Page 49 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

His eyes flick down to the dàn on my ankle for several long moments, his grip growing impossibly tighter before lowering his dagger. He curses under his breath, grabbing his shoe and disappearing into his tent.

Once again, I feel his rage—but it’s muddied, mixed with confusion and uncertainty.

I stare at the tent, searching for flashes of his shadow to see what he might be doing. Maybe he’s packing his bags, preparing to leave.

Or maybe, he’s plotting his revenge.

My stomach growls, my hunger louder than Brennen’s anger, and I swallow down my own confusion, slowly picking my way through the rocks. There’s nothing more I can do to convince him it isn’t my fault. I’m not sure that, were our positions switched, I would believe him either.

If there is one thing I’ve gathered about Brennen since he arrived, it’s that he thrives on control. Craves it, even.

Might as well give him the illusion he has it at this moment.

The ankle carrying my dàn—Brennen’s dàn—feels stronger as I walk. More sure. The slippery rocks beneath my feet do not cause me to wobble or fall again. Brennen might be furious with me, but at least I won’t fall and further injure myself.

Steadiness.

Closing my eyes, I lift one foot, but I do not so much as wobble.

Not bothering to fight the smile the feeling of having magic brings to my lips, I settle down next to the bush, picking berry after berry, but I barely taste the tartness of them as my mind spins. The swirling lines across the top of my foot are dainty and delicate compared to the dàn on Brennen’s arms and neck. As I reach down to feel it, it sparkles and warms, an iridescent glow that reminds me of my dragon's wings.

But how is it on my skin? How has its power seeped into my bones?

It’s clear Brennen didn’t give it to me willingly. Is it possible I'd somehow wanted steadiness so badly in that single moment that I had somehow subconsciously stolen it? I shake my head. No.

I will not start to blame myself for things that aren’t my fault, too.

19

BRENNEN

Idon't bother to spare a look behind me as I leave my tent and make my way along the river, sticking to dry land until I’m out of the Washwoman’s sight.

The water is more shallow upstream, and I find a line of slick moss and algae-covered rocks. I hesitate for a moment, afraid I’m about to confirm what I already know. That the magic given to me by the dàn of steadiness truly is gone, but waiting to prove it will change nothing. With a deep breath, I step onto the slippery rocks.

My foot slides before I’m even fully on the stone, and I’m forced to throw out my arms to keep myself from plummeting into the water. I pause, trying to find my center, then take another tentative step. I don’t slip this time, but it still takes significant effort to maintain my balance.

“Mallachd ort!,” I curse, a mixture of unease and anger churning in my stomach.

That was my dàn. One I earned through years of service to the Cutter. Years of sacrifice and pain and dedication.

And she took it with a single touch. It shouldn’t be possible, and yet, my ankle is bare, and my balance is shite.

I cannae bear to try again. Not when I feel like a bairn learning to walk. Foolish. I had been so incredibly foolish to not just let her fall. Why had I helped her? Because she’d sewn Billy’s shoe? One singular act of kindness doesn’t mean anything. That is, if she even did it out of kindness. What if she’d somehow made him slip so she could put on a show of selflessly trying save him?

I pin the Washwoman with a furious glare as I make my way back into the tent, refusing to allow myself to pause when she looks…confused. Regretful, even.

It’s all an act, even if it’s a convincing one.

I sit down at the writing desk I procured in the village and pull out a jar of ink.

The quill shakes in my hand, ink splashing and staining my skin as I dip it too forcefully into the bottle. I don’t bother cleaning it up as I grab a piece of parchment.

Cailleach,

I write to you as your humble servant, wishing to share an update on the Washwoman. I’m concerned she may have magical abilities unknown to us. She⁠—

I pause, unsure what more I should say. My hand hovers over the parchment, but my fingers refuse to write the words.