Page 7 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Bile rises in my throat.

Why hadn't I seen her death? Was it a mistake, and the Cutter hadn’t severed her thread? Or is she torturing me by showing me glimpses of joy and happiness?

I pick up a stick, dragging it through the mud. There has to be a reason. Even Lolly seemed to sense it. Every other time a soul has passed into the After, that’s what I’ve been forced to see. Death.

So what did I witness? The woman’s last moments? Happy ones, ended too soon? It bothers me, not knowing what ended her life.

She was on a hillside with wildflowers. Could it be a bee sting, perhaps? That’s how my favorite friend Emma’s father was taken when we were children.

Maybe a fall?

I’ll likely never know.

Maybe there isn’t a reason at all. It could be that the Cutter is simply tormenting me. Changing the terms of the curse to cause me to question my sanity.

Still, I can’t lose the sense of wrongness of it.

Desperate for a distraction from my whirling thoughts, I drag my stick harder against the ground—one long vertical stroke, then an arched one across the top. From the right edge of that mark, a line runs down at an angle, looping up at the bottom.

My hands pause. I can’t remember the rest of the dàn. The half-finished symbol stares back at me, but it does nothing to distract me from my unease. The woman’s face flashes in my mind again, and I close my eyes, trying to replace her smile with the rest of the drawing—the dàn I was given at my naming, the day I was dedicated to the Cutter, the same Fate who sentenced me here.

I work to picture the completed shape of the dàn—the black lines that once stained my skin, blessing me with magic I can no longer remember—but it's lost to me now like a raven’s cry on the wind.

Shaking my head, I rub away the image with my bare foot, mud squishing between my toes, and begin again.

I shift, and my chain snags on a hole near the hem of my dress. With a sigh, I take my needle and spool from their hiding place beneath my stone pillow, removing the last of my thread. I’m not particularly worried about getting more. The dead rarely go to their rest with the things I truly wish for, but their pockets often hold needles and bobbins.

I lift the once cream-colored wool of my skirt into the moonlight, now stained with mud and peat. It hangs heavy in my hand as I search for the hole.

The skirt has thinned with time, tears appearing far more frequently than they did many years ago, and I wonder if a day will come when it can no longer be mended.

The thought makes me shiver as I press the needle through the damp fabric and weave the red thread through, pulling the edges together. It reminds me of a stab wound stitched closed—puckered skin with a red, scabbed center.

If only all wounds were so easily healed.

The wind picks up, and I squeeze my eyes shut, gathering my strength before tying off the thread and rising to my knees.

There is no rest for the wicked.

My eyes examine the water as I kneel. What if it turns muddy? I do not think I can bear to witness life again after so much death, but as clothing appears upstream, the river remains clear. There are no swirling eddies. No angry currents, and then a stab of pain blooms behind my sternum. The wind whispers a name, Victor, and I see a man’s face in the ripples.

The relief I feel when I see his death—drowning—is staggering. This death is fate-sealed. It isn’t a mistake.

This time, I do not fight the river.

I keep one eye on my sleeping dragon as I kneel, a blue tartan kilt and white tunic floating gracefully into my hands. Hands so stained with blood that, though I will spend eternity with my arms plunged in the River Bàsail, they will never wash clean.

I slip them into the pockets, and this time, they’re not empty.

My heart bangs against my ribs as my fingers fumble along the object inside. Some sort of necklace, I think, based on the long chain brushing against my wrist. My breath quickens as I wrap my fingers firmly around it. The river pulls the kilt away, but I pull out the item before it disappears downstream.

The gold of an old locket glints in the moonlight as I lift it out of the water, and I freeze, my heart leaping out of my chest.

The item in my hand doesn’t appear to be just a locket.

It looks like a naming pendant. I hold my breath, squeezing the necklace tighter. Every child receives one at their naming ceremony. A brooch or locket with the symbol of the Fate their parents chose to dedicate them to, along with the dàn that Fate blessed them with.

My heart rate quickens, a dangerous seed of hope sprouting in my chest. This could be it. A name given in love—the fourth of the five items I need for the spell to break my curse and end this immortal life of torture. Before I can beg Am Breitheamh for mercy for my crimes. Prove to him I’ve completed my penance for defying the Fates and ending those lives, and show him I’ve changed.