Page 82 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

My fingers curl into fists at the mention of Marsaili’s blood, and I stare down at her hands. The way the stain coats the entirety of her palms, trailing up her forearms in little rivulets. “You act as if it’s the fact they died that pains you.”

“It is,” she snaps, and there’s fire in her voice. Fire I dinnae think she is faking.

I run a hand across my face in frustration. Does a murderer regret their actions like this? Their own body revolting against what they did? “But you killed them. Didnae you?”

The air is heavy as I wait for her answer, and part of me hopes she'll deny it. Hopes this is all a wild misunderstanding, and that my gut instincts are right. That she truly isn’t capable of such violence. That something else occurred that can explain away the horror of what happened that night.

And yet, had she not killed before? A century ago, when she ended her friend and her lover’s life?

“Yes,” she says, her eyes welling with tears. “I did.”

My hope falls like a drip of molten iron dropped into water, instantly hardening into a ball of anger. “Then tell me why,” I order, my voice sharp. “Tell me why, and maybe I can understand. Maybe I can help you.”

“I can’t—” Her voice breaks.

“Tell me something. Tell me what you wanted out of it. Tell me how you chose your victims. Tell me how you escaped this valley.”

Her eyes flick to mine, and she sucks in a sharp breath. “If I tell you something. One thing, will you stop tormenting me?”

I pretend to consider, but really, this was my plan all along. One I’d formed in the long hours last night when sleep had refused to find me, the cut on my palm throbbing. If I cannae get her to tell me why she did it, maybe I can wear her down in hopes she’ll give me another piece of information that might fill in one of the holes in her story.

“For now,” I say, crossing my arms.

She nods, her jaw clenching as she picks up a rock. She twists it between her fingers, glancing up at me.

“Well?” I ask.

She opens her mouth, then pauses. “Will you please sit down? I can't think with you standing over me like that. You're so…” she waves a hand at me, but doesn't continue.

So what, I wonder. Angry? Wrathful? I didnae even activate my dàn of dread. She has no idea how so I could be if I wanted.

“Fine,” I say, leaning back against a log as she places the rock down and begins to search for another. She grabs several, beginning to build a cairn. It takes a few moments before she speaks, the stack of rocks seven high by the time she opens her mouth again.

“Before I killed those people, I had no chain.”

Anticipation prickles along my shoulders. This one sentence is more than I've learned in the entire time I've been here.

“I had boundaries within the glen, of course, but they were much further away. I couldn’t get any closer to the After than I can now, but I could go up around the bend,” she points upstream. “I could go into the woods, all the way to where the rocky part of the ridge begins.”

I tuck every word away. “You never went past the boundaries?”

She scoffs. “I tried, but I couldn’t. They’re warded by the Fates with dàn carved into trees with knives dipped in my own blood. I think it connects my life force to the valley, my blood soaking the trees, traveling into their roots and the land itself. I could feel it, that connection, when I’d get too close to the boundary. Still, it was wonderful,” she says, wistful. “Compared to this, at least. My bed was so soft and plush with all the moss I could gather. I was able to hunt. I could follow the fish and watch the birds fly through the forest.”

She pauses, her eyes darting to the opposite side of the river.

“One day there was a storm. The wind was unlike anything I've ever seen. Trees were uprooted, thrown clear across the river. One of them held a ward. I felt it, when the boundary broke. Something snapped in my chest, and in a blink, I was free. I didn't think. I didn't consider that leaving the valley would cost me so much. That would lead to all this.” Her eyes go glassy as she gestures to her shoreline and chain.

“The wards blocking the After still stood, so I found the fallen tree, and I ran through the gap. Stole a horse and kept going until I was too exhausted to continue. I was so hungry, and I was afraid I wouldn’t find a place to hide. I think I knew deep down I could never escape the Fates. Not forever.” She pauses, trailing off.

“What happened next?” I say, my voice quiet so as to not break through her trance.

She closes her eyes, and I wonder if she’s hearing the screams. “I remember falling asleep against a tree. And then, nothing. Not until there’s a knife in my hand, and blood coating my fingers as I pull it across a neck.”

My pulse stutters, my mouth going dry. “You didn’t leave intending to kill anyone?” I ask.

She winces. “No. I would never, ever want to end a life. But it doesn't change the fact that I did. That I ended so many. I can still feel the woman’s back against my chest. How cold the hilt of the dagger was in my hand.” She shudders, her face going pale. “It doesn’t feel like you think, cutting through a throat. It’s not smooth, and it requires a surprising amount of force. It haunts me, that feeling. I dropped the dagger as soon as I realized what I’d done, and I tried to help her, but it was too late.”

Nausea roils through me at Bea’s words. At her description of the feeling of ending not just any life, but Marsaili’s. My vision goes fuzzy at the edges, and I shake my head, my mind swimming as if I’m wading through the thick fog that hangs over the glen. “You cannae tell me why you killed them because you dinnae ken. You dinnae remember.” It comes out as a statement rather than a question, a rough whisper, almost to myself.