touching me. Actually viewing me as more than his duty. Why now, when I haven’t even thought of a man in more years than many people live?

Is it just his proximity? The fact that there has been a strong man, a warrior, so close for weeks now? Or is it that he’s not just a warrior, but a man of honor? Someone with more depth than I could have imagined behind the wall of anger he arrived with. A wall I’m beginning to see the cracks in.

I swallow, nodding to myself. That has to be it. Brennen is a good man, and I have been starved of male attention for a century. It’s natural to react this way. Or at least, I tell myself it is.

Pretending the clothing isn’t even his, I step out of my wet dress and pull the tunic on, adding my clothes to Brennen’s pile. The tunic is far too large, comically loose and hanging to my knees, and I try not to think about how muscular his arms and chest must be to fill it out so nicely.

I try to push the thought away, but I cannot pretend the clothes aren’t his.

My breaths go shallow. It’s too intimate. Undeniably so, and my cheeks flush as I open the tent flaps and move back to my bed, sliding beneath my blanket as quickly as I can. I do not look at Brennen, but I feel his eyes on me as he returns to his tent. My stomach twists, but I ignore it, pulling the blanket over my head and staring into the After, searching for the blot of black I’m certain was there.

For anything to prove I’m not going mad once again.

37

BEA

Brennen’s gone to get supplies, so just as I have every other time he’s left the valley since moving his tent closer, I pass the time shuffling through his belongings. While he still keeps his weapons past the hollow log and firmly out of my reach, the rest of his things remain scattered about as if he’s still here. A half-finished carving sits on his desk, along with a haphazard stack of parchment and a pot of ink.

Curious, I flip through the pages. They’re notes on me. Things I’ve said and done, a catalogue of meaningless actions.

I toss them back on the wood, rolling my eyes as I slide my hands between the blankets stacked neatly in the corner, finding nothing. I search beneath his bedroll. In his spare clothing. If he has a naming pendant, it’s either on him at all times or, more likely, back wherever he calls home. Nor can I seem to find anything I could even hope is a promise broken.

Lolly roars, and I peek out of the tent, lying down by the fire. She's less active today. Lazy, almost. Flying in long, swooping arcs as she circles the glen. Her presence has become a comfort, and even Brennen seems to have gotten used to her.

An image of him flashes in my mind, the pain on his face as he tried to find the words to write in the letter to Betty’s sister. I still don’t particularly enjoy his rough exterior or his frequent anger, but I'm finding it difficult to hate him. It's undeniable he’s a good, respectable man. That he tries to do the right thing, always. I know better than to think anything he wrote will ease Lillian’s pain, but maybe it helped soothe whatever seems to cause him so much of it, instead. I think of the picture of Betty’s parents, hoping An Treòraiche led her straight to them to be reunited.

I bolt upright. The picture. How had I forgotten about the picture?

A picture I’d brought back with me.

Anticipation burns along my skin, dangerous flickers of hope.

We hadn’t been able to come up with an explanation. I hadn’t really been there. My body had been here the entire time. Brennen confirmed it, but the picture had still come back clutched in my hands.

Can I bring anything I’m holding in the visions back with me?

My heart thunders against my ribs. This could be it. My chance to break the curse. How had I not thought about it before?

The visions seem to be getting longer. If I can find the last two pieces, hold on to them and bring them home, maybe after I complete my penance, I can finally do it. Maybe that’s part of my penance. The goddess of death offering me a way to atone. Find a way to stop these deaths, secure the pieces of the spell, and maybe, break this curse and go to my rest.

Maybe I can finally be free. On my terms, and no one else's.

I tilt my head up to the sky, throwing my arms out.

“This is it, Lolly!” I shout, spinning in a circle. My chain catches, and I stumble, but even through the pain in my ankle, I laugh—a real, joy-filled giggle. “It's finally going to happen.” Tears burn my eyes. I'm not foolish enough to think it will be instant, but this changes everything.

It gives me hope.

“What's finally going to happen?” Brennen’s rumble brushes against my skin.