Page 115 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“And make you wash my clothes? No.” He rubs his forehead. “I told her what you’d seen. About Betty. But she was angry for my doubting her.” He swallows. “She threatened my siblings. It wasna worth the risk of pushing her further. I'm not even supposed to be here yet. Not for another week. She sent me home, but I learned something there.” He pauses, finally meeting my eyes. Something in his expression falters, just for a moment, but he schools it back into neutrality before I can place it. “I had to return. It couldn't wait.”

A jolt of fear skates down my spine. “Tell me you didn't go to Dalbàsail,” I say.

He tilts his head, confused. “No. I came straight here.”

“If you’re not supposed to be here, you have to hide.” I grab his arm, eyes darting to the trees. “The Cutter sent Dìdeanair to the village. Theo came to warn me. He said they're asking questions about you.”

His gaze follows mine. “I dinnae think they’ll come here. Not unless they're ordered to. They’ll likely believe the villager’s stories that looking upon your face will lead to a loved one's death. Have you seen any soldiers?”

“No. Theo said he’d try to keep them away.” Relief flashes in his eyes.

“I trust he'll do just that, then,” he says.

I do not share his relief. “Why would Cailleach send them here at all?”

Brennen pulls out his bird carving, his knife hovering above it. He looks up. “Did you know the Fates we worship weren't the first?”

The air is stolen from my lungs. What is he talking about? Cailleach has always been the Cutter. Chosen by the goddess herself.

“What?” I ask, breathless.

He puts down the bird and knife, pulling out a stack of paper that appears to be pages ripped from a book. He hands them to me, and I read the first line.

In the beginning, the Three were one.

My mind can barely keep up with my eyes as they skitter across the pages. Three Fates who did not agree. A goddess who struck them down. Monsters clawing their way above ground.

“The Epoch comes because the Fates went against the goddess’s design?” I ask.

He nods, his expression serious. “I think so. I dinnae think—” His fingers tighten around the bird. “The Fates give us our magic, but I dinnae think it was meant to be that way, and I dinnae think it has to be that way.”

“What exactly are you saying?” I ask, pinching at the skin of my hand to get out my nervous energy. Brennen’s eyes follow the movement, and he reaches out to stop me. “What if this isn’t even true? It’s ripped from a storybook.”

“Aye, but it makes sense. We know someone is killing these women. What if there are others with magic that works outside the Fates? There used to be books of magic. Dàn we could use on our own without being gifted them. Ways to use the power found in the verra ground. The Fates had the books destroyed, but they couldn’t have found them all. They didn’t. Harold has one. The magic in it is harmless, but what if the ceatharnaich groups throughout the kingdom have spells that give them more power? The Fates are near obsessed with finding them all. Eliminating them. What if the queens fear them because they have magic they are not able to control?”

I close my eyes, trying to process it all, and fear ripples through me. “Does she think there are ceatharnaich in Dalbàsail? Is that why she sent her soldiers?”

“No. They’re here because of me. I questioned Cailleach, and she’s no happy about it. I think she sent them as a warning. That I am her guardian, here on a singular mission.”

He doesn’t say what that mission is—to kill me.

“So you think there are others with magic. And that’s why these women are dying?”

“It has to be. I cannae think of anyone else who would do such a thing.”

“But why?” I ask, shaking my head. “Why would the ceatharnaich kill these women?”

He rubs a hand across his scruff, and even through my fear, the sight of his muscular forearms flexing causes warmth to pool in my stomach. “Maybe they’re taunting the Fates. Maybe they know it will unsettle them.”

I shake away the feeling. “Could that be why An Glèidheadair isn’t allowing the women into the After?” I ask. “Because they died outside of the Fates’ design?”

He seems to consider this. “Aye. It would make sense.”

I grab his arm over his tunic. “We have to stop them. The souls are in pain.” I say, picturing them screaming in agony, begging for help.

“Then we’ll stop it. I willnae have a war beginning when the kingdom needs to prepare for the Epoch.” He stares at the After. “You say the souls only come at night? Where do they go, you think, when the sun rises?”

I follow his gaze. “I don’t know where they are. Their moans and cries only come when the sun sets, even before they appear this side of the After. But they’re silent while the sun is in the sky. Maybe they’re at rest.”