Bea
My mouth waters as I lift another spoonful of stew and watch my dragon land on her ridge.
Brennen doesn’t even flinch this time, and I smile, content.
The scent of beef and carrots and potatoes wafts through the air, the most delicious thing I've smelled in years, and I take a bite, moaning as the warm broth coats my tongue.
“It's no that good,” Brennen says, even though his bowl is already halfway finished.
What is happening to me? Is all it takes a singular laugh to turn me into a blushing young lass?
Brennen takes another bite, then sets his bowl down and opens the letter. His somewhat jovial mood seems to burn away instantly, and he leans forward, his knuckles white from his grip on the parchment.
I freeze. “What is it? Was the Cutter not happy with your letter? Is it because I asked you to tell her to stop—”
“No. It's not from the Cutter. It's from Lillian.” He looks up, and the horror in his eyes causes my blood to turn to ice.
“What did she say?” I ask.
Brennen,
I dinnae understand the meaning of your letter, nor how you have a portrait of my parents. Betty disappeared several days ago and has not been seen since. How did you learn of her disappearance? Has she been found?
Surely my sister is not dead. Wouldnae I know if she were? Wouldnae I feel it? Please, tell me what you meant by your letter. I cannot live only wondering.
Lillian
The stew turns sour in my stomach, and my hands shake so severely I'm forced to put the bowl down completely.
“Disappeared, like the others you mentioned?” I ask.
Brennen nods as he reads the letter again in full, his eyes flying across the lines of the page as he mumbles the words.
I shake my head. “But I washed her clothes.” I hold up my stained hands. “That’s what happens. The way of things. I wash the clothes, and the souls pass on.”
Brennen stands and begins to pace, stew forgotten, his hands clenched into fists. “But before you washed her clothes, it was different. You were singing, but it wasn’t the same song you normally sing. And you weren't here. Your eyes were blank and glassy.”
“The visions. The ones of people living their usual lives.” I say. “What if the Cutter knows nothing of these deaths at all? What if she truly doesn’t know the women who’ve disappeared have died?”
“Have you had many of these visions?” Brennen asks, morphing into a soldier in front of my eyes.
I nod, my mind reeling, my stomach churning. “More than I can count.”
“Is it always women?”
“I don't know. Sometimes it's just a woman in the vision, but sometimes there are several people. I— I don't look to see if it’s men’s or women’s clothes when I wash them anymore. I don’t like knowing who's going to die. Not after witnessing their happiness.”
Brennen rubs the back of his neck. “But is there always a woman present? A young one?”
I close my eyes and shuffle through my memory.
The pub. The hilltop. The cottage. “Yes, I think so. There's always at least one.”
He nods, his eyes far away as he shifts through his thoughts. “Is there anything else that's similar about them?”
“The people in the visions. They can see me. At least, for a moment. I can interact with them. And the visions seem to be getting longer.” Pebbles crunch under his feet as he continues to pace.
“And there's always music. The same melody.
Humming or singing or bagpipes. Sometimes a violin or whistling. But it's always there.”
“And do clothes always come downstream after these visions?”
“Every single time. I wash them just like I wash any others and send them into the After.”
He stops pacing, his gaze settling on my hands. He stares at them for a long moment, then meets my eyes. “And when you get the clothes, is there blood on them?”
A chill works its way down my spine, and I close my eyes, trying to remember.
I do not look at the clothes as I wash, but had blood floated downstream as I’d cleansed them?
I don’t think it did. I shake my head. “No,” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“How did I not see it? It shouldn’t be possible for so many to die without a single drop of blood. ”
Brennen’s jaw tightens. “Could it be poison?”
It’s hard to speak through the bile rising up my throat. “There are several ways the dead pass without bleeding. Certain poisons, but not most. Drowning. Suffocation. But what if they’re not actually dead? What if someone is taking them? Hiding them away?”
Brennen rubs his forehead. “It’s ancient magic that sends souls to the After. Their souls are bound to the garments you cleanse. If the After has them, they’re gone.”
“I didn't know,” I say, twisting my hands together. I don’t want him to believe I was hiding things from him.
Not when his dedication to the Cutter is so absolute.
Not now that we’ve found some common ground.
“I need you to know that. I didn't know I was washing clothes the Cutter didn’t send to me. I tried to fight against it. I thought maybe she was testing me. Sending me into the visions to see if I’d try to save them, or I thought maybe she or the goddess were giving me the chance to atone. I thought if I could save them—”
He holds up a hand. “I ken you didnae know. I saw the pain in your eyes after that vision. How badly you wanted them to stop.” He stands.
“I have to go to Cailleach. Warn her of what's happening. If all these women are dead, then someone is working against her will. Someone is actively defying the Fates and their rule.”
My mind spins. It shouldn’t even be possible. “But who? Who could possibly have enough magic to go against them?”
Brennen grabs his satchel and whistles for Sable, wasting no time. He doesn’t pack up his tent or bother grabbing his other items, simply running to mount the mare.
He meets my eyes. “Ceatharnaich? I dinnae ken. But I'm going to find out.