Page 91 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I dinnae like the way the flush of her cheeks warms my chest. Makes my cock twitch.

Marsaili.

Her name hits me with a sudden intensity, the guilt squashing any trace of desire in my blood.

“I’m the oldest of eight,” I say, needing to focus on something else.

Her eyes light up, and I sigh. “My parents passed several years ago, just after my baby sister was born. I took care of my siblings after that, until my aunt and uncle moved closer to help. I practically raised Saoirse.”

Bea smiles at me, so bright, I have to look away.

“I bet you’re a wonderful brother. I’d imagine your siblings miss you very much.”

My throat constricts at the compliment. I picture Saoirse’s face. Her full cheeks and little dimples. “I’m not so sure about that. I think most of them think I’m too inflexible. I made them all finish their schooling. Didnae allow them to make any mischief.”

She laughs, and the sound shoots straight between my ribs.

“That’s not so awful, is it? A brother who cares about you enough to make sure you stay safe and get an education. You could be like that husband you sent away, Hamish. Or you could’ve not cared at all.”

“Aye, perhaps. But my siblings are different from me. They always said I saw the world too rigidly. Right and wrong, with nothing in between.”

She feigns shock, popping her eyes wide open and placing a hand over her heart. “No. You don’t say.”

I suppress a laugh. “Aye. They'd grumble when I would give them consequences for their actions. Said what did it matter if the cows were milked before breakfast or after, or if the garden was tended to.” Bea nods as I speak, watching me raptly, as if trying to see beneath my skin.

“But I told them, there is right and wrong. If there are rules, they must be followed, or we’re no better than animals,” I say, and a bit of the tension I always carry in my chest eases. Like maybe if she understands my motivations, not just regarding her, but everything in my life, it will be easier to do what must be done.

She leans back, crossing her arms. “Sounds like you were woven to be a Dìdeanair. Were they angry at you for it? The rigidity you speak of?”

“No.” I can't help but smile as I picture Saoirse sticking out her tongue at me when I made her do extra cleaning after ignoring her chores for the day. She'd thrown a handful of bubbles from the washbasin at me. Always playful, even when I was cross.

“I think I would have liked for someone to have cared enough about me to make sure I grew up to become a good person. Maybe if I'd had that…” Her eyes go hazy.

“Did your parents not?”

She swallows, and her answering smile is sad. “My parents died when I was eight. I didn’t have anyone to take me, so I was dropped at the Weaver's Temple.”

“Were you dedicated to her?” I ask.

Bea shakes her head. “No. I used to bear the Cutter’s sigil. Though I've wondered why I would be dedicated to one Fate, but left with another. I don’t have an answer.”

“Who raised you?" I ask, confused. I’d never thought of the Washwoman as a child. Someone with a past I dinnae ken anything about.

“It wasn't the Weaver, if that's what you're thinking. I was sent to a home where many other children without parents lived. Most days, there was hardly enough to eat. But I guess, in a way, it gave me siblings. I had a family, of sorts, if not parents. When we turned fifteen, we were left to fend for ourselves.” My mind reels with this new information. She hadn’t only suffered this last century, but practically her entire life.

“Have you no memories of happiness?” I ask, my chest tightening.

She waves me off. “Of course I do. I made a friend, Molly, and together, we made our way here, to Dalbàsail. We were welcomed. I had a home.”

“You lived in the village?” I ask, wondering why no one in town told me this. The fish starts to smoke, and I realize I've stopped turning it. I flip it over, making sure not to let it burn.

“Aye.”

“No one in town told me that.”

Her eyes flash with sadness. “Part of the curse. When I was sentenced here, I was wiped from everyone’s memory. The people who hurt me… They were friends. People I’d cared about. People who’d cared about me.”

I recoil at the thought. To be hurt so severely is one thing, but for it to be done by someone who once knew you? It’s another level of torment altogether.