Page 61 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

My chest rises and falls with tense breaths for several moments as I weigh my options, but before my mind can even catch up, I’m shoving the journal into my bag and stalking toward the front door.

“Brennen?” Harold calls. I turn.

“If you do decide to turn me in,” he meets my eyes, holding my stare, “know my son and grandsons ken nothing of the book. They dinnae ken it exists at all. You’ll leave them out of it.”

I raise my eyebrows, a smirk crossing my lips. “Threatening a Dìdeanair?” I ask, but I dinnae blame him. I’d lie to protect the ones I love, too.

“I like you, Brennen. I think you know it’s no me who’s the threat.”

I look down at the journal in my bag, noting its heaviness. Not just the physical weight of the pages, but what it represents.

Years of torture, listed out in neat, organized lines.

A woman who cannae die, despite all of the ways they tried.

A Fate who claims she wants that woman dead, but sent me with a threat to my family looming over my head to accomplish what these villagers have been unable to do in a hundred years.

"I dinnae ken who the threat is anymore," I admit, then turn and walk into the night, the journal bumping against my side with each step.

I should hate the Washwoman. I do hate her, and I will still kill her. The vow on my palm hasn't changed, and neither has my desire for vengeance. But as I walk through the darkness back toward the tavern, all I can think about is the entry I'd read: Slit her throat to the bone. The same wound that killed Marsaili. Except Bea had felt the blade slice through her skin and muscle until it scraped her spine. Had drowned in her own blood and then been forced to endure the pain of healing, only for them to stab and burn and stone her.

What kind of monster could endure that and still show kindness to a child who'd beaten her? What kind of monster could survive a century of torture and choose to risk more pain to protect a stranger?

Not any I’m aware of.

I picture her as I walk, her freckled nose and wild red hair, slight beneath that threadbare dress she wears, her hands always plunged into the river, and try to reconcile it with what I just read. Fire blistering her skin. Daggers etching into bone.

Without thinking, I push my hand into my pocket, the wood of the robin I’ve been carving scraping against my scarred palm.

I find the junction where the robin shifts from a bird in flight to unwhittled, angular wood.

A reminder that no matter what appears to be on the outside, there can be something else hidden inside entirely, like a woman who was tortured relentlessly, but who, six years ago, murdered my geallta.

That’s the only truth that matters. It has to be.

24

BRENNEN

The tavern patrons are already several rounds of ale deep when I enter, based on their red faces and raucous conversations. Theo nods as I approach the bar, his eyes flicking toward a large man sitting at the end of it. I know what he’s saying before he has the chance to speak—not because I can read his mind, but because I noticed the man the second I walked in.

He’s drunk. Too loud and slurring his words, and exactly as Theo described. But more than that, there’s an aura of danger about him, as if he could switch at any moment from a jolly drunk into a raving lunatic.

I slide up next to him, placing my forearms on the bar. “I think it’s time to go,” I say.

“Och, piss off,” he says. “You’re not me mam. Another,” he stares me straight in the eyes, slapping his hand on the counter so hard, the mugs sitting on it rattle, and ale sloshes onto the wood. Several patrons glance over, but quickly look away. It seems they know trouble when they see it, too.

My already strained patience thins, and I grit my teeth. This man is no different from the men in that journal. I have no doubt of it. He doesnae care about his actions. Doesnae care how they affect anyone other than him.

“He’s finished,” I tell Theo, then use my foot to push back his stool. The man nearly falls. “I dinnae think you’re understanding me. You’re leaving.”

He stops, putting his glass down, and turns to face me slowly. “I’ll drink as much as I please. Try to stop me again, and we’ll have a problem.”

I take the glass, moving it out of his reach. “Threaten me again, and you’ll see how big of a problem we can have. I couldnae care less how much you drink, but I do care about keeping people like you out of this village. You’re leaving. And you’re leaving now.”

He starts to stand. “Who the fuck do you think you⁠—”

My control snaps, and I pull my dagger out, pressing it against his inner thigh near the groin, right where his blood pulses beneath his skin. One slice, and he’ll bleed out in minutes. Seconds, even. He freezes at the pressure of my blade, and his eyes go dark.