Page 96 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“You could try. But I’m very quick when I’m not chained,” I tease, and he looks at me. His eyes are dark, swirling with emotions I can’t decipher. He stares at me intently for a long moment, and my heart sinks. There’s a war waging somewhere deep within him, spilling into his expression.

“Don’t worry,” I say, rubbing my sternum as an ache forms there—a need to eradicate whatever it is threatening to pull him back into his mind. “Lucky for you, I am not, and will never be a bird,” I say, sorrow swelling in my heart for this man.

He meets my eyes, his expression tight, but for just a second, his mask of control slips. His shoulders fall, just a fraction, and he squeezes his knife tighter in his hand. “I wish you could be,” he says, so quietly, I almost wonder if I imagined it.

40

BEA

My mouth waters as I lift another spoonful of stew and watch my dragon land on her ridge. Brennen doesn’t even flinch this time, and I smile, content. The scent of beef and carrots and potatoes wafts through the air, the most delicious thing I've smelled in years, and I take a bite, moaning as the warm broth coats my tongue.

“It's no that good,” Brennen says, even though his bowl is already halfway finished.

“It's the best thing I’ve ever tasted," I say, taking another bite. I try to slow down and savor it, but it's too delicious. “I'm getting spoiled as a prisoner, I think,” I say, and Brennen laughs. Actually laughs. The sound shoots straight to my core, a deep, husky noise, like a stubbly beard scraping across delicate skin, and my stomach clenches.

What is happening to me? Is all it takes a singular laugh to turn me into a blushing young lass?

Brennen takes another bite, then sets his bowl down and opens the letter. His somewhat jovial mood seems to burn away instantly, and he leans forward, his knuckles white from his grip on the parchment.

I freeze. “What is it? Was the Cutter not happy with your letter? Is it because I asked you to tell her to stop⁠—”

“No. It's not from the Cutter. It's from Lillian.” He looks up, and the horror in his eyes causes my blood to turn to ice.

“What did she say?” I ask.

Brennen,

I dinnae understand the meaning of your letter, nor how you have a portrait of my parents. Betty disappeared several days ago and has not been seen since. How did you learn of her disappearance? Has she been found?

Surely my sister is not dead. Wouldnae I know if she were? Wouldnae I feel it? Please, tell me what you meant by your letter. I cannot live only wondering.

Lillian

The stew turns sour in my stomach, and my hands shake so severely I'm forced to put the bowl down completely.

“Disappeared, like the others you mentioned?” I ask.

Brennen nods as he reads the letter again in full, his eyes flying across the lines of the page as he mumbles the words.

I shake my head. “But I washed her clothes.” I hold up my stained hands. “That’s what happens. The way of things. I wash the clothes, and the souls pass on.”

Brennen stands and begins to pace, stew forgotten, his hands clenched into fists. “But before you washed her clothes, it was different. You were singing, but it wasn’t the same song you normally sing. And you weren't here. Your eyes were blank and glassy.”

“The visions. The ones of people living their usual lives.” I say. “What if the Cutter knows nothing of these deaths at all? What if she truly doesn’t know the women who’ve disappeared have died?”

“Have you had many of these visions?” Brennen asks, morphing into a soldier in front of my eyes.

I nod, my mind reeling, my stomach churning. “More than I can count.”

“Is it always women?”

“I don't know. Sometimes it's just a woman in the vision, but sometimes there are several people. I— I don't look to see if it’s men’s or women’s clothes when I wash them anymore. I don’t like knowing who's going to die. Not after witnessing their happiness.”

Brennen rubs the back of his neck. “But is there always a woman present? A young one?”

I close my eyes and shuffle through my memory.

The pub. The hilltop. The cottage. “Yes, I think so. There's always at least one.”