Page 68 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“What is this man talking about?” I mutter under my breath. The words are senseless. Take our magic? The Fates are the ones who give us our magic. Is it just the ramblings of a madman? Perhaps someone sick in the mind, hallucinating or fabricating memories?

I start the passage over and am looking for hints of sanity in the words when the valley goes unnaturally still, only for a moment, before the wind picks up and the river changes. I jump to my feet, the change so abrupt, I’m afraid it is about to flood the valley.

The blue dragon roars overhead as the water turns a ruddy brown, swirling and thrashing, the current so unnatural, I’m certain nature alone couldn’t have created it.

Whatever this is, it’s caused by magic.

I turn to the Washwoman. “What’s happening?” I ask, but she doesn't seem to hear me. Her eyes are wide, and in them, there’s fear—sharp, genuine fear—but what I don’t see is surprise. She drops to her knees, her movements unnatural and stiff as if she’s straining against her movements, and places her hands in the water. Running to kneel in front of her, I reach out to grab her face to force her to look at me, but stop just shy of touching her skin.

I cannae risk it.

“Washwoman,” I say, crouching down, but she doesn’t see me. Her eyes have gone glassy. “Bea!”

Her lips open, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, a melody floats from her mouth. It’s different from the song she sings while washing. This sounds like a pub song, but there’s no joy in it. She rocks, her eyes rolling back in her head.

There's friendship in bushels and tales long been said.

Let's trade our stories before we fall dead.

Can happen in moments, the blink of an eye.

The river will find you when it’s time to die.

A song cannae tell you the time it will end.

As long as you live, a new one can begin.

We knew you were coming. We’ve waited all night.

Held off on the last verse until you arrived.

I grab her arms and shake her, making sure to only touch where clothes cover her skin. Heat flares in my palm, but I hardly register it as, in my periphery, I notice something floating from upstream—red fabric that slowly drifts toward Bea.

Her eyes remain glassy, a single tear slowly rolling down her flushed, freckled cheek.

“Bea?”

She sucks in a sudden breath, blinking rapidly as her eyes come back into focus.

“What happened?” I ask.

Her eyes slide straight past me to the dress, and she’s so focused on it, it’s almost as if she doesn’t know I’m there. Her hands tremble. “Please,” she whispers. “Make her stop this.”

I shake my head, confused. “Stop what?”

With a snap, her back bends, almost as if shoved forward by invisible hands, and she cries out in pain. Her breaths grow rapid as she washes the dress, her face creased with despair when she lets it go.

“What was that?” I ask, my heart rate picking up. I look around, searching for anything that could have caused her to behave so strangely, but nothing else is amiss. I shift back a fraction, checking my dàn of warning. It remains silent, but it doesnae do much to settle me. What I just witnessed was unnatural.

Was it the monster inside her trying to break free? The thought has my hand drifting toward my dagger.

She curls her legs beneath her, shoulders hunched. She looks defeated—more so than I’ve ever seen her, even after being attacked by Billy.

“Tell the Cutter to make it stop. I can’t take it anymore. My curse was bad enough. I’ve done nothing to deserve it changing now.”

My confusion only grows. “Changing what? What are you talking about?”

Bea meets my eyes, something akin to betrayal in them. “Don’t pretend as if you don’t know. You’re her right hand, are you not?”