Page 46 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

And above that, a hum.

A shape moves, and I see a curtain of blonde hair, the color of gold, long and straight. It falls forward, blocking the woman’s face.

I try to speak, but my voice doesn’t comply, sticking in my throat.

The hum slows, and the tapping suddenly stops.

The woman shifts, and the vision cracks, splintering like broken glass, the pieces refusing to align. I try to gather them, to piece them back together, because this is important. I feel it. But they continue to crack and spread.

There's a sharp thud and then—blood.

The room goes completely silent as the crimson puddle spreads, pooling across the warped floorboards. Too much of it, and I’m certain whoever it's coming from is no longer alive.

The woman.

I try to get to her, but my body doesn’t move. I’m trapped inside myself, unable to do anything but witness the bloody horror in front of me. A scream rips from my throat, but it is silent.

Until it isn’t.

Because I am no longer screaming in my dream. I am back at the river, and the scream is real.

I scramble to my feet, to run, the vision of blood—so much blood—fresh in my mind. My ribs seize, and my ankle throbs as I twist, collapsing back down, my tired mind slowly turning back to reality.

The river rocks are cold beneath my cheek, and the smell of peat fills my nostrils. The sound of the rushing water and heather rustling in the wind grounds me. “A nightmare. It was only a nightmare,” I whisper, still breathless from fear.

But was it?

I turn toward the river, waiting for the clothes of the woman I saw slaughtered, but they do not come. Relief floods my entire body.

It hasn’t happened yet.

The thought comes unbidden, and yet it feels right. Goosebumps rise on my arms. Surely it won’t happen at all. It was only a nightmare, brought on by the guardian’s presence. Wasn’t it?

“Dreaming of the ones you slaughtered?” I stiffen at the tone of his voice—Brennen’s voice—deep and raspy.

The hair on my arms stands on end. He must have returned from the village sometime in the night, but my body and mind had been too tired to realize it. I roll over, a groan leaving my throat as the pain in my ribs flares.

Brennen sits a few yards away, his fire going strong—flames of yellow and orange, a foot high and just out of reach—taunting me, and I shiver. What I would give to experience that heat, if only for a moment.

He sits with his back against his sack of food, knees bent, arms draped across them, hands folded, staring at me with an intensity that makes me want to scurry backward.

I almost do, but even the slightest movement brings tears to my eyes. My body is still so sore from being beaten, almost worse now that I have lain still for so long. We stare at each other in silence for a few moments until I can’t stand it anymore.

“Did you give the boy his shoe?” I ask, my voice hesitant.

His jaw tightens, but he nods.

There’s more, I can sense it. His eyes are tired, dark circles evident in the firelight, and his shoulders are tight. He’s holding his small knife and a block of wood in his hands, and every so often, he makes an angry scrape across it, a sliver of wood falling to his feet.

The silence sits heavy on my shoulders for a few moments, and I shrink under the discomfort of it.

“What are you carv⁠—”

“Why do the villagers think someone will die if they see your face?” he cuts me off.

I lay my head back down, studying him. He’s angry, but it doesn’t feel pointed directly at me. The rage that follows him everywhere isn’t as suffocating, though I still see it in the lines of his face and stiffness of his shoulders. Still feel it radiating off him in waves that needle beneath my skin.

I sigh. So much for pleasant conversation. “People fear what they don’t know. Somewhere along the last century, the tale of my curse has changed. I know the cause of every death in this kingdom. Almost,” I add the last word under my breath. “And never once has it been from looking at me.”