31. Bea #2
His eyebrows draw together. “No. You were here the whole time. At least, your body was. But your mind? Your mind was somewhere else entirely.” He holds out a hand. “May I?”
A wave of shock passes through me at the way he asked instead of ordering me to comply. It wasn't a demand, and while I'm sure he'd make me hand it over eventually were I to refuse, the illusion of having a say over my actions is intoxicating.
Carefully, so as to not touch his skin, I hand it over.
“She mentioned a sister.” The words make my heart ache, and my eyes flick upstream. What if it hadn’t been the knife at all? Or the paperweight.
But what if it was, and I saved her?
Brennen’s fingers trail along the glass, and I realize his demeanor has changed. His eyes are narrowed, and his posture stiff. “The woman you saw. Describe her for me.” This time, his words are demanding.
I study his face. “She had a kind smile. Brown eyes and hair. She gave me a green dress, said her parents died a few years ago.”
“A green dress… Was it stitched with golden thread?”
I freeze. “How could you possibly know that?”
Brennen closes his eyes. “Betty. Her name is Betty, and her sister is Lillian. They’re from my village. Those are her parents. She always wore that dress. She’s to die?” he asks, and I hate the sorrow I see in his eyes.
But hope flickers somewhere inside me. My eyes dart back upstream. Her clothes haven’t appeared yet. Is it possible I succeeded? That I removed whatever it was that would end her life? I know better than anyone that a fate-sealed death cannot be stopped, but one like this? Maybe.
As if the river is laughing at me, the garments appear.
A soft blue dress, brand new. I close my eyes, dropping to my knees.
Sorrow wraps around my heart, squeezing tight enough to bruise.
“I’m so sorry, Betty,” I say, accepting the clothes.
I have no other choice, and her kind soul deserves cleansing.
Though, how will she die? What else could it have been if not the knife or the paperweight? She couldn’t get a sickness so quickly, and I didn’t see anything else hazardous. She was overly trusting, perhaps. Could someone have come to her after I left? I hope not.
I shake my head, guilt threading between my ribs. Maybe it was the fire. I hadn’t thought to check if the flames were controlled. If anything was too close to the hearth.
My voice is tight with emotion as I sing my song. Tighter, even, when I let the dress go, dipping my fingers in the river and tapping my chest, lips, and forehead. “An Glèidheadair welcome her, An Treòraiche guide her, and Am Breitheamh have mercy on her,” I whisper.
I hang my head for a moment, collecting myself, fighting back against the tears and panic that accompanied my last vision. Will I ever grow used to seeing the lives of those I cleanse, just as I got used to seeing their deaths?
When I turn back to Brennen, there’s distrust in his eyes. “Betty was a nice lass. Kind. Why her?”
I shake my head. “I wish I knew.”
“Tell me the truth. Do you ken what’s doing this? Do you ken more than you’re letting on?” he asks.
“Doing what?” I say, confused. He was there for my last vision, when I could hardly breathe from my sorrow at seeing the mother kissing her child.
He lifts his hands in the air. “I dinnae ken. Doing something to change the threads. Threads other than your own. Why are these deaths different? Is it something you did?”
I cross my arms. “What are you talking about? I’ve done nothing to any threads. Mine or anyone else’s.” I say, squaring my shoulders. I will not cower before his anger. Not again. And not when I haven’t done anything wrong.
He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Every time I start to think—” He cuts off abruptly and scoffs, leaning down to stare into my eyes. “If you’ve done nothing to alter the threads, then why can your thread not be cut?”
I freeze, my heart stuttering. The air is ripped from my lungs, and I suck in a shallow breath. “My— What?” He’s toying with me, giving me some sort of hope that I’m safe from the Fates’ wrath.
“Your thread couldnae be severed.”
“How is that possible?” I ask, my voice catching. I clutch my hand over my immortality dàn. If the Fates didn’t give it to me as part of my punishment, then who did?
Shock spreads through his face, his wide eyes and open mouth matching my own. “You really didnae ken,” he says, almost breathless.
“No,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “Are you saying the Cutter tried? That she tried to kill me, and couldn’t?”
He studies me, his eyes exploring every inch of my face as if looking for the tiniest implication I’m lying. “Aye,” he finally says, his jaw tightening.
My lungs constrict, my breaths going shallow. It feels as if I’m being buried alive, the realization that I was cursed here, not because the Fates wanted my punishment to be eternal, but because they couldn’t kill me.
“It’s why I’m here,” he continues. “To learn why you cannae be killed. Fix it—”
“And kill me,” I finish for him. The words send an unexpected jolt of unease through my blood. I want a peaceful end. The opposite of a death at the end of his sword.
I shake away the thought. “I don’t know anything about the threads. I told you, I think the Cutter is tormenting me with the visions.”
His eyebrows draw together. “No, I dinnae think that’s it.
If she knew you were leaving this valley, even just in your mind…
” he stands, his anger morphing into a need to catalog the information.
To tuck each piece into its appropriate box.
“How are you leaving this valley? How were you able to be in Betty’s home, but still here?
And how did you bring the picture back with you? ”
I look at the picture in his hands. I wish I hadn’t picked it up at all. Not when it’s caused him to once again doubt me. Though he’s right about one thing. The Cutter wouldn’t like that I am escaping this chain, even for a few minutes. That I was given bread. Kindness.
Am I to save these people before their deaths, then? Is that the purpose of the visions? It must be. A way to show my heart truly has changed.
“I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m here and elsewhere, or how they can see me, or how I can interact with their world, but the visions have been happening more and more.
The water gets muddy, the river surges, and I get pulled away.
But I've never been able to interact with the people I see. At least, not like this. Not for more than a few seconds. Normally, I'm back here so quickly, there’s no time to do anything to help them.”
Brennen rubs his forehead, looking down at the portrait. “Are you certain she’ll die?”
I nod, guilt once again slicing deep. If I am meant to save them, then once again, I have failed. “If her soul isn’t already below, it will be soon. It doesn’t take long, once the clothes appear.”
Brennen’s shoulders straighten, his mask of control slipping back into place. “I’ll make sure this gets back to her sister.” He starts toward his tent, then stops. His throat bobs, betraying his facade. “How will it happen?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t see these deaths, but I think it might be a fire. I didn’t see anything else that could have killed her.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t continue on to his tent, but turns back and joins me, sitting a fraction closer this time. His eyes skate along my skin, and my heart picks up in rhythm. He’s looking at my face intently, almost as if he’s counting my freckles.
“Can you tell me more? About the visions?” he asks, and once again, I’m shocked he’s requesting information rather than demanding it.
I take a deep breath, my thoughts a jumbled mess.
“The visions are… They’re different. Typically, when I wash the clothes of the dying, I see a face in my mind, and I know how the person will die.
But when the river gets angry, and I’m taken away, I’m no longer here.
I’m in someone’s home, or in a tavern. On a hill.
I never see the person’s death. I don’t see sorrow. I see life, and happiness.”
He stares into the fire, sifting through my words. “Was Betty happy at the end?”
I raise my eyebrows, surprised he’s not focusing solely on the logistics of the visions, trying to puzzle through if they could help him on his mission. “Aye. Very.”
Brennen nods absently, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.
“She was baking a pie.”
Brennen laughs. “That sounds like her.” He meets my eyes. “May An Glèidheadair welcome her,” he says.
I look toward the After, squinting into the inky black. The mist is moving more than usual. Unsettled once again. “May An Glèidheadair welcome her,” I echo, dipping my fingers in the water and tapping my chest.
I shiver, but with my dàn for warmth, it’s not from the cold.