Page 18 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

If whatever is about to happen was bad enough that the muse of love and madness came to warn me about it, it surely is going to be painful. I try to fold inside myself. To force my mind to go somewhere I can endure the agony I'm certain is coming.

And then, I hear it.

The birds singing the morning’s song go quiet.

The sound of someone moving through the forest makes my hair stand on end, and dread wraps around my heart as I rise to my feet.

My eyes flick to my chain, my tether to this Fates-forsaken place. I cannot run. I cannot hide.

A man staggers into the glen, a vein in his forehead bulging, and his face red with fury. I take a step back, my blood running cold at the undiluted rage in his eyes. I whisper a prayer under my breath.

It is not often I speak to the goddesses. They turned their back on me long ago, but this intercession is not for me.

It is for the woman, for Dìonadair to keep her safe. That this man does not ask me where she is going. That he does not say the words that will make me tell him the truth.

“Where is she?” he says, stalking closer, his head swiveling side to side.

“Who?” I ask, feigning innocence, but I have to squeeze my hands together to stop them from trembling.

“I know she came here,” he spits, jabbing a stubby finger in my direction. “My wife, Kenna. She was coming to find you. The butcher in Dalbàsail said she left in this direction. And the only thing out here is you,” he spits. “Tell me where she is.”

I shake my head, backing away. “No one has come to see me in weeks. I don't know what you're⁠—”

“Tell me, Washwoman, the answer I seek!” he roars.

Dread, hot and oily, spills into my blood as he staggers forward, and I fumble away from him, desperate to put distance between us. I will not tell this man where Kenna went. I will fight the magic that would force me to do so.

“I asked you a question! You have to tell me!” he screams, slapping me across the face hard enough to make my ears ring. Blood coats my tongue, so much of it, I gag, but he doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t wrap his sweaty fingers around my arm.

The man doesn’t move again, his chest heaving and his nostrils flaring as he breathes in and out, waiting for my reply.

I don’t dare speak, pressing my lips together to hide my smile. Utter relief and joy dampen the pain in my jaw.

I do not have to give him an answer.

Not unless he catches me.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I finally say, blood dribbling down my chin.

“Liar!” he hisses, but I see the doubt in his eyes. I cannot lie, it is said. That is part of the tale of the Washwoman, even if it isn't true.

“I'm sorry, I⁠—”

He rears back, and this time it is not a slap. He punches me, a hook to my temple, and as I crumble to the ground, I set my smile free.

I have finally done something good. And as everything fades to black, I sink into the comfort of knowing Kenna is safe.

The darkness is my friend. And I cannot be forced to answer if I am lost to it.

6

BEA

When I wake, my cheek is pressed against the cold scree of the riverbed, my hair drifting in the current. For a moment, I cannot place why I’m here. This isn’t my bed, nor do I have any memory of falling asleep.

The smell of copper meets my nose, and all at once, it comes back to me. The woman, Kenna. Her husband. His attack.

I scramble to sit, ducking my head and raising my arms on instinct, but nothing happens. Tentatively, I crack open my eyes, my shoulders relaxing when I find I am blessedly alone in my valley.