38. Brennen
brENNEN
Bea stands in the middle of the river, her new dress soaked from the knees down. She’s bent in half, her hands in the water, face scrunched in concentration. Her hair is pulled over one shoulder, the ends of her wild curls floating in the current. She looks ridiculous, but also—beautiful.
I hate myself for thinking it. For noticing how the sun makes her red hair shine and her freckles more prominent. How the reflection of the water makes her blue-grey eyes look deeper than the river itself.
“You’ll never catch a fish with yer bare hands,” I call, trying not to notice the way her breasts swell with her slow, steady breaths.
She scoffs, but the only thing that moves is her face.
Her body remains perfectly still, ready to strike.
“Hush. You’ll frighten them,” she hisses, eyes following a long, speckled blob in the water.
It creeps forward to swim past her ankle, and she lunges.
Water splashes outward as she careens sideways, and I push myself upright to see better.
She jumps up, triumphantly holding a wiggling brown trout overhead with both hands.
“You were saying?” she asks, a huge smile on her lips and delight in her eyes as she grabs a river rock and strikes the fish with a firm jab just behind its head. It stops fighting instantly—a quick, painless end.
My eyebrows raise in approval. “Who taught you that?”
“I taught myself. I’ve had quite a long time to learn, you know. You’d be surprised how much effort you’ll put into catching a fish when the only other thing you have to eat is bramble berries,” she says matter-of-factly, picking up several rocks to examine.
“Not how to catch them. How to kill them.”
Her hands still. “I didn’t enjoy killing it. If that’s what you’re saying.”
Shame burns the back of my neck. “No. I didnae say yeh did. But most people wouldn’t know to strike it behind the eyes like that. They’d just let it suffocate.”
Bea shakes her head, plucking up a rock with a sharp edge. “I didn’t like watching them fight for air. It looked painful. It took some time to figure it out, but a single firm strike seemed to be the quickest, most painless way.”
“Aye. It is.” She trudges to shore, lifting her skirt with one hand and holding the fish with the other. “You must have caught a lot of fish, then. Do you have to eat?” I ask, curious.
She shrugs. “Not technically. My body doesn’t change, remember?”
I force my eyes not to drop to the wet cloth clinging to the curves of her slim figure.
Bea bites her lip, dragging the sharp stone across the fish’s belly. Blood slips through her fingers as she pulls the insides out, and my stomach roils.
“Here,” I stalk forward, holding out my hand.
“I can gut a fish.” She looks at me with narrowed eyes as if I’m insulting her, but I cannae bear to see her already stained hands coated with fresh, hot blood. My stomach twists, and I clear my throat.
“As can I,” I say matter-of-factly.
Bea sighs, handing it over with a shrug. “Suit yourself.” She stands, cleaning her hands off in the water, and my pulse slows. Turning her back to me, she adds more wood to the fire.
I finish gutting the fish, then spear it on a stick. Bea holds her hand out as I move back to the fire, but I walk past her, settling down on my side of the flames and holding the fish over them to cook.
She leans back, studying me as I slowly rotate it.
“I didn’t realize you were such a gentleman,” she says with a playful smirk, and I suck on my teeth. She’s teasing me. She knows I’m not a gentleman, for the goddesses’ sake. I’m here to kill her.
So why did you buy her a dress and gather her moss for her bed? Why are you cooking her fish?
I bristle at my own thoughts. I’m behaving how a man should, prisoner or not.
For the first time, I’m glad my dàn of truth is gone. Because without it, I can pretend I’m not lying to myself.
“It’s no about being a gentleman.” I slowly twist the fish, trying to ignore her, but she leans forward, eyes boring into me. I swallow. “I’m used to taking care of people, is all.”
She crosses her arms over her knees, laying her chin atop them. “That so?” she asks, her interest clearly piqued.
I make a noncommittal noise, not wanting to tell her more about myself than I have to.
“Well? Who is it you take care of, then?” she presses, but she seems nervous.
Her feet tap against the ground, and she presses her lips together.
I think she’s afraid to push me. To have me pull back from the tentative understanding that has grown between us since I learned she didnae mean to kill anyone.
It must be tempting, filling the silence with conversation after so long alone.
I allow my eyes to meet hers and instantly wish I hadn’t. She stops tapping her feet, and her face turns shy. She looks away, pretending to examine her hem and allowing her hair to fall in front of her eyes to block her blush.
I dinnae like the way the flush of her cheeks warms my chest. Makes my cock twitch.
Marsaili.
