Page 64 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Had he not believed me about helping Kenna? I’d been certain he did, even if he was too stubborn or proud to admit it. I’d thought, when he’d left for town, a sort of understanding had grown between us. He’d been annoyed, as usual, and I’d been angry. Sure, we’d just fought, but the argument felt at least somewhat resolved. I thought he knew I’d helped her, even if I wouldn’t tell him where she was, and that he didn’t need to fear me hurting him or anyone else.

But now he can hardly look at me.

Is it something else? Could he have found out about the spell? That I’ve been trying to sneak through his belongings to see if he has any of the things I need to complete it?

No. That can’t be it, either. I’ve never spoken aloud of the items I need. Never asked anyone who has visited to locate them for me, worried that if I didn’t suffer to find them myself, the After wouldn’t accept them. That if it was easy, there would be no penance.

“What happened while you were gone?” I ask, unable to bear speculating any further.

He doesn’t look at me, instead pulling out his wood carving. “Nothing of importance.” His voice is tight.

I hug my arms around my waist, trying to still the nerves fluttering there. “Someone told you something about me. Didn’t they?”

His eyes snap to mine, and I see it there. The change. There’s the usual anger in them still, but beneath it, there’s…pity.

I hate it even more than the anger. “What did they say?”

He shakes his head, violently slicing away a chunk of wood. “It doesnae matter.”

“It does,” I say, my voice firm. “If someone is telling you falsehoods about me⁠—”

He holds up his hands, shaking his head. “It’s nothing like that.”

I exhale. “Then what is it?”

He continues carving, the edge of a wing taking shape.

“I need you to tell me the truth,” he finally says. “Did you take my dàn on purpose? And have you ever done it before?” He looks up at me, and the intensity in his expression takes my breath away. The question catches me off guard. I thought we’d moved past this, too. Established that I didn’t care about the dàn, and that he could try to take it back if he wanted. So what’s changed since he left that he no longer believes me?

“I cannot keep having this conversation. No, Brennen. I didn’t take your dàn on purpose. I don’t know how it happened, and it’s never happened other than when you touched me.” I hold his gaze, willing him to believe me this time.

He takes a moment before responding, chewing on my answer. “Do you have any other magic I dinnae ken of?”

Shock ripples through me. I’d expected him to call me a liar. To insist on it, even. But his response is more tentative, like maybe he does believe me and is only being thorough in his questioning.

Hope bubbles in my chest. His presence would be so much more pleasant if he didn’t view everything I said through a haze of distrust.

“No,” I say. He looks at me with continued doubt, and I pick up a stick and draw the first few lines of the dàn in my mind, trying to think of how I can convince him. “We’ve already established you have a dàn of truth, have we not?” I ask. Going for reason seems like a smart move with this man.

“Aye. But if you can take dàn, how am I to know you can’t do other things to them? What if you can overpower their magic somehow?”

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. It’s a valid question, but he’s thinking about it too hard, and though I think he wants to believe me, his Dìdeanair mind will not allow it.

“Think of it logically. If I chose to steal your dàn, I wouldn’t have taken the one for balance, would I?”

He tilts his head. “Why not? Seems a good one to take, seeing as I was stopping you from slipping on the rocks and cracking open your skull.”

I wave him off, rolling my eyes. “Och. I’ve navigated these slippery rocks for years. I never fall. I only slipped because I was in pain, and pain is fleeting. I don’t need a balance rune.” I pause, an idea forming. Maybe the way to build his trust is through honesty. Brutal, unfiltered truth. I square my shoulders. “I would’ve taken that one,” I say, pointing my stick at the dàn peeking out from his tunic on his shoulder.

His hand goes up to touch the dàn. “Warmth?” he asks.

My gaze lingers a beat too long on the line of his throat. The broad plane of his chest beneath the symbol.

“Umm— Aye,” I stutter, peeling my eyes away to focus on my drawing. “That one, I would take on purpose. See, hunger you get used to. But cold—especially when winter comes in earnest…” I shiver.

He leans back and crosses his arms, and the dàn of healing on his forearm flashes. “Hmm. Might’ve taken that one, actually,” I say, tapping my chin.

“Why? You already can’t die,” he says, a flash of pity flickering in his eyes.