Page 93 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

It has to.

My scar throbs, reminding me that even if I were to find a way to forget, to justify what she did, I would still have to kill her. I made a vow in my own blood, one my verra soul rests upon, and I cannae break it. Not just because it’s what Marsaili deserves, but because I made that vow with the goddess of life and death herself.

“Not tonight,” I say.

Her face falls, and I almost turn back.

Almost, but I dinnae allow myself.

I keep my eyes forward as I step inside and pull out a piece of parchment and ink. This time, I write down memories of the night Marsaili died. The night my life changed forever. I write every last detail.

The blood.

The blank stare in Marsaili’s eyes.

And by the time I finish, I almost believe that I still want to kill the Washwoman.

39

BEA

Several days have passed since I asked Brennen to share a meal with me, and since then, he’s hardly looked my way. I try not to let it bother me when he stays by the fire, completely ignoring me as he either reads his journal or works on his bird carving. A bird I've seen him dismember, mutilate, and decapitate at least a dozen times.

It always starts out fine, his hands working the wood in an expert manner, but for some reason, he doesn’t maintain that temperament. He grows frustrated as he carves, and always, without fail, he ruins it. And each time, I wonder why.

I almost ask him, but something in his posture stops me, even though I can hardly stand the silence. It's worse than the quiet of being alone. Different, and filled with tension. Filled with meaning, although I don't know what it is.

I’d thought it’d been kind of me to offer to share the fish. He'd cooked it after all. And I’d hoped maybe we were developing more than just a tolerance to one another. A sort of friendship, even. He'd opened up to me more than I ever expected upon our first meeting, telling me about his siblings, and he’d really listened when I’d told him about my own childhood.

He slices into his carving again, and the bird’s wing snaps in half.

“Mallachd!” he says, throwing the block of wood into the fire.

“Is everything alright?” I finally ask, breaking the silence. His head snaps up, almost as if he'd forgotten I was chained here. He stares at me for a moment too long, but I don’t allow myself to shy away.

“Fine,” he says, picking up another piece of wood in his calloused hands.

Frustration buzzes inside my chest, but I’m not sure if it’s his or mine.

“Then why do you keep snapping the wings off your birds?” I ask pointedly, unable to handle his avoidance any longer.

His jaw clenches, and he picks up another block. “Because I can't get the bloody thing right.”

My dàn of truth flares, but I don’t call him out on it. “Are you sure it’s not because you're angry?” I ask.

He makes a deep, harsh slice. Then another. “Who said I'm angry?”

I let my silence be his answer.

He glares at me, and I sit up taller. This has gone on for too long; his inability to look at me. To move without fury and frustration.

“Well, aren’t you? You’re angry I asked you to eat with me. You’ve hardly said a word to me since. I didn't mean anything by it. Only that I had food and was willing to share. I know I'm your prisoner, and that you're going to kill me when the time comes. But, can't we at least be pleasant with one another in the meantime?”

He freezes. “Have I no been pleasant?" he asks, eyes flashing with darkness. “Did I no bring you a new dress? Give you a blanket? Twice?” He presses the edge of his blade against the block of wood, about to slice, but stops himself, his nostrils flaring. “Did I no save your life?” he asks, his voice rough, as if doing those things for me wasn’t pleasant for him at all.

I shrug, equally frustrated with him. “Well, not really the last one, seeing as I cannot die.”

I see it then, the moment his shroud of anger cracks. He's not smiling exactly, but his lips tilt up the slightest bit, and the darkness in his eyes shifts to something akin to mischief.