Her name hits me with a sudden intensity, the guilt squashing any trace of desire in my blood.
“I’m the oldest of eight,” I say, needing to focus on something else.
Her eyes light up, and I sigh. “My parents passed several years ago, just after my baby sister was born. I took care of my siblings after that, until my aunt and uncle moved closer to help. I practically raised Saoirse.”
Bea smiles at me, so bright, I have to look away.
“I bet you’re a wonderful brother. I’d imagine your siblings miss you very much.”
My throat constricts at the compliment. I picture Saoirse’s face. Her full cheeks and little dimples. “I’m not so sure about that. I think most of them think I’m too inflexible. I made them all finish their schooling. Didnae allow them to make any mischief.”
She laughs, and the sound shoots straight between my ribs.
“That’s not so awful, is it? A brother who cares about you enough to make sure you stay safe and get an education. You could be like that husband you sent away, Hamish. Or you could’ve not cared at all.”
“Aye, perhaps. But my siblings are different from me. They always said I saw the world too rigidly. Right and wrong, with nothing in between.”
She feigns shock, popping her eyes wide open and placing a hand over her heart. “No. You don’t say.”
I suppress a laugh. “Aye. They'd grumble when I would give them consequences for their actions. Said what did it matter if the cows were milked before breakfast or after, or if the garden was tended to.” Bea nods as I speak, watching me raptly, as if trying to see beneath my skin.
“But I told them, there is right and wrong. If there are rules, they must be followed, or we’re no better than animals,” I say, and a bit of the tension I always carry in my chest eases.
Like maybe if she understands my motivations, not just regarding her, but everything in my life, it will be easier to do what must be done.
She leans back, crossing her arms. “Sounds like you were woven to be a Dìdeanair. Were they angry at you for it? The rigidity you speak of?”
“No.” I can't help but smile as I picture Saoirse sticking out her tongue at me when I made her do extra cleaning after ignoring her chores for the day. She'd thrown a handful of bubbles from the washbasin at me. Always playful, even when I was cross.
“I think I would have liked for someone to have cared enough about me to make sure I grew up to become a good person. Maybe if I'd had that…” Her eyes go hazy.
“Did your parents not?”
She swallows, and her answering smile is sad. “My parents died when I was eight. I didn’t have anyone to take me, so I was dropped at the Weaver's Temple.”
“Were you dedicated to her?” I ask.
Bea shakes her head. “No. I used to bear the Cutter’s sigil. Though I've wondered why I would be dedicated to one Fate, but left with another. I don’t have an answer.”
“Who raised you?" I ask, confused. I’d never thought of the Washwoman as a child. Someone with a past I dinnae ken anything about.
“It wasn't the Weaver, if that's what you're thinking. I was sent to a home where many other children without parents lived. Most days, there was hardly enough to eat. But I guess, in a way, it gave me siblings. I had a family, of sorts, if not parents. When we turned fifteen, we were left to fend for ourselves.” My mind reels with this new information. She hadn’t only suffered this last century, but practically her entire life.
“Have you no memories of happiness?” I ask, my chest tightening.
She waves me off. “Of course I do. I made a friend, Molly, and together, we made our way here, to Dalbàsail. We were welcomed. I had a home.”
“You lived in the village?” I ask, wondering why no one in town told me this. The fish starts to smoke, and I realize I've stopped turning it. I flip it over, making sure not to let it burn.
“Aye.”
“No one in town told me that.”
Her eyes flash with sadness. “Part of the curse. When I was sentenced here, I was wiped from everyone’s memory. The people who hurt me… They were friends. People I’d cared about. People who’d cared about me.”
I recoil at the thought. To be hurt so severely is one thing, but for it to be done by someone who once knew you? It’s another level of torment altogether.
“I was happy, though. In Dalbàsail. Molly and I were inseparable.” She smiles.
“She loved to read and was smart as a whip. She could tell you the name of any flower or plant and how to use them for medicine. And there was a man I thought loved me. Liam. He was kind, and as handsome as I’d ever seen.
His family didn't have much more than I did, but it didn’t matter. ”
“You loved him?” I ask. I dinnae ken where the words come from, but they fly out of me, gruff and jagged.
“Och,” she laughs, “I thought I did. But I was young and poor. I had nothing to offer him. He moved on after a while. To Molly, actually.” She doesn’t seem angry as she says the words.
“Aye. I know this story. The one of how you came to be cursed here. Liam moved on to your friend, and you wanted to kill them for it.”