Page 73 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

When I look back, scraping my insides for the courage to demand it reveal itself, the figure is gone.

I blink, rubbing my eyes and squinting into the darkness, but all is as it should be. I am very much alone. There is no person standing in the mist. No pulsing, writhing shadows.

I lie back down, still watching the After. Was it just my imagination getting away from me? It wouldn’t be the first time I thought someone was approaching only for a rabbit or fox to scramble from the trees.

With a shake of my head, I try to clear the image from my mind, scrub the feeling of being watched from my skin, but sleep refuses to find me. My body is too alert, waiting for any indication that something is wrong.

I stare into the night, searching for shapes until the first hints of light peek over the ridge. It’s not until the sky turns a soft, soothing pink that I’m able to relax. In the light of day, I feel foolish. Not once in a century have I seen someone in the After, nor do I think a human could survive touching the black mist. I’m just tired from the flood. From drowning, and I haven’t eaten enough. Not to mention, I’ve been on edge since Brennen arrived. That’s why I’m seeing things. Nothing more.

It’s easy to find monsters in the dark when you are one yourself.

I peek over my shoulder. Brennen hasn't emerged from his tent since he went inside last night to escape the storm, but I can feel his frustration pulsing from behind the canvas. The rain only stopped an hour ago. And while he’s probably dry, and I’m still drenched, I’m likely the only one of us who is not cold.

I stretch out my arms as dawn continues to fill the glen, and with just enough light to see, I finally move from my stone pillow. Brennen must've thought me mad for remaining in the water, but the relief I felt when I’d found the rock still in place had been the sweetest thing I'd experienced in a long while.

I would rather drown a hundred times than lose the pieces of my spell. Even if I'm not sure how or when I will use them, I have spent so long gathering each item, and the thought of beginning again is unfathomable. I move the stone out of the way, digging down into the dirt, my relief only growing when I find my belongings exactly where they should be. A reed pipe, a mourning brooch, and an adder stone. Wet and caked with mud, but still, there.

A shuffling noise sounds from the tent, and I quickly pack the earth back over my treasures and return the pillow. A flash of black peaks from under my sleeve at my wrist, and my heart stutters. I pull it back to get a better view. Seven arching waves stare back at me, roughly the size of my thumb. Another dàn.

Brennen’s dàn of truth.

My heart sinks. He’ll trust me even less now, without the reassurance of his magic. Just when I thought maybe we were getting to a place of understanding.

I quickly roll up my sleeves, examining every inch of my arms for more, then my legs. I freeze. There's a dàn on my calf. Memory.

I search my torso. Two more dàn rest there—one on my ribs, blocky and sharp—weapon accuracy. The other on my shoulder, creeping across my collarbone—warmth—fluid and soft. Dread pools in my stomach. The dàn for warmth I cannot help but feel grateful for, but to take so many…

Guilt rears its ugly head again, hot and thick. The rational part of my mind knows it's not my fault, but my body doesn't care. I stole from Brennen as he was risking his life to save me.

If not my life, then at least from hours of agony. It’s not the first time I've drowned, but it is one of the least pleasant ways I have not died, my body fighting for oxygen, my lungs burning until I’m unconscious.

I pull my sleeve back down as Brennen appears in the opening of the tent.

His hair is still wet, wavy and messy, tumbling in front of his eyes. The thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders makes him look even larger than normal, demanding attention. Even covered, his muscular build is obvious, but instead of it causing me to feel afraid, I find myself aware of him in a way I don’t think I should be. The tension in his jaw. His fingers clutching the edges of his blanket. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

Frustration rolls off him in waves, but there’s no anger mixed with it.

“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively. It's all I can think of to say. I expect an angry retort. Accusations. I brace myself for sharp words.

“I'll be fine,” he grumbles, “though I'll need to go into the village to get more blankets. Warmer clothes.” He stares at the place the fire had sat, doused by last night's rain. “I wish you'd taken a different one," he says with a shiver.

“I didn't mean to⁠—”

“I know,” he says, meeting my eyes, and shock rattles through me. “Looks like it was four dàn this time.”

“I'll try to give them back, if you want. I mean, I don't know how but⁠—”

He lifts his hands, interrupting my rambling. “I dinnae think you can, and I willnae risk losing more. Let’s leave it at that,” he says, marching to Sable where she munches on heather near the treeline. My shock grows into disbelief. He’s truly not angry with me about taking his magic.

He doesn't say a word as he mounts her, then disappears toward the village, I assume to find those warmer clothes.

I'm grateful he has that option. One I never did, because I know what happens next.

After the first rain comes the cold. A cold that will chill you to the bone. A cold that, if you can die, is likely to kill you.

I'm grateful for the storm as I wander along the river. The flood washed all sorts of debris through the glen, and I find more mature moss than I've seen in quite some time within reach of my chain.

Even though the temperature continues to plummet throughout the day, the sun remains overhead, and it feels like Hogmanay, a celebration ripe with gifts and good fortune. I collect every bit I can find, along with kindling for a fire. The one Brennen kept stoked went out in the rain, but with my dàn of warmth, I should be able to focus the heat enough to spark a flame.