Page 31 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to tell me what you're carving?” I ask, and his nostrils flare as he sucks in a deep breath. His frustration brings a smile to my lips. Maybe, even without him speaking, I can find some entertainment in his presence after all.

I sigh dramatically. “I don't have many hobbies out here, you know. The Fates didn't send me with dice or books to read. I do like to look at the stars, though.”

Scrape.

“That one right there, those six that connect,” I draw with my finger overhead. “That's the Bonnie Milkmaid.”

His hand stills on the carving for a moment, and my lips twitch.

“And that one over there, that's the Kilted Warrior.”

He looks where I’m pointing for the briefest moment. “You're talking shite," he says, going back to his carving, but the scrape of his knife becomes rougher. A smile tugs at my lips.

“Well, of course I am. It’s not like I studied the stars before I came here. I don't know their real names.”

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The cadence grows faster. Sharper.

“That one over there, I like to call the annoyed guardian.” I point at a spot in the sky directly over his head, and I swear he actually growls.

A flicker of triumph settles in my chest, and I smile. I’m getting to him.

“That one⁠—”

“Is there one called lass who doesnae know when to keep her mouth shut?” he asks, and I laugh out loud, a true, genuine laugh. It feels good. Another experience I haven’t had in the longest time. “No, I haven't spotted her yet. I'll let you know if I do, though.”

He shakes his head, gritting his teeth.

“That one over there⁠—”

“I dinnae care what you call them!” he says, dropping his wood carving.

I lean back, unbothered by his anger. “You could tell me their real names.”

He huffs, snatching the carving off the ground, growing more furious by the moment, and yet, he clearly doesn’t see the humor in his behavior. “Or do you not know them, either?” I tease, unable to stop myself. I lay my chin on my hand. “That would make sense. You're a warrior after all, not a scholar.”

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

“You could tell me something else. Anything would do, really.”

Scrape.

“Like the village. Dalbàsail. What's it like now? It's been so long since I’ve been there.” He freezes, narrowing his eyes as if he doesn't believe me.

“What? Not the village, then? What about you? Do you have a family? A lover perhaps?” I wiggle my eyebrows.

His hand jolts, and he breaks a chunk off the wood with the edge of his knife. He curses under his breath, throwing it in the fire. “Dammit, woman,” he says. “Stop talking!”

The look he gives me is anything but playful. I want to fight back, tell him to get used to it. That it’s not my fault he’s stuck here with me, but I bite my tongue. Something has shifted in his energy, and for some reason, it feels unkind to push him further.

For tonight, at least.

If he thinks I will remain silent for his time here, when I’ve had no one to speak to but myself for years, he's sorely mistaken.

I pretend to yawn, stretching out my arms. “All right, enough with your chattering. Who knew they'd send such a loose tongue to guard me? I’m sure this will be a shock to you, but I do need my beauty rest,” I say.

He huffs, and I can tell based on his fisted hands that he’s barely containing his retort.

I lie down and close my eyes, listening to the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs. The scraping of his knife on wood interrupts them, but I find the rhythmic earthiness of it soothing. I’m almost asleep when his rough voice pierces the night.