Page 89 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I stiffen, turning around slowly, my heart rate picking up. “I— I was going to try to muster up the courage to ask you to bring me more thread to finish patching the hole in my skirt. I was going to be brave and ask for what I need.” He stares at me blankly, his scarred eyebrow raised.

“Um… Finally.” I force a smile, grateful Brennen no longer has his dàn of truth. It’s a weak excuse, but at least he doesn’t have proof I’m lying to him.

Brennen narrows his eyes, clearly not believing a word I said as his gaze flicks to my chain, but he doesn’t press me on it.

Interesting.

Why is he not suspicious, questioning me further? I don’t have time to examine why he let my blatant lie go so easily as he shakes his head and pulls a bundle from his satchel. It's yards worth of cloth, a sturdy, thick wool in a warm brown.

“You dinnae need thread.” He doesn’t shy away from looking at me as he holds the bundle out. “For you,” he says.

My mouth pops open in surprise. “That's enough cloth to make a whole new dress,” I say, breathless.

“No. It is a dress.” His voice is stiff. Overly formal. “And a new apron and shift.” He hands them both over to me, and the weight of the fabric brings tears to my eyes. I unroll it, taking in the details. The sturdy threads at the chest and thistles embroidered along the hem in soft tan thread. “Why— I don't understand why you would do this for me.”

“I think a century in that one is plenty,” he says, flexing his fingers around the fabric. “I know you think there’s magic holding it together, but it doesnae— Well it doesnae look to me like it’ll last you much longer,” he says, stumbling over his words, his nerves so at odds with his always-confident exterior.

“Surely the Fates aren’t so cruel they’d make me wash the dead’s clothes without wearing any myself,” I say, keeping my tone light. For some reason, I don’t want him to know how much this truly means to me. Part of me thinks he’ll pull back or shy away. But part of me thinks, if I show him how deep my gratitude runs, he’ll see me even more clearly than he already seems to.

Brennen’s green eyes drop, gliding down my body as if he’s imagining my clothes disintegrating into nothing, but he clears his throat and quickly looks away, his jaw going tight.

Is it possible it’s not just me who has imagined what the other’s body looks like beneath their clothing? Just the thought makes my knees weak.

I shuffle my feet as a strained silence stretches between us, growing more taut by the moment. He shifts, his hands fisting at his sides as he clears his throat.

“You should go change,” he says, nodding toward his tent.

“Right.” The warmth in my cheeks spreads into my chest, thankfulness thick in my throat. I turn toward the tent, but stop myself. “You didn’t have to do this, you know,” I say. “Not for me.”

Brennen shakes his head. “You may be my prisoner, but even prisoners have basic rights. I want to apologize on behalf of the Fates that your needs have not been recognized until now.” He meets my eyes. “I— It wasnae right.”

A lump forms in my throat, expanding until I can hardly speak past it. This is a man who doesn’t speak without knowing precisely what he’s going to say, stumbling over his words. Apologizing for something he didn’t do.

My stomach twists. “I appreciate that. Thank you,” I whisper, and he gives me a sharp nod.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, not sparing me another look as he walks upstream out of the reach of my chain.

I walk toward the tent, unfolding the dress in my hands and holding it against my front. It seems to be exactly my size, as if it was made just for me. So does the apron, and my cheeks heat at the knowledge that Brennen is aware enough of my body to choose something that would fit so perfectly.

I run my fingers across the bodice, stilling when I find something in the pocket. Several needles and a spool of thread the same color as the thistle embroidery.

The lump in my throat thickens. You may be my prisoner, but even prisoners have basic rights, he’d said, but I don't think it was his duty to me as his prisoner that caused him to buy me this dress at all. He may have explained it away to himself as the noble thing to do, but I think it’s because, even if he cannot admit it to himself, he sees me now as more of a person than a monster. He’s given me blankets. Called me by my real name. Brought me something for my pain and wounds.

The dignity those acts of kindness have given me means more than the material possession of a new dress ever could.

I’m closing the tent flaps when Brennen leans down, and I pause, waiting to see what he’s found.

Tears sting the back of my eyes, my vision going blurry as they gather between my lashes.

Moss.

In his large, calloused hands is a thick sheet of moss. He bends down again, grabbing another, and that is when the tears finally fall.

38

BRENNEN

Bea stands in the middle of the river, her new dress soaked from the knees down. She’s bent in half, her hands in the water, face scrunched in concentration. Her hair is pulled over one shoulder, the ends of her wild curls floating in the current. She looks ridiculous, but also—beautiful.