Page 136 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

She shakes her head, wincing against the voices and pain that always come when I ask about that night. “I already told you. I have tried. I really have. I want to know as much as anyone else. You couldn't possibly want to know more than I do. This is my story. Of course I want to know why I was taken by madness!”

“Do you? Then remember!” I scream, six years of rage exploding out of me. Because this is the core of it all, is it not? She murdered Marsaili and her entire family in cold blood. And yet, I want her. Need her. There has to be a reason buried somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Some sort of explanation that will make all of this okay.

Bea’s lip trembles. “Why do you need to know so badly? Why must it come back to this, again and again? Have we not spoken of it enough? Why can't you simply believe me? I didn't want to do it. I didn't mean to do it. But it was these hands that killed them.” Bea lifts her stained palms. “There's something broken in me, Brennen, but I cannot name it. In the end, I’m simply the monster everyone thinks I am.”

“No” I growl, stalking forward. “That's the problem! You’re no a monster at all! You’re good, and kind, and strong. And yet, you ended their lives. I need to know why.” I’m nearly begging now, but I dinnae care. My soul cannae continue to be torn in two by these feelings for Bea churning inside me. I cannae burn for the one who killed Marsaili if there isnae a reason that proves it wasn’t her fault. I dinnae think I will survive living in the grey.

“Why do you care so much about the why?” She stands, throwing her arms out. “It happened. It will not change. That's the end of it.”

“It's no the end of it. It’ll never be the end of it!” I say. My lungs constrict, and suddenly, I cannae breathe.

“Why not?” she screams back.

“Because it was my geallta you killed!” I roar.

Bea flinches as if I slapped her, her breath leaving her lungs in a single whoosh. She goes pale as my voice echoes outside the tent and through the glen, forcing her to hear my confession again and again and again, slowly getting softer with each chorus of accusations.

The words hang between us, the edge of the blade about to swing.

“I—” She swallows. “I killed your geallta?” Her voice cracks on the word.

I do not have to answer her.

“Who was she? Leslie?”

I shake my head.

“Marsaili?”

I stiffen at the sound of her name coming out of Bea’s mouth, and her eyes fill with tears, her hands violently shaking as she wipes them away.

“I killed your geallta. Your betrothed. You’ve been so kind to me, and I killed— I'm sorry.” She stands, curling in on herself as a sob breaks free. She fights to hold them back, as if she doesn’t deserve to be the one to feel sadness. Her eyes go glassy, almost as if she’s withdrawn inside herself, like I’m not here at all.

“I'm so sorry. So, so—” She bites back another sob, ducking outside the tent into the snow. I sit down, placing my head in my hands.

My body trembles with rage. So much, I dinnae know where to place it. Should I be angry at myself? At Bea? Maybe both of us deserve it.

Maybe neither of us do. Maybe the world is simply broken, and there is no order or reason to things like I’ve always believed. The thought settles heavy on my shoulders, the idea that the code I have lived my life by could be so wrong. And beneath it is a brokenness I’m beginning to believe I willnae ever be able to fix.

Because If someone as caring as Bea could do such a horrible thing, is anyone good? Who's to say my own mind couldn’t break under strain like this? That I couldnae end up in the exact same position as Bea in another life?

I dinnae know how much time passes, but eventually, the fire inside me burns out into exhausted embers. I stand, leaving the tent.

“Bea,” I start, but she is across the river at the end of her chain, lying in a heap on the opposite shore. A coating of snow already covers her body, and my heart shatters completely.

“Come back in the tent. You’ll freeze out here!” I call, but she doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t move at all, and a mix of worry and frustration burns inside me, the urge to dive in and force her back into the tent overwhelming. I hadn’t told her to cause her pain. I hadnae meant to tell her at all, and I want to go to her. To apologize.

But as much as I want to, I cannot swim to the other side of the river without my dàn of warmth.

It will kill me, and I fear my death would weigh on Bea even more than Marsaili’s.

“I dinnae blame you,” I call. “Not anymore,” I add, a whisper only I can hear. Once again, she doesnae move. “Come in when you're ready. I’ll be here.” But morning comes, and the other side of the bed remains empty.

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BRENNEN