Page 38 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I stalk toward the child, his curly hair falling into his brown eyes. His palms are dirty, and a dàn of strength is inked on his collarbone. Rage surges in my chest. Stones thrown by a regular hand would be painful, but with the magic of strength behind it? It’d be excruciating. I glance at his wrist to his dedication dàn where The Measurer’s sigil stares back at me.

“You dare use the power Measaire gifted to you for harm?” I spit, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and lifting him to meet my eyes. “What in the Fates’ names would make you do this?” The boy pushes back, trying to escape my grasp, but my own dàn of steadiness keeps my feet planted firmly in place and my grip tight.

“Do you not realize what you've done?” I ask. “The consequences of your foolish actions?”

“She’s a monster!” he spits. “She deserves it. I came here to help you!” The words turn my vision red.

“I didnae ask for your help. What about whoever will die because you saw her face? Do they deserve it?” I ask, even though I’m not sure if this part of the curse is even true. My intuition says it isn’t. Surely Cailleach wouldn’t send me here if it would end someone else’s life each time I looked upon her. Even if she would, I think she would at least warn me of it, but the villagers clearly believe it, so I bite out the words anyway, making sure every single one lands.

The boy’s face goes white.

“Tell me. What happens when you look upon the Washwoman?” Making him say it is a punishment he deserves.

“Someone you love dies,” he croaks, tears welling in his eyes.

“Did you not think of that? Did you not even consider what could happen?” I drop him down with such force, his shoe tumbles off and rolls into the water. I glance at the Washwoman from the corner of my eye. She hasnae moved, but has lifted her head and is watching me intently. Her eyes are red and her breaths heavy, mud and dirt smearing her arms and face. Blood trickles from her lip, and another flash of fury works its way through my bones.

It's not anger for her. It’s fury at seeing the thing I hate most—pain inflicted for nothing other than pleasure or fear or anger, as if this child is owed a pound of flesh and blood for her crimes.

If anyone had an excuse to harm her, it would be me. And I will kill her, it's true. But I will do it swiftly. And I certainly won’t torture her in the meantime just for the sake of it.

“I'm sorry,” the boy whispers, and my head snaps back to him. He looks to the Washwoman. “Really, I’m sorry. Please don't kill anyone. I didnae think. I just⁠—”

The boy’s crying in earnest now, fat, ugly tears streaming from his eyes and snot running from his nose.

The Washwoman’s expression softens. “No one will die because you saw me," she says quietly, almost gently, and any sympathy I might have felt for the Washwoman a moment ago disappears completely.

Because she doesn't mean it. She cannae mean it. She’s lulling this child into a false sense of safety. I’m certain of it.

No one would be this forgiving of someone who had just assaulted them so violently, and I do not believe her for a single moment.

The boy tries to stand, but he slips on a rock, tumbling backwards into the water. The current is swift, and it carries him away before he can find his footing.

I race after him, searching for a deeper area to dive into, but before I have a chance, the Washwoman scrambles forward, plunging into the water herself. The boy screams, sputtering, but Bea’s not fast enough, and when her chain catches, she lets out a scream of agony.

“Help!” the boy cries, and the Washwoman kicks against her restraints, seemingly desperate to save the boy who had just shown her such cruelty. I run in after him, activating my dàn of speed. It comes to life on my arm with just a thought. The burn of it energizes me, and I reach the boy in only a few strokes, a heartbeat from the black mist and drop-off into the After.

The boy sobs in earnest now, and he feels so small in my arms I almost feel guilt for the intensity of my anger toward him. None of this was right. Children shouldn’t be capable of such cruelty. Shouldn’t even know it exists.

And they certainly shouldn’t be anywhere near the Washwoman.

The boy’s teeth chatter as I pull him back to shore, his tired arms clinging to my neck, sobs bursting from his throat.

“I'm sorry! I'm so sorry.”

“Dinnae fash. You’ll be alright,” I say, making it onto dry land. The boy shivers, and I look up at the sky, the sun about to disappear. The Washwoman pulls herself out of the water, wrapping her arms around her waist, her lips nearly blue.

“You need to get him home. He'll freeze,” she says, her own teeth chattering.

“I'm sorry,” the boy cries again, this time looking the Washwoman straight in the eye. “Don't hurt anyone. Please.”

She gives him a gentle smile. “I'm not as wicked as people think. It’s only a tale. You can gaze upon my face, and nothing bad will happen. I swear it to you.” I hear the honesty in her words, a steadfast resolve.

But more importantly, I realize my dàn of truth has not alerted me to a lie in this entire conversation.

Either the Washwoman is telling the truth, or she is more cunning than I could have possibly imagined.

“Go,” she says.