Page 77 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“It happened again, didn’t it?” Brennen asks, and I nod my head, my throat thick with emotion.

“You went rigid, and then your eyes glazed over. Like before. You were seeing something, weren't you?”

Nerves flutter in my stomach, but I nod. There’s no reason to hide it.

“I was in someone's house, and she fed me bread. Gave me clean clothes.” My voice cracks on the word. Not because I'm sad I lost the dress, but because I lost the dignity it would have given me. The girl had seen me as a human. Not a monster. Not the Washwoman. Just a lost soul in need of kindness.

“You can interact in the visions? Why didn’t you tell— Wait. What are you holding?” he asks, and I look down. I suck in a sharp breath, scooting closer to the fire to examine the portrait in the flickering light.

Shock ripples through my chest. How is this possible? “I was holding this when I was pulled back here. The girl I saw. This is her parents.” I rub my forehead. “I don't understand. Was I gone? Did I actually leave?”

His eyebrows draw together. “No. You were here the whole time. At least, your body was. But your mind? Your mind was somewhere else entirely.” He holds out a hand. “May I?”

A wave of shock passes through me at the way he asked instead of ordering me to comply. It wasn't a demand, and while I'm sure he'd make me hand it over eventually were I to refuse, the illusion of having a say over my actions is intoxicating.

Carefully, so as to not touch his skin, I hand it over.

“She mentioned a sister.” The words make my heart ache, and my eyes flick upstream. What if it hadn’t been the knife at all? Or the paperweight.

But what if it was, and I saved her?

Brennen’s fingers trail along the glass, and I realize his demeanor has changed. His eyes are narrowed, and his posture stiff. “The woman you saw. Describe her for me.” This time, his words are demanding.

I study his face. “She had a kind smile. Brown eyes and hair. She gave me a green dress, said her parents died a few years ago.”

“A green dress… Was it stitched with golden thread?”

I freeze. “How could you possibly know that?”

Brennen closes his eyes. “Betty. Her name is Betty, and her sister is Lillian. They’re from my village. Those are her parents. She always wore that dress. She’s to die?” he asks, and I hate the sorrow I see in his eyes.

But hope flickers somewhere inside me. My eyes dart back upstream. Her clothes haven’t appeared yet. Is it possible I succeeded? That I removed whatever it was that would end her life? I know better than anyone that a fate-sealed death cannot be stopped, but one like this? Maybe.

As if the river is laughing at me, the garments appear. A soft blue dress, brand new. I close my eyes, dropping to my knees. Sorrow wraps around my heart, squeezing tight enough to bruise. “I’m so sorry, Betty,” I say, accepting the clothes. I have no other choice, and her kind soul deserves cleansing.

Though, how will she die? What else could it have been if not the knife or the paperweight? She couldn’t get a sickness so quickly, and I didn’t see anything else hazardous. She was overly trusting, perhaps. Could someone have come to her after I left? I hope not.

I shake my head, guilt threading between my ribs. Maybe it was the fire. I hadn’t thought to check if the flames were controlled. If anything was too close to the hearth.

My voice is tight with emotion as I sing my song. Tighter, even, when I let the dress go, dipping my fingers in the river and tapping my chest, lips, and forehead. “An Glèidheadair welcome her, An Treòraiche guide her, and Am Breitheamh have mercy on her,” I whisper.

I hang my head for a moment, collecting myself, fighting back against the tears and panic that accompanied my last vision. Will I ever grow used to seeing the lives of those I cleanse, just as I got used to seeing their deaths?

When I turn back to Brennen, there’s distrust in his eyes. “Betty was a nice lass. Kind. Why her?”

I shake my head. “I wish I knew.”

“Tell me the truth. Do you ken what’s doing this? Do you ken more than you’re letting on?” he asks.

“Doing what?” I say, confused. He was there for my last vision, when I could hardly breathe from my sorrow at seeing the mother kissing her child.

He lifts his hands in the air. “I dinnae ken. Doing something to change the threads. Threads other than your own. Why are these deaths different? Is it something you did?”

I cross my arms. “What are you talking about? I’ve done nothing to any threads. Mine or anyone else’s.” I say, squaring my shoulders. I will not cower before his anger. Not again. And not when I haven’t done anything wrong.

He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Every time I start to think—” He cuts off abruptly and scoffs, leaning down to stare into my eyes. “If you’ve done nothing to alter the threads, then why can your thread not be cut?”

I freeze, my heart stuttering. The air is ripped from my lungs, and I suck in a shallow breath. “My— What?” He’s toying with me, giving me some sort of hope that I’m safe from the Fates’ wrath.