Patrick’s eyes shone. ‘I see. Well, Beatrix, God will forgive you if you share the names of your accomplices with us here and now. Share them, and all this — the pain, your suffering, will come to an end.’

She shook her head. ‘There are none. There are no accomplices. It was just me.’ He pressed her shoulder harder, causing her to cry out once more. Bailie Bell swung his body around so he wouldn’t have to watch.

‘Was it Sorcha McIntyre?’ asked Patrick.

Beatrix hesitated and then shook her head.

Patrick blanched. He leaned on Beatrix heavily, so she bore his entire weight. ‘Was it Nicolas Lawson?’

‘Aye, aye.’ Panting, she was whimpering freely now.

‘And what did Nicolas do, Beatrix? Did she make the image with you?’

Unable to speak, Beatrix nodded.

‘And stuck it with pins?’ He forced his weight upon her again.

‘We both did,’ howled Beatrix. Then she fainted.

Patrick no longer cared. He had what he needed to begin to unite folk and cleanse the village of the terrible evil that had been brought in on a tide of darkness. A tide, he couldn’t help but think, that flowed with the return of Sorcha McIntyre.

‘Did you write down all she said?’ He snatched up the document before Bailie Cleiland could reply.

Holding the paper aloft triumphantly, he turned to the constables. The one who’d administered most of the beating, Angus Stuart, was flexing his fingers, the other, his brother, Gerard, nursed a bloodied stick in his hand. Patrick blazed with triumph.

He carefully put down the record of Beatrix’s words, found a blank sheet among those on the table, snatched the quill out of Bailie Cleiland’s fingers and scrawled a few words. Signing with a flourish, he then passed the document and the quill to the other councillors, waiting as one by one they read his words and added their names to his. Once they’d all signed, he pressed the council’s seal upon the page. When it had dried, he passed the document over to Angus. No one had said a word the entire time.

‘You’re to apprehend Nicolas Lawson immediately, lads. Bring her here.’

‘Wait,’ said Bailie Bell, rising from his seat so fast it almost toppled over. A frown knitted his brow. ‘You can’t do that. Not until we have proof of what she says.’ He nodded towards Beatrix’s unconscious form.

‘Proof?’ snapped Patrick. ‘What more do you need than the name from a witch’s mouth? Did this… this woman not say she renounced her baptism? Did she not say she made an image of the boy and pricked and prodded it to torment him under guidance from the devil?’ He glared at Bailie Bell, who in turn stared at first Bailie Vernour then Bailie Cook, willing them to speak. Their heads remained lowered. Bailie Cook coughed into a fist, his fleshy cheeks wobbling.