Page 97 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

He nods, his eyes far away as he shifts through his thoughts. “Is there anything else that's similar about them?”

“The people in the visions. They can see me. At least, for a moment. I can interact with them. And the visions seem to be getting longer.” Pebbles crunch under his feet as he continues to pace. “And there's always music. The same melody. Humming or singing or bagpipes. Sometimes a violin or whistling. But it's always there.”

“And do clothes always come downstream after these visions?”

“Every single time. I wash them just like I wash any others and send them into the After.”

He stops pacing, his gaze settling on my hands. He stares at them for a long moment, then meets my eyes. “And when you get the clothes, is there blood on them?”

A chill works its way down my spine, and I close my eyes, trying to remember. I do not look at the clothes as I wash, but had blood floated downstream as I’d cleansed them? I don’t think it did. I shake my head. “No,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “How did I not see it? It shouldn’t be possible for so many to die without a single drop of blood.”

Brennen’s jaw tightens. “Could it be poison?”

It’s hard to speak through the bile rising up my throat. “There are several ways the dead pass without bleeding. Certain poisons, but not most. Drowning. Suffocation. But what if they’re not actually dead? What if someone is taking them? Hiding them away?”

Brennen rubs his forehead. “It’s ancient magic that sends souls to the After. Their souls are bound to the garments you cleanse. If the After has them, they’re gone.”

“I didn't know,” I say, twisting my hands together. I don’t want him to believe I was hiding things from him. Not when his dedication to the Cutter is so absolute. Not now that we’ve found some common ground. “I need you to know that. I didn't know I was washing clothes the Cutter didn’t send to me. I tried to fight against it. I thought maybe she was testing me. Sending me into the visions to see if I’d try to save them, or I thought maybe she or the goddess were giving me the chance to atone. I thought if I could save them⁠—”

He holds up a hand. “I ken you didnae know. I saw the pain in your eyes after that vision. How badly you wanted them to stop.” He stands. “I have to go to Cailleach. Warn her of what's happening. If all these women are dead, then someone is working against her will. Someone is actively defying the Fates and their rule.”

My mind spins. It shouldn’t even be possible. “But who? Who could possibly have enough magic to go against them?”

Brennen grabs his satchel and whistles for Sable, wasting no time. He doesn’t pack up his tent or bother grabbing his other items, simply running to mount the mare.

He meets my eyes. “Ceatharnaich? I dinnae ken. But I'm going to find out.

41

BEA

“Guess it's just you and me again, Lolly,” I say, stretching out in front of the fire to watch the giant dragon swoop across the sunset. She doesn’t answer of course, and a pang of sadness settles deep in my belly.

The quiet feels different than before. Even during the days Brennen had ignored me, I'd heard him shuffling through his tent or walking along the rocks. Now that he’s gone, the glen feels too big and empty. So much lonelier than before.

The wind shifts, and I roll over, preparing to wash, but the river is brown. Bog myrtle permeates the air, and my stomach fills with equal parts dread and anticipation.

I brace myself for the vision, the world tilting and my head swimming, and then I’m inside a tailor’s shop. Bolts of multicolored fabric sit stacked on floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves, mostly wool and linen, in every shade imaginable. Spools of thread are scattered at a workstation, along with shears and some chalk. There are three mannequins, eerily bare. The shop is empty except for a man sitting at a counter.

He’s singing under his breath, a melody that brings gooseflesh to my arms.

There's friendship in bushels and tales long been said.

Let's tell each other's before we fall dead.

Can happen in moments, the blink of an eye.

The river will take you when it’s time to die.

A song cannae tell you the time it will end.

As long as you live, a new one can begin.

A thread cannae cut if it cannae be seen.

If I ask it of you, will you hide mine for me?

So sing till— “Oh, hello. I didnae hear you enter,” the man says, leaning back to look at me with wary eyes. He’s clearly unsure of how I suddenly appeared, no ding of a bell or shuffle of footsteps, but he is not the only one confused.