Kitta looped her arm around mine and pulled me further up the steep lane. I sniffed some luscious smell, unfamiliar. Mmmm, said Kitta, throwing back her head, breathing it in. Cinnamon an’ raisins! And beautiful it was after weeks of fish oil, fish blood, fish guts, fish, fish, fish. We went into the bakery—heaven! You could almost eat the air. I was achingly tempted to sacrifice four of my precious pennies on a sugar biscuit fashioned into the shape of a butterfly, but a chorus of long-dead Duthies protested in my head: Raickless waste! Extravagance!

Back in Commercial Street, more than once I felt a light press of hands on my body. I spun around, tightened my grip on the pocket of my skirt, but never did I catch a guilty face nor a hand where it shouldn’t be. Bella Strahan pushed roughly at a man in sailor whites and let fly with a crude new word that was shocking to hear but I thought would be a satisfaction to say.

She scared me a bit, Bella Strahan did, but I was dying to know.

Did he feel for your money, Bella?

She snorted, planting her fists on her hips. He were feelin’ for somethin’, hen, aye, but it were not my money!

Kitta had me by the elbow and was pushing me forward, but she slowed when we turned the corner. The rowdiest house on The Esplanade, and she was looking around, craning her neck above the heads in sailor caps and fishermen’s hats and berets and tammies. There were people crowding round the door, leaning out from the balcony above and from every window. I stopped, rigid, when I saw the plate swinging above the doorway: The Queen.

Kitta tugged at my arm.

I stared at her. But … but it’s a public house!

An’ what if it is, now, Fish Meggie? Ye’re not a wee cradle bairn no more, are ye?