51. Bea
BEA
The joy of saving the woman warms me almost as much as my dàn.
It bubbles along my skin, up my spine, and between my lips, though I’m horrified by the way I had to do it.
There’s no way she’ll understand I was trying to help her, and I’m sure my legend will only grow, though I’ve decided I’m okay with that.
I will continue to be a monster if it means saving these women’s lives.
Brennen hands me a blanket, draping it over my wet skirt.
“Another blanket?” I tease, smiling as I wrap it around myself. He throws a few more logs on the fire, grumbling something under his breath, then sits. He’s closer than usual, his body angled so he faces the After.
“I cannae believe you actually did it,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. “What did you even do?”
I lean toward him. “You gave me the idea, actually.”
He tilts his head, eyebrows drawing in in confusion.
“I cut through her dedication dàn. Made it unrecognizable.”
“You cut her off from magic?” His eyebrows raise.
“And I do not feel guilty for it. It saved her life. If whoever’s behind this is using magic to kill these women, I thought maybe cutting her off from the source completely would save her. And it worked.”
“Aye. I’m no criticizing you for it. But how did you ken to cut through it?”
I look down where my own dàn used to be. “I've been having this dream of a woman sitting at a loom.”
“The Weaver?”
“No. Not a Fate. She’s mortal, but I can’t see her face. Someone knocks on the door, and she smiles at them, but whoever it is slits her throat.” I shiver as the memory of her blood pooling around my feet invades my mind.
“She dies every time?”
I nod. “But last time I saw something different. Her dedication dàn was mutilated. And there's a song I hear in my visions.
I clear my throat.
So sing till the song takes the life it was due,
Some hands hold the blade, and some hands hold the truth.
When the river runs red and the After draws near,
The darkness will come and bring all that you fear.
A song cannae tell you the time it will end.
As long as you live, a new one can begin.
A thread cannae cut if it cannae be seen.
If I ask it of you, will you hide mine for me?
“After what you said, it suddenly made sense.”
There's a creak from the After, interrupting us. The sound of moaning slithers through the glen, and I shiver, the hair on my arms standing on end. “They're coming,” I whisper.
Brennen's hand is already on his sword, and he slowly climbs to his feet, his shoulders squared as he steps in front of me and stares into the darkness.
“You dare sing our song while we rot in between?” A figure appears in the mist, floating toward me—the tailor's daughter; the others are behind her.
I close my eyes, my joy at saving the woman withering away.
She tilts her head sideways to an unnatural angle. “Why have you done nothing to help us? They still will not let us enter.”
Guilt pools in my stomach, thick and hot. “I'm sorry.”
“You must help us, Washwoman.” Her voice rises in pitch, fervent.
“Don’t you see? That’s all I am! The Washwoman! There is nothing I can do. It is no more my fault that you are trapped here than it is yours.”
“You truly believe that?” she asks, gliding closer.
Brennen takes a step forward. “Dinnae speak to her,” he says, but I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the ghost.
A cruel smile twists her lips, and she begins to sing the melody I know so well from my visions.
The Washwoman kneels with her hands stained in red,
She knows every soul, every face of the dead.
When her mind breaks again, and the river runs dry,
She’ll remember the poor souls who taught her to die.
“When her mind breaks?” I ask, the words sticking to the inside of my throat. A phantom pain shoots through my skull, fear unfurling in my chest.
“That's enough!” Brennen says, and the tailor’s daughter turns to him.
“Careful, Dìdeanair. She’ll be your ruin, too. Tell me—” She winces, her eyes rolling back in her head. “No. Not yet,” she says, dropping to her knees.
“What's happening?” he asks.
“Your Washwoman is not the only one whose mind has been broken. All who dwell in between suffer the same fate. You have to help us,” she begs, her skin turning a deeper grey.
“It's all there. Everything you need to know.” She coughs, then wails, her head tipping back as she loses herself completely.
When she looks up again, her eyes are as dead as those who stand around her.
“Help us!” she cries, beyond all sense. “It hurts! Help!”
Brennen tucks me behind his back, drawing his sword. “Get in the tent. Now.”
I put a hand on his arm, and he stiffens. “I don’t think they can hurt us here. They can’t leave the river.”
“Inside,” he snaps, but I stay by his side. I know how it feels to stand before the ghosts alone, and I will not leave him to do the same. Brennen’s eyes darken with fear, or anger, or both, and he roughly grabs my arm, pulling me to the tent.
“What are you doing?” I ask, twisting against him, heart hammering against my ribs. “I can't leave you to sleep out here!” I say in disbelief.
“I willnae be sleeping out here. I’ll be sleeping in there.
Now go. Inside,” he says. His voice leaves no room to argue, sharp as a blade.
“Dinnae make me ask you again.” His order lands deep in my stomach, sudden and hot, curling through me in a way that causes my breath to hitch.
My body moves before my pride can stop it, as if it cannot bear to refuse him.
