Page 72 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“I’m not thanking her for drowning me. I’m thanking her for saving my bed. It’s all I have. The only thing that’s mine,.”

“Are you daft?” I ask. “Get out of the water, Bea.”

“I won’t let it wash away. I’ll be fine here,” she says, pulling her knees to her chest.

I shake my head, taking a single step forward. “Come back to dry land before you’re pulled out again,” I order, eyes scanning the water. It’s calmed significantly, but it’s still much higher than usual, and muddy from the flood.

Her teeth begin to chatter, and she winces, her hand flying to her shoulder.

I freeze, the realization of what touching her cost me washing through me all at once. A hint of black peeks out from the neckline of her dress. It wasn’t just my dàn of memory and truth she took, but warmth.

Her shivers ease in seconds, and her breath catches, her eyes filling with wonder. “What’s happening? Why am I….” She looks up, her eyes going wide. “Why am I warm?”

I touch my shoulder where my dàn for warmth sat only minutes ago. Already, the chill is pushing through my wet clothes, goosebumps rising along my arms. “I touched your skin when I pulled you out.” My self-hatred grows.

“You…pulled me out? You dove in after me?” she asks. I dinnae answer, and the silence sits heavy between us. “Thank you,” she whispers, her fingers never leaving the dàn on her shoulder, and I know why. She's feeling heat beneath those fingertips for the first time in a century.

A fraction of my fury eases at the awe on her face, but shame instantly replaces it. I shouldnae care if she is warm. Shouldnae care that she is experiencing a rare moment of relief from her torment.

“If the river comes again,” I say, lowering my voice. “I willnae save you.” It comes out as a threat, but that’s not what it is. It’s a promise to myself, but the words leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

She nods.

“I understand,” she says with a small smile. She pulls her knees to her chest and looks up at the sky, rain glistening on her freckled skin.

I want to ask if she's going mad. If the lack of oxygen damaged her brain, because I dinnae understand why she would risk the pain of drowning for a stone pillow and the thread she hides beneath it. I curse under my breath, rubbing my arms, suddenly freezing.

“You've been warned,” I say, disappearing into my tent. I strip off my wet clothes, changing into something dry and rushing to crawl beneath the blankets. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but her face flashes in my mind. Grey skin and blue lips.

It should be a comforting sight, but it makes me feel ill.

Wind blows through the tent, and I shiver. It took me years to earn those dàn. Anger once again works its way through my blood, but it doesnae warm me, nor does it burn away the nausea churning in my gut.

I’m wholly unused to feeling so off-kilter, and I cannae stand it. My teeth begin to chatter, and I grab several more blankets. The ones Soairse insisted I pack. I picture my littlest sister rolling them up with care, worried I would be cold. I’d told her it was a waste of space, but she’d stuffed them into a sack with her little hands anyway. “Don’t you want to be cozy?” she’d asked. I hadn’t been able to argue with that, and now, I’m grateful to her.

It’s going to be a verra cold night.

30

BEA

Ilean back, the water now receding, and rest my cheek on the muddy riverbank. It’s too dark to check on the items beneath my pillow. The moon is blocked by thick, dark clouds. Instead, I trace my fingers along the patch of skin where the dàn for warmth now sits, tingling with heat. It’s a contentment I’m unfamiliar with, and it settles over me like a heavy cloak. I forget that I’m wet, forget the pain in my ankle, and close my eyes, fatigue pulling at my body.

But along with that pleasant warmth, there’s a horrible guilt incessantly gnawing in my belly. I have no right to enjoy the lack of chill. Not when Brennen risked so much to pull me out. Once again, I stole from him, even if it wasn’t intentional. Is he freezing in the tent? He must be, seeing as he’s so unused to the cold.

With a sigh, I shove the guilt as deep down as possible. I cannot change that I now have his dàn any more than I can change the rest of my past, and suffering over misplaced shame will get me nowhere.

I close my eyes, and am only barely asleep when the prickling of hair rising along my arms wakes me. There’s a groan. A shudder from the After. It vibrates through the ground, traveling through my body until I’m not sure if it is the earth trembling, or me. I pull myself to sit, leaning forward to peer into the black mist.

The groan settles, but the eerie feeling doesn’t dissipate. The After pulses, twisting as if unsettled, it’s long black tendrils reaching out further than normal. The mist thins as it stretches, and something appears. A shape, tall and thin.

Even the dàn of warmth can’t stop my blood from running cold.

In the After, a figure stands stone-still, watching me. Their gaze needles into my skin, pointed and intentional.

Is it An Glèidheadair come to take me? To allow me passage through his gates? Or has the goddess of love and madness returned with stolen songs and nonsensical warnings?

I glance toward Brennen’s tent, wishing he would appear. Did he not hear the groan or feel the realm tremble? I could scream for him, but what would the figure do?