Page 23 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

She claims ignorance herself, and my dàn of truth did not warm, which means either she can somehow lie to me undetected, or she truly doesnae know. Either way, I will do whatever it takes to find out.

My family’s lives depend on it.

The thought settles like a stone in my stomach, and I force a wall of iron around my mind. I cannae afford to be distracted by Cailleach’s threat. Not when that distraction might be the verra thing that causes me to fail.

I scan the shore for anything that could be used as a weapon, as well as possible escape routes. My dàn of warning hasn't alerted me of danger, but that doesnae mean much. Just because she doesn't intend on attacking me now doesn't mean she won't. We're deep within a massive valley, rocky hills soaring around us, and while riding in on my horse hadn't been particularly difficult, climbing out by foot would be a challenge, especially without sturdy footwear.

And that’s if she could even get the chain off her leg.

The Washwoman stiffens as I approach, but I do not meet her gaze, keeping my eyes on her hands as I crouch next to the interlocked ovals of iron embedded in a slab of river rock.

She scoots away slightly, pulling her knees to her chest and sucking in a deep breath, as if afraid of what I'll find. There are chips in the stone where it looks like she's tried to chisel away the shale over time, but the metal appears too firmly fixed in place to pull out, and the hum radiating from it tells me it’s been reinforced with magic.

I try to lift the stone, activating my dàn of strength, but even with it burning on my ribs, it barely budges. It must weigh at least thirty-five stones. Completely impossible for this tiny woman to lift or drag.

“Was this added after your escape?” I ask, wondering if it’s a century or six years old.

Her cheeks turn red, but she nods.

Good. Less of a chance it will break or fail.

“Hold out your ankle,” I order, and she finally meets my gaze, her expression hard as stone.

“Why? So you can make sure my shackle is tight enough? I promise you, it is.” Her words are angry, but her voice is tired.

My hands curl into fists, tight enough my fingers cramp. “Hold out. Your ankle. Now.”

She flinches, only hesitating for a moment before shifting to extend her foot to where I can see it. An echo of pain spreads through my own ankle as I look at the bloody, marred skin beneath the shackle.

The metal is as thick as my thumb and appears to be welded by dragon fire. There’s no lock to pick. No bolts to unscrew. Pulling as hard as I can, I test each link in the chain.

The Washwoman studies me as I work, her posture and expression the picture of neutral indifference, but there’s a slight tremble to her lips that betrays her composed exterior.

I dinnae allow it to bother me.

Let her be angry.

Let her be terrified, just as I’m sure Marsaili was at the end of her life.

I dinnae try to picture her face, but it comes to me nonetheless. Her slender nose and blonde eyelashes. The wisps that framed her delicate face. Something in my chest cracks, and I force the image away, focusing on the task at hand. I pull harder, testing the last links, but the metal appears in pristine condition.

Satisfied the chain is stable, I grab her arm. “Stand up,” I order, but she resists.

“What could you possibly want now?" she asks, her voice exasperated.

I squeeze tighter, and she winces. “I dinnae enjoy repeating myself. It’d serve you well to learn that.” I drag her to her feet, and her knees almost buckle, but I hold her up until she stands on her own. “Arms out,” I bark, and this time, she listens.

Starting at her shoulders, I search her for weapons, keeping my hands confined to where clothing covers her skin. My hands slide down her arms to the cuffs of her long sleeves, then back to her armpits.

She sucks in a harsh breath as my touch lowers, grazing the sides of her breasts, then again as it slides beneath them. She shifts away from me, but I hold her in place, ignoring the way her body stiffens beneath my fingers.

When I look up, there are tears in her eyes.

If she were anyone else, any other woman, I’d stop. But she’s not, and in the end, I will do far worse to her than this.

I search the pockets of her mud-stained apron and step back.

“Satisfied?” she asks, her voice tight as if she's trying to hold back tears. Or at least, pretending to, because while her forehead is creased and her lips tremble, no tears have fallen.