Bea #2
I shake my head. “My body has not changed since the day I was first sentenced here. Well…except for the bloodstains. That’s happened over the years.
Part of the curse.” I look down at my hands, picturing the sloping lines of the letter I found when I woke up here.
You will cleanse the death-clothes of the departed for eternity, the blood of each and every soul passing through your fingers, staining your hands forever.
At first, it had been a dull red, growing a bit more visible each day as I washed.
It wasn’t until that night six years ago, when hot, thick blood soaked my hands and dripped down my forearms, that the stains had become so deep.
My stomach twists, and I push the image away, shaking my head.
“Any scars that mark my skin are from before.”
He seems to weigh my answer, his eyes trailing along my body as he sits back down.
The heat of his gaze brings blood to my cheeks, and I look away, grabbing a handful of small stones from around me and stacking them into a cairn.
In my periphery, I see his hands clench into fists, but he stays silent, so long I cannot take it anymore.
“Most people aren’t trying to kill me when they come here, you know. They just want to hurt me. Make me pay for washing their loved ones' clothing. They think I’m a liar. A murderess and a liar.”
Brennen’s gaze lifts. “And are you?”
My throat tightens. “You know the answer to that,” I say. “As we’ve established, you have a dàn of truth.” I gesture to his wrist.
He nods, but pauses, his eyes narrowing. “How did you recognize the dàn of truth? It’s not one gifted by the Fates often.”
“No, but I studied dàn, once upon a time. A book came down in a kilt pocket, and I read it until the pages crumbled to dust. And you’re not the first Dìdeanair to visit me.
Their loved ones are no safer from the Cutter than a lonely farmer’s.
I think most men with dàn of truth are drawn to military service. ”
He looks surprised, but people do irrational things when they’re desperate—even soldiers.
He shakes his head. “That’s against our code. Dìdeanair dinnae harm people for no reason.”
I laugh, an ugly, bitter sound. It’s unexpected, the anger his words stoke inside me, but it’s justified. How is this grown, adult man so naive? A man who has seen battle. Death. And yet, he does not see the shades of grey that exist in the world.
“Is that why you’re bothered by the things the villagers did to me?
Because you’re not supposed to harm people without orders?
You don’t know the half of it, and it seems you’re the only one who lives by that code.
Tell me, aside from saying I hadn’t seen the woman who disappeared, have I lied to you since you’ve been here?
” I ask calmly, trying to force him to follow my breadcrumbs of reason.
“No,” he says, but the word is tight, as if it pains him to say it.
“So to answer your question,” I say, “I may be a murderer, but a liar, I am not.” I cross my arms and take a deep breath. “My offer stands. You can touch the dàn if you’d like. See if it will transfer back to you. But I don’t know what will happen—and that’s the truth.”
I hold his stare, daring him to challenge me.
“Alright then,” he says, picking up a new block of wood and beginning to carve.
I lean back, stunned. Does he actually believe me? Is he truly letting this go?
I look back to my hem, my anger fading. “Alright then.”
A heavy quiet descends upon us, and while it’s a bit uncomfortable, I don’t feel the need to fill it this time. It’s almost like we’ve made some progress toward understanding one another. Not toward fixing anything, or him hating me any less, but at least now we’ve spoken our minds.
“I went to find him,” he says, breaking the silence. “The husband of the woman.”
My fingers still on my skirt. “He’s still here?” I ask, my heart rate picking up. The longer that man stays, the more likely it is he’ll figure out the rule he missed—that he did not catch me—and if he does… I don’t even want to think about it.
“I believe you,” he says. “About Hamish. He isnae a good man, and I willnae allow him to hurt anyone else.” His eyes darken, his throat working as he swallows.
“You dinnae need to worry about him,” he says.
“I took care of it. He’s on his way out of the village as we speak, and he willnae be returning. ”
I almost shudder with relief. “Thank you,” I say, and it’s genuine. Brennen may want to kill me, but I deserve it. The woman I saved did not.
“Bea?”
I freeze at his use of my name. Not Washwoman or murderess.
Bea.
Tears sting my eyes, but I do not allow them to form, worried they’ll scare him into pulling back again. When I look up, my own emotions hidden, his hard exterior has softened slightly, and where his eyes once held only anger, I see true sorrow.
“Yes?”
“Why did you do it?” His voice is quiet this time. “Why did you kill all those people?” he asks again, and my heart aches, because I feel like I finally see him. Finally know why he asks so often. Why he needs the knowledge so fervently.
This man believes there is right and there is wrong. That there’s no in-between, and if he’s going to kill me, he needs to know I’m a monster who deserves it.
And yet, I cannot tell him that.
I meet his gaze as the echo of screams grows in my ears, but even so, I try to find the words to make him understand. Like always, I can’t.
“I wish I hadn’t,” I whisper. The screams grow louder, and I wince.
“That’s not an answer.”
I pick up a stick to draw in the mud, then throw it down and grab a handful of rocks, building a cairn.
“Does it even matter? I can’t take it back.
” I finish the stack, then knock the cairn over and begin again.
Then again, the repetitive motion taking the edge off the chaos in my mind.
I'm almost pleading, but I need this conversation to end before the screams make me ill.
Before I feel their blood between my fingers. Before it runs from my nose.
He shakes his head, his eyes flashing with sadness. But I’m not sure if it’s because of my answer, or lack of one.
“I’m sorry,” I say, covering my ears. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracks.
He doesn’t respond, and in the tense silence, the screams fade away. I uncover my ears. The sound of his heavy breathing is the only noise in the glen, as if his presence made the birds and fish scatter. Even the river seems to be holding its breath.
I look up at the sky as the screams fade, searching for Lolly.
He stands abruptly, and for a moment, I think he’s going to leave.
Instead, he grabs the satchel and holds it out to me, careful not to touch my skin. His movements are sharp. Almost rehearsed.
“For your hand.” He looks at my scabbed palm, his voice rough. “That much bleeding—” He clears his throat. “I dinnae want the wolves to smell it. You might not be able to die, but I can.”
Shock ripples through my chest. Even if it really is only for his sake, which I don’t believe it is—Brennen could take down a whole pack of wolves without breaking a sweat—it’s a kindness. He’s seeing me as a human, and the dignity that gives me is a balm itself.
I reach for the bag, my fingers stopping just short of his, close enough to feel his heat in the space between us. “Thank you,” I say.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, instead turning and stalking toward the trees as if to gather firewood, his shoulders tight with tension.
I open the satchel, and my heart stalls. There are bandages, clean and white, as well as yarrow to cause clotting. It will speed up my healing considerably.
But that’s not what causes my breaths to turn shallow and my heart to flutter.
It’s the willow bark.
A lump forms in my throat.
Brennen said he’d brought me these things to stop the bleeding. To keep the wolves at bay. But willow bark does not deter wolves, and pain is not what draws them to feed.
So why is it, then, that he brought it to me?