Page 141 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“May the Three grant you mercy,” Cailleach says, but she doesn’t mean it. Her voice is flat, almost bored. Athair opens his mouth, taking a deep inhale, but Cailleach stills him with a hand on his neck, pulling out a long thread.

“Let this be a warning to all of you. I am watching you.” Her eyes lock onto mine, and her lips twist into an eerie smile. “I am watching all of you. There is not a single person in this kingdom that is out of my reach.” She moves her gaze across the crowd, but I can still feel her attention on me. She’s looking for a reaction. Any reason at all to doubt me.

Why isn’t she killing me? Is it because I am higher ranking than these men? Because she is so certain my need for vengeance, my unbreakable vow, will keep me in line? Because I am her only hope for ending Bea’s life?

I place my hands behind my back in a display of respect, playing the part.

It almost kills me. Bile rises up my throat, and my heart pounds furiously, begging me to do something. Anything.

“Good,” she says, running her fingers along the thread. “That’s settled, then. This is your final warning. Now for the traitor. Any last words?” She stops her movement, feeling for whatever indicates where a life has been measured to end, then goes up several inches and pinches.

Harold opens his mouth to speak, but the thread turns to dust, and he collapses to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head. In seconds, his body turns black, crumbling into ash and disappearing into nothing, just like the thread.

My heart stalls, my breath hitching in shock and head spinning.

How is this possible? Harold is simply gone, as if he never existed at all. I clench my hands into fists to stop myself from pulling my sword as another wave of nausea washes over me.

“No!” Harold's grandson surges forward, but I grab him, stopping him. I lean low to whisper in his ear.

“You cannae help him. Your wife needs you. Cailleach will kill you if she thinks you knew of Harold’s treason, and she will enjoy it. Think of the bairn.”

He swallows, tears filling his eyes.

“Go home. Burn anything Harold might have kept. And do it now. It’s what he would want,” I say, and thank the goddess, he listens. The Cutter meets my gaze, holding it for another long moment, then smiles.

“Fly, my darling.”

64

BEA

My chain drags heavily as I pace back and forth, waiting for Brennen to return. With each step, my ankle stings, but I hardly notice. My mind is too preoccupied with worry, my heart racing and stomach bubbling with fear. Lolly seems to feel the same, streams of fire flying from her mouth as she dives through the sky, circling low

What is taking him so long? Every few minutes, I glance upstream, just to make sure I don’t see his green kilt appear. Is he in danger? It certainly feels like it, though I can’t explain why.

Relief slams into me when he breaks through the trees, safe. He doesn’t seem injured. At least, not physically, but his hands are shaking, and his eyes burn black with a fury even more potent than when he first arrived here. I feel it tunneling into my bones.

Before I realize my feet are even moving, I run to him, ankle be damned. He meets me halfway, grabbing my forearms and pulling me hard against him. His heart races against my cheek, and I savor the steady rhythm. It means he’s alive. Safe, even if he’s just as afraid as I am.

“It wasn't a woman this time, was it?” I ask into his shirt, my words muffled.

Brennen pulls back, shaking his head. “No. It was Harold,” he says, voice rough.

Harold. The man with the journal. I’d never met him, but it’s clear Brennen’s hurt by his death. “What happened?”

He closes his eyes, wincing as if reliving it. “Cailleach came.” There’s a bite to his words I've never heard before, and it sends a chill down my spine.

“The Cutter?” I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Did she not tell you she knew nothing of the women’s deaths?”

Brennen begins to pace, his boots crunching on the pebbles at a frantic pace. “She did, but she was here, in the village.” He rubs his forehead, then stops, finally meeting my eyes. “How did you know it wasn’t a woman?” he asks.

I close my eyes, picturing the trousers and tunic I washed. Too big to have belonged to a woman. “The clothes that came down belonged to a man,” I say, “but I didn’t know whose they were.”

Brennen goes still, taking in the information the way he always does—piece by piece, methodically analyzing each one to see where they fit.

“What happened after I was pulled back here?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “It happened so fast. I went to find Anna, but the Cutter arrived. They showed her Harold’s book. She already had his thread.” He takes a step closer to me. “She knew she was going to kill him before she even came here. When she pinched his thread, he dropped dead in an instant, and his body turned to ash. She didn’t even give him a moment to say goodbye. To let him speak his final words.”