Page 42 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“No. It’s been a very long time since a child has visited here.”

“Then how could you possibly know his family’s means?”

I was right. It is anger lacing every word, though it's heavier than before, mixed with a sharp frustration.

I turn to meet his steely gaze. “His clothes were worn bare. Did you not notice how thin they were? And there was hunger in his eyes. And this shoe,” I lift it again, showing him the back where a tartan patch has been placed over a hole, “It’s a size too small, and has obviously been worn by many pairs of little feet.”

His jaw ticks, and he tilts his head back, looking at me as if I’ve grown an extra set of arms. “But… Why are you mending it?”

I stop my movements, sorrow twisting between my ribs. Not for the boy this time, but because it’s clear this man doesn’t just fear me. The possibility that I might want to help a child is an impossibility to him.

I straighten my spine. “I’m not so much of a monster that I don't care if a child goes hungry. If his feet will be cold without footwear. If they don’t have the money for warmer clothes or food, how will his family buy him new shoes?” I ask, stabbing the needle through one last time, then tying off the leather. Several finger lengths of the string are left hanging, and I look at them longingly. Who knows the next time I will find something that will suffice to bind back my tresses.

He shakes his head, grabbing the shoe from my hand, forcing me to look at him.

“No. I mean, after what he did to you. Why would you help him?”

I hold his gaze, hoping he’ll see my sincerity, because suddenly, the idea of even a single person in this kingdom believing I am something, anything, more than the murderer of the Bàsail is intoxicating.

“He’s a child,” I say. “I know what I am—or at least, what people think I am. But the boy was only behaving as he was taught. It’s not his fault, nor is it his fault that his family goes without.” I reach back out and snatch the shoe, then pick up a rock. Maybe I can saw the rest of the leather off. There’s just enough left to still use, I think, but the rock isn’t sharp enough to break through the tough material.

Brennen steps forward and crouches down. He pulls the dagger from his waist, and despite myself, I flinch.

He freezes, giving me a moment to see his intentions, then, so slowly it’s as if I’m an animal he’s trying not to spook, he takes the shoe back and cuts off the extra leather. He hands it back to me, and the simple gesture brings a sting to the backs of my eyes.

Is it possible it worked? That being honest about my intentions caused him to, if not have pity for my situation, at least understand I’m nothing to fear?

“Thank you,” I say, using the palm of my hand to wipe the tears away before he can see them. I clear my throat. “Would you take it to him? The shoe?”

He hesitates for a long moment, rubbing his forehead, then nods.

“Thank you,” I say again.

He starts to turn but stops, holding out a hand. “The needle,” he says.

I squeeze my fist around the bone, my heart sinking, not only because I need the needle, but because it’s clear my honesty didn’t change a thing.

“I can't escape with only a sewing needle," I say, gripping it tighter. “And unless you plan on buying me new clothes, I have to mend the ones I have.”

He doesn't speak, unyielding as he continues to hold his hand out.

I study the scar running through his palm, puckered and angry. Black lines trail from the wound like poison seeping through his blood.

For a moment, I almost ask him about it, but his hard stare causes the words to freeze on my tongue.

“Washwoman,” he says. An order, and I grit my teeth. His eyes are hard, his jaw growing tighter by the second.

“It’s Bea,” I say, dropping the needle into his hand. He ignores me, swiftly pocketing it. Disappointment curdles in my stomach. How will I mend my dress now?

He stalks toward the forest, his movements strong and intentional. The fabric around his arms bunches as he puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles, and only a few seconds later, his beautiful black horse appears.

Brennen mounts her, turning her away from me. I barely hear him when he speaks again.

“If you need to mend something, you may ask for the needle,” he says, kicking the horse's sides, and even though I keep my expression neutral, I smile inwardly.

It’s such a small concession, but it feels like a victory all the same.

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