The tent suddenly feels small, and just as before, it shrinks further as he enters, his warmth filling the space. He ties the flaps shut behind him, sealing us in. The world outside dulls, but he doesn’t.
I feel him everywhere. Every shift in his movements. The heat of him. His presence presses in on me from all sides, so strong I can hardly breathe.
I’ve been closer to Brennen than this before, but that was with the sky wide and open overhead. It’s never been like this, trapped so close with nowhere to run, and I’m not sure if the thought thrills or terrifies me.
He removes his sword, tossing it in the corner, but there’s nothing careless in the movement. He’s on edge, as taut as I am. “Are you sure they cannae leave the water?” he asks, all warrior.
All control.
“They haven't yet,” I say, shivering. He crouches in front of me, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“I'm sorry you had to face them alone.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I was alright.”
“No. I doubt you were. And I wouldnae expect you to be,” he says. “We’ll stay in here until sunrise.”
I open my mouth to argue. To tell him I can’t possibly stay in this tiny tent with him. The air is already too thin. I’m too warm, and it feels as if the walls are closing in on me. But the look he gives me causes the words to die on my tongue. His eyes are hard. Focused and unyielding.
“You willnae argue with me about it. I'm not leaving you out there for them to torment.”
I exhale slowly, then nod.
“Good lass,” he says, his low rumble sinking into my skin. Warmth spreads through my core, unexpected and deep, and I blush. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because I find I want his praise. Want to please him.
“You should go to sleep. I need to write Garrick,” he says, oblivious to the heat coursing in my blood. The place my mind has gone.
“Who?” I ask, fighting to turn my thoughts away from the words slipping from his lips.
He meets my eyes and freezes. His jaw ticks, and something dark flits across his face. Can he tell what his words have done to me? “Go to sleep,” he growls, sitting down at his writing desk. I shuffle from foot to foot, unsure where he wants me, and he sighs.
He squeezes the sides of the desk, refusing to look at me. “Lie down, Bea.”
“Where?” I ask. My voice comes out shaky. Breathy.
“Where do you think? In the bed.”
In the bed.
In his bed.
I take a single step back, and he tilts his head, misunderstanding the movement. “You dinnae need to be afraid. Even if I were that kind of man,” he says quietly, “I cannae touch you.”
My cheeks flush, and my skin flashes with heat, pricking as if it wishes that weren't the case. I don’t want him to touch me, I remind myself.
My dàn for detecting lies flares.
I cannot even lie to myself. “That's not— I wasn't saying—”
“Sleep,” he orders. I lay down, my chain softly clinking, and pull up the soft wool blanket as if it might shield me from him.
Still, his gaze presses against my back even through the fabric, hot and persistent, and my pulse leaps.
I slow my breathing, willing it to steady.
Pretending, and after some time, the sound of a quill gliding against parchment meets my ears.
I do not move when, after what feels like an eternity, Brennen’s chair scrapes backwards. His heavy footfalls approach, and he lowers himself to the bedroll, pausing. The moment stretches on and on, agonizingly endless, before he slides in behind me, his movements cautious. Measured.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.
My heart pounds as I picture his broad shoulders taking over the space, his strong chest and thick thigh only inches away, and my body goes rigid. The space between us crackles, thrumming with something dangerous and alive.
I hold my breath as Brennen reaches over me, and when his arm brushes against my shoulder, I wonder if it was intentional. He’s moving slowly enough he could avoid me, if he wanted, and yet my sleeve scrapes against my skin from the pressure of his graze.
He sucks in a breath, almost imperceptibly. But I hear it. I feel it.
He sets something down in front of me, hesitating long enough that I almost turn to him, but he pulls back just before I do. I feel the loss of his contact all the way to my toes.
I finally open my eyes.
In the flickering light, I see a dagger resting on the ground in front of me, the blade wrapped in cloth.
“What's this for?” I ask, reaching out to touch it.
“You'll need it to save the next woman, when another vision comes," he says. “You were lucky today, but you cannae always count on there being a weapon within arm’s reach.” I nod, feeling foolish for not thinking of it myself as I wrap my fingers around it.
“You're not afraid I'll use it on you?” I ask, surprised by the show of trust. “It takes a brave man to hand a murderess their dagger and then fall asleep beside her.”
There’s a long beat of silence. Long enough, I wonder if he’s going to answer me at all.
He lies still beside me, his breaths even and slow, but I know he isn’t sleeping.
I can feel the rapid beat of his heart. His mind churning.
“No, little lark,” he finally says, a gruff whisper, and I suddenly can’t breathe.
“There’s something else I’m far more afraid of. ”
He blows out his candle before I can answer. Before he can see what the name did to me. Not Bea. Not Washwoman. Lark. A songbird, free enough to fly high into the sky. Is that how he sees me now?
Heat pools in my belly, and my heart races, pounding so hard, I wonder if he can hear it.
He shifts, and even without my sight, I know he’s rolled to his back.
The inches between us feel less with every passing second, but I do not know if the space has actually grown smaller, or if my heart just wishes it would.