Page 135 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I snap the book shut and hand it back to Harold, pocketing the scale.

“You’ll do it then?” he asks.

My throat burns. “In time.” The words taste like poison as they leave my mouth, and Harold's eyebrows draw together.

He shakes his head. “No. She killed my wife, Brennen. End this.”

I don’t bother telling him again it’s not true. “There are things I need to learn first. Things Be— the Washwoman can help me with. She’s having visions of the disappearing women.”

“Och. Why do I not feel the fire of vengeance in you anymore? The Washwoman is evil. You need to remember that. You say she has a connection to the women going missing? I believe it. She is the cause of all of this, Brennen. Dinnae let yourself forget it.”

Pressure builds in my chest, and my mind spins.

“I know what she's done,” I say, standing.

My vision tunnels as I leave, the unfairness of it all heavy on my shoulders. Bea’s moment of madness that ended in the deaths. If her mind was broken, was it even her fault? She didn't choose to kill them.

I'm so lost in my thoughts, I almost miss it. My dàn of warning tingles, and I freeze. In the pitch black, I cannae see who may be out there, but I feel their eyes on me. The tingling of the dàn turns to a fiery burn.

I pick up my pace, certain I need to get back to the river, but it is too late. I've already been seen.

The question is, by who?

60

BRENNEN

Bea is awake when I return.

She sits up when I enter the tent, but I cannae bear to look at her.

“What did Harold have to say?”

I do not answer, removing my sword belt and throwing it to the ground.

She jumps to her knees, sensing that something is wrong, and the sight causes me to feel as if I didnae ease the pressure in my cock only hours ago. It’s as present as ever. Worse, even.

“Brennen, what's happened? Are you in danger?”

I scoff. “Of course I'm in danger. You’re in danger. This whole Fates-damned village is in more danger than they could possibly know!” I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to calm myself.

“What did Harold say?" she repeats, and I turn to her. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed, genuine concern in every line of her face.

I shake my head, unable to speak. There’s not enough air in my lungs.

“Brennen,” she says, “whatever it is, it’s okay.”

My heart cracks because she doesn’t understand. None of this will ever be okay. It’s simply not possible.

“He told me how to kill you,” I say, my voice hoarse. Bea flinches, but her shock only lasts a moment before her expression is neutral again.

“You should be happy, then,” she says calmly, and I loathe how there's no bite to her words. She truly does not blame me for what I must do, and it makes all of it feel worse.

I cannae stop the cruel, disbelieving laugh that slips from my throat. “No. I’m no happy. I haven’t been happy since the day you killed those people. I've no had a single day's peace,” I say, rubbing a hand down my face. I feel as if I’m crawling out of my skin. As if there is something inside me desperate to escape, and it will rip my verra flesh apart to achieve it.

Her eyes glisten with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, but it isnae enough.

“I need you to remember why you did it, Bea.”