Page 15 of The Crimson Throne
The magical barrier protecting this land is like a bubble radiating around the country, and most of Scotland is surrounded by water. The River Forth drains out into the sea; all water is connected. So when I kneel in front of the river and dip my finger into the cold water, I send a trickle of power out, my magic zinging down the river, out and out before it returns to me.
I am not powerful enough to know every detail, but this small check assures me that the wall is still holding strong. Weapons crafted by the Red Caps have broken through, but the barrier has kept the actual villains out—the only way they could have possibly entered Scotland would be for the entire spell to fall. My shoulders relax.
I get up, shaking dirt from my skirt, turn.
And stop short.
A washerwoman kneels by the edge of the river, hidden in the shadows. I’m not sure what people would see if they leaned over the bridge and peered down. Perhaps just a woman doing her laundry. Perhaps nothing at all.
But I know this is not some old woman scrubbing a wet shirt in the river’s cool, gentle flow.
I creep closer. Best not to interrupt, and the devil himself couldn’t drag me to stand between her and the river.
My heart thuds. I rarely encounter full-blooded fae like this. Faewill sometimes drift between their land and this one, and some of the more feral creatures aren’t even aware they’ve crossed into the human world. Some, like the brownies that live in the castle, choose to hide in plain sight among humans. But this visit by the bean-nighe is no accident, and she’s trying to tell me something important in her own way.
My eyes flick to the shirt she’s washing, and my chest eases with relief.
Not mine.
Which is really good news, because as soon as the bean-nighe is done washing this shirt, whoever is wearing it will die.
That’s what the bean-nighe does. She’s a prophet of death.
The bean-nighe scrubs hard, her gnarled knuckles practically strangling the cloth of the shirt she washes. Finally, she sighs, sitting back on her heels, her eyes going immediately to me.
“Why are ye showing me this, Old One?” I ask, my accent as thick as my respect. Mary’s use of French has made my own tongue of Scots a little sweeter, but whenever I’m in my element, my rough brogue comes out. I like it better. Lies seem like a kindness in French, but Scots is a true language, in tone and words.
She tilts her head. “Because you’re gonna be the one to kill this lad,” she says.
Well.
This is new.
Bean-nighe aren’t well known for their conversation, and this one is being downright chatty.
As she’s telling me I’m about to become a murderer.
The bean-nighe lifts the dripping cloth, inspecting her work. She’s washing a tunic, rough woven. I cannot see more than the barest hintof a tiny spot of blood on it at the shoulder—which means, because the shirt is nearly clean, whoever owns it is going to die very soon.
By my hand, if what she says is true. And the fae don’t bother with lies.
My stomach twists at the thought. “When will it be clean?” My voice is soft, weak. For all my talk, I’ve never actually killed someone before. And sadly, this shirt doesn’t seem likely to belong to the king consort.
“Soon, soon,” she says, her words hollow and laced with power. Her eyes slowly slide over to her laundry basket, which I’d not noticed before.
Because it hadn’t been there earlier.
I itch to race over, lift the lid, and see if I can identify any of the other clothes in the basket. Blood on a black velvet gown could mean Queen Mary’s in danger. Perhaps I could recognize a tartan—a sign of war to come.
Or maybe I would see the gown I’m wearing—brown, edged in simple white lace, but rich enough to pass for acceptable in the royal court.
I look up. The bean-nighe’s watching me. Black teeth glimmer through her wryly twisted wrinkled lips.
I know better than to peek inside that basket. When it comes to the fae, there are two simple rules that cannot be trifled with:
Be respectful.
Mind your own business.
