Page 62 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he says again, a low hiss, and I allow my dàn of dread to unleash its power.

The bar goes silent, the man’s face draining of color.

“First,” I say, brushing a speck of dust off my pants, “I’m a general of the Cutter. You’d do well to be a bit more respectful. Besides that… Och, well, I’m a man who would never beat my wife. Or any woman, for that matter.”

His face turns red, and he bares his teeth, but his eyes flick to the dàn on my neck. “How dare you?” he hisses. “My wife is missing. Probably dead by now. This is how you speak to a grieving man? Threatening me? I came here for help!”

“You came here to find her and drag her back to whatever hell she escaped from to finish what you started,” I say, echoing the Washwoman’s words. I press the dagger harder against his leg, dropping my voice low. “I ken what you did to your wife, and I willnae allow you to harm anyone else. Not here. Now leave. Go far away, and do not look for her again.”

His nostrils flare as he breathes in and out, his hands tensing into fists.

“You cannae keep me from finding my wife.”

“Oh, I think I can. There isnae much I can’t do. I’ll ken if you look for her,” I say, leaning forward. “I’ll leave my warning at that.” I pull the knife away, rolling up my sleeves to show him my numerous dàn. Battle skill. Tracking. Precision. “Now go.”

“Foul fucking bastard,” he says, stumbling off the stool. “You’ll regret this.”

I raise an eyebrow, giving him a cold smile. “No. I don’t think I will.” I stand, nearly a head taller than him, and nod toward the door. “Out.”

He storms from the bar, spitting at my feet on his way.

The patrons look down at their drinks as he passes them, and I take a deep breath, shaking off the interaction. I turn back just as Theo places a pint in front of me. “Thanks for that,” he says.

“Aye. How’s Billy and his mum?” I ask, changing the subject and forcing my dàn of dread to sleep once more. Theo visibly relaxes, exhaling.

“Good. Safe, thanks to you.” He gives me a nod, turning to walk away, but I stop him.

“Why is it you don’t fear the Washwoman?” I ask, surprising myself.

“Who says I don’t?” He leans against the wall. I tap my fingers on the bar, raising my eyebrows and waiting for him to answer.

Theo sighs. “What do you know about the Washwoman?” he asks, and I shrug, taking a sip of ale.

“She’s a murderess. Bound to the river and all that.”

“Aye. But I’m not speaking of her tale. I’m talking about her. She’s never seemed like a monster to me.”

“And how would you know that?” I ask.

“Because Billy’s not the first child to stumble into that glen.”

I still, tilting my head. “You’ve met her?”

“Aye. I was no older than five. I went to find her, but when I got to the river, I thought I saw a kelpie in the water.” He laughs. “Ma had told me stories of them, and my imagination ran away from me. I was frightened, crying, and she held me until I calmed. She seemed genuinely worried about me being out in the woods alone so young.”

He pauses, meeting my eyes. “I’ve always had a hard time reconciling the woman who soothed me so gently with the one who murdered all of those people.”

“You don’t say.” I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Wait. You touched her. What happened when you touched her?” I ask, looking at the dedication dàn to the Weaver on his arm.

He leans against the bar. “Nothing. Like I said. She held me until I calmed.”

“Are those your only dàn? Your dedication dàn and your naming dàn of empathy?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

“I have another on my shoulder. A travelers’ dàn. I can find my way anywhere you ask with my eyes closed.”

I nod, impressed. Most people are blessed with a single rune, unless they join the Dìdeanair. The Weaver must have seen something special in his thread to gift him more than one.

“And the Washwoman…she didnae take them when she touched you?” I ask.