Page 43 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

BRENNEN

Iapproach the boy's house with new eyes.

Mismatched drapes cover the windows, holes spotted throughout. The front garden is overgrown, and the trim is weathered and rotting. It could use a new roof, the patches haphazardly slapped on, peeling away in strips.

I pause at the front entrance and am raising my hand to knock when I hear it. A crash. Bottles shattering and a cry of pain.

“Bloody stupid boy, going to see the Washwoman! And you, for allowing it!” There’s another crash and a scream—this time, a woman's.

I kick in the door in one swift motion. A large, pale man, his face near purple with anger, stands over a crying woman lying on the ground, holding her cheek. A bruise already darkens the skin around her eye, and in her lap is Billy, trying to shield her with his body.

The man turns to me. “Who the fuck are you?” He starts towards me, but I get to him first, slamming his back against the wall, my forearm pressed against his throat.

“Who the bloody fuck are you, hurting a woman and child?” I push harder against his airway, and his face turns red. My dàn for strength flares along my ribs, and it takes all my restraint not to keep pushing until I crush his windpipe.

“They're my family,” he spits out. “Is my job⁠—”

“It’s your job to love and provide for them.” Disgust laces my every word. It’s no wonder the boy learned such cruel behavior.

A baby wails from a bassinet I didnae notice, and I see red. I awaken my dàn of dread, and the man pales, sweat breaking out on his bald head.

“Gather your things,” I say to the woman, shifting to block her husband from view. “Anything you might need.”

“If you think for a second—” the man starts, but I push harder. He grabs my arm, panicking as I cut off his oxygen completely, but he’s nothing more than a gnat. An inconvenient pest.

I ignore him, glancing over my shoulder at the woman.

“Do you want to be free of this life?” I ask. She hesitates for only a second. Her throat bobs,` but she squeezes her trembling hands together, meets her husbands furious gaze, and nods. “Yes.”

A wave of admiration washes through me. It takes a brave woman to look her attacker in the eye and say she’s done.

The relief that swells in my chest dulls the anger enough to allow me to make a plan. “Fetch me your handfasting tie.”

Her husband arches against me. “You have no authority⁠—”

“I am a servant of Cailleach, An Àrd. I have the authority to end your marriage and your life. One of the two will be ending today. I will allow you to choose which.” He opens his mouth to argue, and I activate my dàn of dread once more. His face pales, and he swallows.

“Bastard,” he says under his breath, his voice shaking, but I ignore him, taking the still-tied handfasting ribbon from the woman. There is no ceremony as I hand my dagger to her.

“Cut through it.”

On trembling legs, she follows my instructions, and I take the severed rope from her.

“As it was written in the threads, so has it ended,” I say, sealing it with my dàn of truth. It’s not often I get to use this part of the dan’s ability, the sealing of vows, but I’m especially grateful for it as the rope turns black in my hands. I hand it back to the woman. “In case anyone questions if your union is truly over.”

Billy darts around me, grabbing a rucksack and throwing a book and a toy horse inside, and I wonder if he chooses only those items because he’s wearing the only clothes he owns. “Come on, Ma!” he says, pulling at her arm. The man suddenly leans to the side, kicking out with his feet and kneeing me in the groin. The pain is instant, breathtaking, but I don’t let it stop me.

I take a quick step back, and the moment he moves to strike me, I slam his arm against the wall. His hand opens, and I spear the razor-sharp tip of my dagger through his palm, bones crunching as the blade embeds into the wood, nearly to the hilt.

If it is only fear and pain that will stop him from coming after them, so be it.

The man howls as I back away. Blood trickles down his arm and onto the floor, a drip, drip, drip that makes me sick to my stomach almost as much as this man himself.

“Dinnae try that again,” I say, turning my back on him.

“You stabbed me,” he says. “You fucking stabbed me!”

I ignore him. “Are you ready?” I ask the woman. She nods, tucking the bundled-up baby tightly against her chest.