Page 118 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I lean toward him. “You gave me the idea, actually.”

He tilts his head, eyebrows drawing in in confusion.

“I cut through her dedication dàn. Made it unrecognizable.”

“You cut her off from magic?” His eyebrows raise.

“And I do not feel guilty for it. It saved her life. If whoever’s behind this is using magic to kill these women, I thought maybe cutting her off from the source completely would save her. And it worked.”

“Aye. I’m no criticizing you for it. But how did you ken to cut through it?”

I look down where my own dàn used to be. “I've been having this dream of a woman sitting at a loom.”

“The Weaver?”

“No. Not a Fate. She’s mortal, but I can’t see her face. Someone knocks on the door, and she smiles at them, but whoever it is slits her throat.” I shiver as the memory of her blood pooling around my feet invades my mind.

“She dies every time?”

I nod. “But last time I saw something different. Her dedication dàn was mutilated. And there's a song I hear in my visions.

I clear my throat.

So sing till the song takes the life it was due,

Some hands hold the blade, and some hands hold the truth.

When the river runs red and the After draws near,

The darkness will come and bring all that you fear.

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?

“After what you said, it suddenly made sense.”

There's a creak from the After, interrupting us. The sound of moaning slithers through the glen, and I shiver, the hair on my arms standing on end. “They're coming,” I whisper.

Brennen's hand is already on his sword, and he slowly climbs to his feet, his shoulders squared as he steps in front of me and stares into the darkness.

“You dare sing our song while we rot in between?” A figure appears in the mist, floating toward me—the tailor's daughter; the others are behind her.

I close my eyes, my joy at saving the woman withering away.

She tilts her head sideways to an unnatural angle. “Why have you done nothing to help us? They still will not let us enter.”

Guilt pools in my stomach, thick and hot. “I'm sorry.”

“You must help us, Washwoman.” Her voice rises in pitch, fervent.

“Don’t you see? That’s all I am! The Washwoman! There is nothing I can do. It is no more my fault that you are trapped here than it is yours.”

“You truly believe that?” she asks, gliding closer.