Page 86 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“You really hid the needle on your body?” I ask, turning fully to face him, pretending to pinch a needle between my fingers and throw it at him like a dart. “Were you afraid I would stab you with it? Aren’t you An Àrd?”

He pins me with a stare. “I thought you might try,” he grumbles, tossing the bundle over the fire. I don’t miss his word choice. Not think. Thought. The word wraps warmth around me like a cocoon.

I stand and wander to my pillow, lifting it and grabbing a bobbin of thread from the top. Brennen is watching me again, and I hold it up.

“Afraid I'll garrot you with this?” I ask, and a smile flirts at the corners of his lips. My heart stutters, and my neck flushes with heat. I silently curse myself, embarrassed. You’d think a man had never smiled at me before, the way my body’s reacting to a half smile. Not even a half smile. It’s the barest hint, so fleeting, I may have imagined it.

But in truth, I don’t think it’s that a man is smiling at me at all.

It’s this man. My flush deepens.

“I think I can survive a bit of thread,” he says, turning the page, and I’m grateful he’s no longer looking at me.

I try to ignore him as I patch the hole with the deep purple thread, a stark contrast to the off-white of my dress.

“How long exactly have you been here?” Brennen asks, resting the book in his lap. When I look up, he's studying me again, and I wonder what he’s looking for. He’s spent hours since he’s been here staring at me, like I’m a puzzle begging to be solved. I look back down to my hem, unable to bear his scrutiny. It makes me feel naked, looking at him. Like he can see through my clothes and skin down to my very marrow.

I pause my mending to lift the bottom of my skirt. “See these?” I ask, showing him the line of tiny stitches around the hem. “I make a mark every winter. I’ve seen a hundred and three of them from this shore.”

Brennen stares at the stitches. “And how old were you when you were sent here?”

Young. The word comes unexpectedly, as do the emotions that accompany it. I had so much life ahead of me, and yet I’ve done so little.

“Twenty-three,” I make several straight stitches through the hole. “But I stopped aging when the curse began.”

His brow furrows, and he nods, leaning forward. “You've lived through an Epoch, then.” My hands still, a shiver skating down my spine. It wasn’t where I’d expected his mind to go, and yet, it’s a fair question.

“I have,” I say. The words come out as a whisper. “Is that what you're reading about?” He closes the book.

“In part. What can you remember of it?”

I hesitate for a moment. It's not something I like to relive, yet it’s another answer I can give him. “It started in the night. I saw creatures flying through the sky. First, just a few. Then, hundreds. Brollacham dug up from the ground, and Cu Sìth raced through the forest in packs, howling endlessly.

“Did they harm you?” He asks. His knuckles go white on the book.

“No,” I say. “I don't know why, but they left me alone. I could see them, but I'm not sure they could see me. It felt like it does with Lolly. They never came within my boundaries. Maybe the wards kept them out. But there was one day, when I saw a bodack. Wrinkled and old, with stringy white hair and onyx eyes and gnarled claws for hands. He stared at me. Right at me. I ran upstream to hide, and when I looked back, he was gone.”

Brennen seems unfazed by the horrors I witnessed. He’s in soldier mode, assessing. Planning. “How long did it last?” he asks.

“Near ten years. There were so many clothes to wash, and I saw each death in my mind. People were torn apart limb from limb. Eaten alive. I could hear the screams from Dalbàsail. I lost count of how many people died. Thousands.” I shiver, the memory making me nauseous. “You know, the Epoch is the only time I've ever been grateful to the Fates. The wards kept me safe. But I've always wondered, why not ward the villages throughout the kingdom completely? I'm sure the Fates were safe in their impenetrable castles. But what of their people?”

Brennen’s shoulders go tight, his eyes narrowing, as if he’s angry I’m questioning his queen. But he doesn’t accost me for it, and I wonder if maybe he’s considering what I said.

“Will you be safe when it comes?” I ask him.

“As you said. I am An Àrd. This is what I've trained for.”

“And yet I have seen monsters you have not. It would take twenty men to fight off a Beithir.”

He considers this for a moment. “Aye. Without the dàn I have, sure. But it’s no myself I’m worried about. I’m worried about my family,” he says. His mouth snaps shut, as if he hadn’t wished to share his fear with me. I don’t press him on it, returning to my mending. My thread runs out an inch shy of completely fixing the tear, and I sigh, knotting the end and throwing the spool into the fire.

The flames consume it, the fire flaring and spitting sparks into the night, and in the orange glow, Brennen becomes more clear. He’s staring into the distance, deep in thought, his eyes haunted.

“You can bring them here,” I say gently. “Your family. The new wards still hold. I swear I will not harm them.” He looks up to me, his strong jaw tight. He considers me, but doesn't answer. Disappointment settles low in my belly.

He doesn’t know if he believes me.

“Here,” I say, reaching over the fire and holding out the needle. He stares at my hand, but doesn't take it.