38. Brennen #2
Her eyes go wide with shock. “What?”
I sigh. “Dinnae act confused. It’s why the Fates sentenced you here, is it not? You were slighted by your friend. You wanted revenge. The man you loved moved on, so when you saw your friend’s clothes in the river, you stole them so you could kill her yourself, and her lover.”
She’s shaking her head as if at a loss for words, her fingers pinching at the skin of her arms. “That’s not what happened at all.
I was washing not far from here. My own clothes.
We all did, back then. We were used to seeing clothing appear upstream.
The river washed the clothes on its own, before I was cursed here.
We knew better than to touch it. But I recognized Molly’s burgundy dress, and lost all reason.
I grabbed her clothes before I even knew what I was doing, because I didn’t want her to die. And I certainly didn’t kill Liam. ”
My hand stills, the speared fish nearly falling from my fingers. I frown, confused. This isn’t what the Cutter told me. Isn’t part of her legend at all. But is anything I’ve learned of her in my time here accurate to her tale?
Very little seems to be, if I’m being honest.
“You didn’t?” I ask, watching her face closely for any sign of deceit or discomfort.
“Of course not,” she shakes her head vehemently, clearly appalled by my question. “Molly was my best friend. I didn’t care that she and Liam had fallen in love. Actual love. Not whatever silly infatuation I’d had for him. I was happy for them.”
Her words clash with the Cutter’s telling of the story, as well as her own confessions. “You admitted you did it.” I say, my chest tight and mouth dry.
She shakes her head. “No. I said I killed the people of Vengach. But Molly and Liam? No.” She shakes her head. “Is that what the Cutter said? That I took the clothes so I could kill her myself? That I killed them both?”
I stare into the fire, my silence answer enough. Bea’s face falls. “I don’t understand. Why would she think that?” she asks. “All this time, I thought I was sent here for interfering with her magic.”
I dinnae have an answer for her. “Did Molly live?” I ask instead.
Bea looks at the river, her eyes glazing over.
“No. I was a fool to think I could save her. She died the next day. I don’t know how her soul was cleansed.
If An Glèidheadair accepted her.” Her lips turn down, her eyes flashing with sorrow.
“Liam followed close behind. I blame myself for his death. Wept as I washed his clothes. Cailleach thought I still loved him, I think. She wanted to take even that away from me.”
There’s a tug at my heart as a piece of her tale unfurls like blood in the river. How has her tale been so twisted over time? And how did the Cutter get it so wrong?
“Have you ever loved anyone?" she asks, surprising me.
The muscles in my shoulders tense, and my palm burns.
Once again, I study her, searching for any hint that she already knows my answer.
That I loved someone fiercely, and that she was the one who took her away from me.
But it's not there. All I see is a gentle curiosity. A woman searching for connection.
“I was in love once,” I say, the words as painful as shards of glass scraping against my throat as I speak them.
She smiles at me, and I loathe how it makes my heart leap.
“Was it wonderful?" she asks, her voice soft. I picture Marsaili’s smile. The slight gap between her front teeth. The way her eyes crinkled when she looked at me with more love than I could have ever deserved. My throat closes, and when I speak again, my words come out choked.
“Aye. It was.”
I pull the fish from the fire, turning it around to make sure it's done.
“Well. What happened?” she asks.
I'm frozen for a moment. Unsure what to say. Part of me wants to shout at her, to shake her and tell her exactly what happened. That the woman I’m speaking of is gone because of her blood-stained hands.
I want to demand she remember why she killed them.
That she forces her mind to fill in the blanks in her memory.
Instead, I stand and hand her the fish.
“It ended,” I say, pulling the bird carving from my pocket as I stalk toward my tent, my chest so tight, I can hardly breathe. Too many emotions swirl inside it. Pity for this woman. Even more anger at her. Fury that I’m even able to feel both.
“Wait!” Bea calls as I'm ducking inside, and despite myself, I pause.
“Would you—” she hesitates, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Would you like some? It's been a long time since I've shared a meal with someone.” There's a vulnerability in her expression that makes my heart ache, and once again, I'm hit with the sensation that all of this is wrong.
But the grief settled in my chest burns hotter than that ache.
It has to.
My scar throbs, reminding me that even if I were to find a way to forget, to justify what she did, I would still have to kill her.
I made a vow in my own blood, one my verra soul rests upon, and I cannae break it.
Not just because it’s what Marsaili deserves, but because I made that vow with the goddess of life and death herself.
“Not tonight,” I say.
Her face falls, and I almost turn back.
Almost, but I dinnae allow myself.
I keep my eyes forward as I step inside and pull out a piece of parchment and ink. This time, I write down memories of the night Marsaili died. The night my life changed forever. I write every last detail.
The blood.
The blank stare in Marsaili’s eyes.
And by the time I finish, I almost believe that I still want to kill the Washwoman.