As if to call her back, the schoolchildren, with their disgraced teacher, painted a huge mural of Eva: smiling, arms outstretched, rainbows in her hair, a garland of flowers around her neck. After it was defaced (dick in mouth), some women began backsliding. Late at night, hurt by the shocked whispers – the even more shocking online comments – there were women who felt ashamed for stepping out of line. They wondered whether Inga’s female takeover of the council had been necessary, actually; felt guilty about the many good solid male start-ups that must’ve suffered because of Eva’s rampant ideology. Maybe Eva had gone too far? Maybe they had? But all they’d done was act on instructions from Eva. Not even instructions. More like hints. Because, whatever Eva intended always remained a bit inscrutable. Plus, she never did understand the island way, coming as she did from outside. Typical incomer’s error. Islanders never rock the boat. Some things have been this way forever.

And so it might have ended, had it not been for Cwen.

Cwen is a tiny speck of an island. At the time of the inquiry, it was uninhabited save for a flock of hardy black sheep. But it has always been alive and resplendent with its years of use as a sacred site. The island’s skyline was permanently altered by a grass mound, constructed four and a half thousand years ago with untold hours of human labour. Cwen’s iconic swollen belly catches the eye almost every day, if you live in Ayrness, or drive that way along the coast. Perhaps because it is so very near the mainland – only five minutes by outboard-motor dinghy; twenty minutes or so, if you row – islanders see Cwen all the time, in all its phases. How the island changes with the passing clouds and coming storms. The obscene lightning. The multitude of rainbows.