Page 53 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“I'll talk to him,” I say, wanting to get both sides of the story. “And if I get the sense you're right about his character, then I'll handle it.”

“Thank you,” he says, relief flooding his features.

I nod. “Does anyone else know you sent her to the Washwoman?”

Theo shakes his head. “No. I thought it best to only share it with you. The town fears her enough. Maybe you can find her. But Brennen, I don’t think the Washwoman hurt her.”

My dàn of truth remains silent, and my intuition tells me to trust him. But how can it be a coincidence? The woman goes to the river, and now, she’s gone.

“That makes one of us,” I say. And this time, my dàn flares.

I’m lying to myself.

The thought sends a wave of fury through my blood. I know what this woman has done. I witnessed it myself as Marsaili bled out in my arms.

A woman leaves to find her and doesn’t return—disappears without a trace. There cannae be no connection.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say, my hands clenched and muscles tight as I stalk toward the exit.

“Brennen,” Theo calls as I’m pushing my way through the door. “What are you going to do?”

I turn back to him, assessing. It’s clear he’s afraid for the Washwoman. That he truly doesnae believe she had any part in this.

A plan begins to formulate in my mind, and I hold Theo’s stare. “Whatever I have to.”

21

BEA

Apale purple dress floats in the dark of night into the After, a broken piece of chalk clutched firmly in my hand. It's not an item for my spell, but it is still a ray of sunshine in the otherwise cloudy sky that has been the past few days. Dropping down next to a slanted rock, I begin to trace out the half-finished dàn in my mind. I pause where I always do, my hand hovering over the stone, and I look at my ankle, the dainty lines wiggling across it.

Closing my eyes, I try to picture the rest of the shape. Nothing comes to me. Frustration swirls in my belly, and I open one eye, peeking at the drawing.

I reach out and add another line haphazardly, a downward arch, and tilt my head to examine it. Staring at it, I bite my lip, waiting to see if anything else comes to me, but as usual, my mind remains completely blank.

With a huff, I add another line, right in the middle, but it just looks crowded and unlike any dàn I've ever seen. I sigh, taking a scoop of water in my hands and washing the drawing away. Scooting back to another rock, I begin again, but this time, I don't even attempt to draw the dàn. I sketch out the night sky above me. The stars that have shone over my head for a hundred and three years. They remind me of freckles sparkling overhead, and I have memorized them the way a mother would her child’s.

A throat clears behind me, and I startle, pulling my hand back.

I turn to find Brennen standing a few feet away, his arms crossed and his jaw tight. His eyes are harder than usual, but they aren’t brimming with the cold rage I’m used to, and it makes me uneasy.

Something’s happened.

“Inspecting your stolen magic?” he asks, and a shiver skates down my spine. Not at his statement, but the tone of it. It's taunting. Angry and accusatory. Always so accusatory.

I pull my dress down to cover my ankle. “I already told you, I didn’t steal it from you. Not on purpose, at least,” I say, racking my brain for a way to get him to believe me. I need for us to find some common ground here. Some reason, any reason at all, for him to trust me, even if only a fraction. I don’t want to spend every day he’s here on edge, walking the thin line of trying to keep him from getting angry or accusing me of wickedness.

He studies me for a long moment before taking a step forward, rocks crunching beneath his boots. “I just returned from the village,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Have you ever been?”

“Not since I was sentenced here.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, grateful for the change in subject. “But children come here sometimes. I remember it isn’t too far. It can’t be, if little feet are able to make the journey.”

His eyes follow my hand to my bruise, and something flickers in his expression. Guilt? Frustration? I can’t feel either specifically, the emotions radiating from his body too tangled to interpret.

The look is gone too quickly to determine, and it only adds to my discomfort. I’m not sure what I could have possibly done now to have caught the attention of his ire. I’ve been doing nothing today but washing clothes and drawing, for goddess’ sake.

He tilts his head. “It’s interesting you should say that. Because the villagers say they’ve seen you there. At night, waiting outside gates and windows, dripping with water.”

I laugh, a bitter sound, annoyance building in my chest. Is it not enough for him to accuse me of everything less than perfect that happens? Must he go to the village and search out rumors, too? Things to blame me for that aren’t even true?