Page 85 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Happiest birthday, little one. I cannae believe you’re six years old. How did time pass so quickly? I will be home as soon as I can, and cannae wait to celebrate with you. In the meantime, I made you something. I hope you love it. Tell Isla and Mairi to spoil you with extra sweets. You deserve it.

I love you, and am so verra proud of you.

Brennen.

I enclose a small lamb carving I made for her, sealing it with wax, and as I add the letter to the stack, a fraction of my unrest disappears. Saoirse would tell me not to fret. That as long as we have our family, everything will work out in the end.

I have to believe she’s right.

35

BEA

The fire crackles as we sit beside it, Brennen on one side, me on the other. It’s a physical divide, yet it still feels like something has shifted between us today. His anger has changed. Not disappeared, necessarily, but morphed into something a bit less sharp. He doesn't seem to hate me with every beat of his heart now, though I can still sense the anger bubbling beneath the surface of his calm exterior.

I try to ignore it. To ignore him, but my body won’t listen. Every few seconds, it seems, my eyes flick to where he sits reading a book, a leather-bound journal of sorts, his eyebrows drawn together as if he’s thoroughly studying the contents inside. But it’s not just me who seems to be unable to keep my eyes to myself.

Every so often, his gaze sears my skin as well. What is he searching for?

The sensation of him watching me prickles again, and I look up, but he quickly turns away. His strong jaw clenches, and he rubs a hand across his scruff, his forearms flexing as he turns the page. Heat flares deep within me, my skin suddenly overly sensitive. The fire is too warm, and my dress scratchy.

This is foolish. Embarrassing even, the way my body has begun responding to his proximity. Maybe it's just spending so much time with someone after being alone for so long. Maybe I would feel an attraction to anyone of his age and physicality. Or, if not an attraction, an appreciation at least.

Brennen is a soldier through and through. Strong in a way that speaks of hard work, his muscles defined and corded, honed by years of training and self-control. It takes perseverance to become a warrior like that, and I wonder, if I’d possessed some of his fortitude, would my life have turned out differently? Maybe my mind wouldn't have broken and caused me to do the horrible things I’ve done.

I think back to that night six years ago. What could've caused me to snap so severely? Was I afraid of something? Did I see a threat that wasn't there? Or is it really as I suspect? That the curse binding me here fractured my mind when I escaped?

The screams begin to echo as I prod my memory, and I wince, pushing the thoughts away. Every time I try to come up with answers, my mind betrays me once again. But is there an answer, hidden somewhere in the depths of my mind?

Even thinking about the memories causes the screams to grow to a roar, and I bite my lip, pushing the thoughts away before the pain of it can get any worse. I grab some stones and begin to stack them, but only make it to four before they tumble to the ground. They’re too round, and I search for more suitable ones, desperate for a distraction.

But Brennen’s gaze once again heats my face, and I abandon the search, fighting the flush creeping up my neck. His lips tip down in what seems to be concern, and not for the first time, it knocks me off kilter. This man, who’s sole purpose of being here is to kill me, seems to genuinely care if I’m hurt. If I suffer.

“Are you in pain?” he asks, his voice low and rough. His eyes flick to my ankle. “I can get you more willow bark if the cuff has been bothering you.”

I rub my temples. “No. It’s not that. It’s—” I pause, taking a deep breath. Part of me wants to be vulnerable with him. It’d felt good, earlier, to confess how I’d escaped the river. To confide in someone, and I want to tell him how much the bits of memory I do have haunt me.

“The screams returned,” I shake my head. “I was thinking of them. Of the people I killed.”

He leans back, studying me, as if surprised by my willing admission. “Do you think of them often?”

“Every day,” I say, picking up my hem and running my fingers along it so I don’t have to look at him. There's a hole I haven't gotten around to mending, avoiding having to ask Brennen to return my needle to me. It’s so big now, I can fit four fingers through it, and I need to fix it desperately.

“I, um… May I have my needle?” I ask, lifting the hole. “You said to ask if I needed it again. And I guess now’s the time,” I say, rambling. I don’t know why his presence makes me feel so nervous. Like everything I do or say is awkward and strange.

He stares at the hole intently, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest. Nerves bubble in my stomach at his silence, and I hurry to fill it. “You see, when you only have one garment, you must take care of it. I know what I’m doing, though. I can fix it easily. But I should do it now, before it gets any larger and⁠—”

“You’ve really worn that garment for a hundred years?” he asks.

I brush my fingers against the worn fabric. “Aye. I think there must be some sort of magic that keeps it from falling apart completely. But I still must mend it.”

He looks at the multicolored patches of thread all along the skirt, fixed with whatever I could find. His gaze shifts away from me for a long moment as he stares at the cut on his hand. The one I haven’t had the courage to ask about again. It looks intentional, even more so with the fresh wound overtop the scar. One that hadn’t been present when he’d gone to his tent last night.

He closes his eyes for a moment, his jaw going tight, then reaches into his boot and pulls out a piece of folded fabric, and a laugh slips through my lips.

His eyes pop wide, then narrow.

“What?”