Page 44 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“I'll find you!” he shouts. “I'll always find you!”

I usher them outside and turn around, leveling the man with an icy glare.

“If you even think about going after them, this blade—” I stalk to him and yank it from his hand, “severs your spine. Understood?”

The man doesn't answer, cowering instead, holding his bloody hand to his chest.

I push away from him, sheathing my dagger. I don't bother to look back, certain the coward won't follow.

Closing the door behind me, I take the few belongings they packed.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Anna,” she says softly, and I have to force my face to remain impassive. She has the same name as my mother, and yet she’s living a life so verra different from the one Ma lived. One where she was cherished and loved. A memory of her working in the garden flits through my mind, her laugh as clear as the tinkling of a bell.

“You're safe now,” I promise, placing a hand on her shoulder, but the fear remains etched in every line of the woman’s face.

“We have nothing. Nowhere to go. No other family,” she says, pulling the bairn closer to her chest. I study her for a moment, this woman who has endured so much. Deep bruises mark the deep tan skin of her arms, her chest. And yet, there isn’t a single mark on her children. Somehow, she protected them.

“I know where to take you,” I say, leading them toward the tavern in a stiff silence.

I’m grateful when I push through the door to see it’s nearly empty, the only other patron an older gentleman who appears lost in thought, sitting in the back near the fire. Theo smirks as I walk in, closing what looks to be a sketchbook.

“Back so soon? Tell me. Did the Washwoman kill all those who looked…” his words trail off as Anna and Billy enter behind me. “What’s happened?” he asks, stalking forward to peek out the door into the courtyard beyond.

“That bastard of a man who called himself her husband is what happened. Did you know?” I ask.

Theo ignores me. “Edgar hurts you?” he asks, incredulous. Anna looks away, and I hate the shame I see in her hunched shoulders. She’s making herself small. Something I’m sure she’s learned to do to survive.

“What do you need?” Theo asks.

“A room for them, for as long as they need, and for you to keep that sorry excuse of a man far, far away from here.” I remove the pouch from my pocket, the coins inside jangling in the silent tavern. “I'll arrange something more permanent when I can,” I say.

“How can I repay you—” Anna starts, but I stop her.

“It's nothing.” I turn and sit at a stool, ending the conversation as Theo gathers their things, grabs a key, and heads to show them to their room. I'm lost in thought when he appears again, placing a generous serving of ale in front of me.

“Keep your money.” Theo tosses my bag in front of me. “She’s not the first woman I’ve helped in a situation like this, and she won’t be the last.” He pulls the collar of his shirt to the side, showing a dàn of empathy on his chest. “They’re drawn to me. It will get worse as the Epoch approaches. Already, men are staying longer. Drinking more.”

He nods toward the gentleman in the back, and it’s then that I notice his glassy stare. “Fighting even more than that.” He sighs. “Too many men are able to hide their true selves. Until life gets hard, at least. It’s disgusting, if you ask me.”

It's more than disgusting. It's evil, but I don't correct him, partly because of the respect budding from his confession of helping women such as Anna before, and partly because my dàn of truth has remained silent. Theo hasn’t lied to me once since I arrived. Anna and her children will be safe here.

I lean back to assess him, once again getting the feeling he would be far better suited as a solider than a barkeep. He looks physically fit, and is obviously smart, coming up with the spiked cellars to protect the village from the Epoch.

Though he doesnae have the hardened look of a warrior. There’s a kindness in his brown eyes I find I’m not used to. A gentleness, likely from his dàn of empathy.

He tilts his head. “Why did you return to their house, anyway? Did you see something when you dropped the boy off? Harold said he was delivered safely some time ago.”

“No. The father wasn’t home when I returned the boy.” I take a long drink of ale. “He lost his shoe,” I say, rubbing a hand down my face. “The Washwoman mended it.” Even just saying the words sounds strange. The murderess of the River of Death, mending clothing for a child.

Theo doesn’t say anything, wiping the counters with a wet rag.

“I mean, the lad was beating her bloody, throwing stones like she was nothing but a mound of peat,” I continue. “And she didn't fight back. Not a bit. Then the boy fell in the river, and she tried to save him, and—” I shake my head.

“So the Washwoman isn't quite living up to the horrors of her legend. Is that what you're saying?” Theo raises his eyebrows.

“She’s certainly different than I expected, but it doesnae change what she did. The people she killed.”