Page 69 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

The words sound like an insult more than an honor. “I’m her loyal soldier. Nothing more.”

She scoffs, but I don’t let it bother me. Something is wrong with her. Sweat beads her brow, and her skin is ashen.

“Cailleach tells me only what I need to know for my mission. If your punishment has changed, I wasnae made aware of it,” I continue.

She doesn't answer, but it's clear based on the hurt in her eyes and the angry set of her jaw that she doesn't believe me.

“What’s changed?” I probe.

Bea sniffles, looking toward the After, and I follow her gaze. “The Cutter used to only show me deaths. But now she’s showing me people’s lives. Forcing me to watch their joy before they—” Her voice falters. “I feel like I’m going mad. I’m used to seeing death. It has become my entire life, but this? Making me watch their final moments of happiness—mothers kissing their children, lovers embracing—only to wash their clothes moments later? It’s torture.”

Her voice cracks, genuine pain etched into every syllable.

On instinct, I reach out to comfort her, but she scrambles back.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, holding her stained hands in front of her. “The dàn. I don’t know if… Just, don’t.”

“Okay, I willnae touch you,” I say, my mind spinning. Is this the proof I’ve been searching for that she doesn’t want to take my magic? That even as she sits here unable to contain her fear, she had the forethought to stop me?

She relaxes slightly, lowering her hands. “Will you ask her to stop? Please? She must respect you, to make you An Àrd.” The request causes my chest to tighten. She hasn’t asked anything of me since I’ve been here. Not for a morsel of food or a warm blanket. A fire or torch. She’s too proud, I think, but here she is, practically begging me to stop whatever just happened.

“I don’t want to see their lives anymore.” She starts to rock, her eyes haunted.

“Make her stop,” she says, struggling to breathe. Panic overtakes her, and my body moves before I think. I step forward, reaching out a hand to help her—and I hate myself for it.

This is not where my loyalties lie.

“Breathe, lass. I dinnae think the Cutter is trying to torture you,” I say, grabbing her arm over her sleeve. “There’d be no reason for her to change the curse.” Not when she’s too busy trying to figure out how to kill her. Not when the terms of her punishment were settled over a century ago.

“Of course she is! Can’t you see? That’s why she sent you! Nothing will ever be enough to satisfy that woman. She wants me to suffer? You want me to suffer? Well congratulations. I’m suffering. I’ve been fucking suffering!”

Her words churn in my stomach. Have I not proved I am an honorable man? That my intent is not to cause her pain or harm, but to enact swift, warranted justice?

“I dinnae want you to suffer,” I say, like it’s nothing, keeping all emotion from my tone, but it feels vulnerable. Like an admission I shouldn’t be voicing aloud.

She looks up, dark clouds reflecting in her tear-filled eyes. The wind gusts, and thunder cracks in the distance. A storm is coming.

“If that’s the truth,” she looks up, meeting my gaze and taking a steadying breath, “then make her stop. That, or do your damned job, and find out how to kill me.”

27

BEA

Thunder cracks again, closer this time, as I stare out at the Bàsail, the rain beating down on me sharp and cold as shards of ice. The wind blows my hair wildly, and my clothes are soggy and stuck to my skin.

Though, the weather is fitting for my mood.

Find out how to kill me, I’d told him. The shock on his face would have been comical, had I not been in the midst of my panic. I'd surprised myself, saying the words aloud, but witnessing that mother kissing her bairn… Knowing one of them would die.

It had nearly broken me.

Once again, the final two items of the spell pop into my mind. I could tell him about it right now. Have him retrieve them for me, and try to send them down the After. Except, I feel more certain than ever that, if the After is to accept me, it must be my hands that find the items.

Because what of my penance? Or is that not the problem at all?

Could it be that maybe now that death is a real possibility, I’m no longer so sure I want it.

I close my eyes, prodding the thought. Do I still want to rest?