Page 56 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“Tell them whatever you like. Tell them I murdered her, for all I care. But hear me when I say, there is nothing you can do to me that will make me change my mind.”

For a long moment, he just stares at me. Not with anger or suspicion, but something different.

“You…” He swallows, looking down at his dàn of truth. “She’s actually safe? You truly helped her?”

“Of course I did.” The anger deflates out of me, and my voice comes out softer. Quieter. Relief that he’s finally listening floods my body, my shoulders sagging, exhaustion pulling them down. “I might be a monster, but do you not think it’s possible I’m more than only that?” I ask, and before he can argue, I dive into the river.

The cold is a shock to my tired body, but it clears my mind. I did what I thought—no—what I knew was right. I protected Kenna the best I could, and so I welcome the chill. The way it makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t in a very long time.

I swim hard and fast until my fingers reach the opposite bank. I climb out and walk until my chain goes taut with a jerk, stopping me mid-step.

I am as far from him as I can be, and through the grace of the Fates, he does not follow me.

22

BRENNEN

Istand at the river’s edge, staring at the dripping figure pointedly ignoring me on the other side, her chain taut in her desperation to get as far away from me as possible. She looks so small, building a cairn and mumbling under her breath.

And while she is all righteous anger and indignation, the only way I can describe myself is speechless.

She would truly rather be tortured than give me information on the missing woman. I’m certain of it. The anger in her voice. Not even anger. Fury. It had penetrated my skin with ease, tunneling into my bones until it was undeniable, as if she couldn’t possibly understand why I wouldn’t just trust her word that the woman was alive and well.

But why would I? She’s a prisoner. A convicted killer.

Except, not once had my dàn of truth flared to life to indicate she’d lied to me.

Not until today. Until I’d questioned who’d visited her. Which means everything else she’s told me is true. That Hamish had been beating his wife, and the Washwoman helped her escape. That she’s only staying silent to protect the woman.

Though... Can I trust the dàn at all now?

If she can take them from my skin, maybe she can control them in other ways. Suppress them or manipulate them into silence.

But that doesn't make sense, either. The dàn had only flared when she lied about no one coming to the river. If she could control it, wouldn't she have suppressed it then, too?

I rub my forehead as I head back to my tent, pulling out my half-finished wood carving. I need to think. To calm this storm of confusion in my mind so I can see clearly.

The knife in my hand carves through the wood like butter as I consider the Washwoman’s words. Marsaili would have protected Kenna, too. Without hesitation, she would have taken her in and found a way to help her escape.

Disgust hits straight between my ribs, the thought of the two women having something in common unbearable, and I scrape too hard, almost taking off the bird’s beak.

I freeze, setting the carving down and grabbing a stack of parchment instead. I need to write down my thoughts before I second-guess what I saw. To document everything that’s happened since I arrived.

I was sent here to gather information. To find a way to kill her, and until then, to ensure she doesn’t disappear. Her connection to one of the missing women is too close, and I dinnae like it a bit. Is she connected to all of them, somehow? Or worse, could she be the one helping them disappear?

I shake away the thought, the mystery too big to solve right now, and begin with something smaller. Taking a deep breath, I write down the dates the women went missing, listing the details of what exactly happened when she took my dàn. How she’d protected Billy, mended his shoe. How she’d claimed to help the woman escape her husband.

I write down her words.

You want to think I’m a monster? Fine. Everyone already does. I will not yield. I have failed too many people. I will not fail her.

The image of her standing there, hair whipping around her face, bright eyes wild with angry determination, flashes through my mind.

I might be a monster, but maybe it’s possible I’m more than only that, she’d said.

I write it down.

Once it’s all on paper, I read it through. Then again.