The four constables, lads Sorcha had known their entire lives, came to a halt directly before her and Nettie. All that lay between them and their batons and rope, the metal chains that hung from their shoulders, and the women was a trestle upon which lay the spilled innards of fish and a pile of netting waiting to be mended. Nine women stood the other side, their creels a row of makeshift battlements behind them, silently watching and waiting. Down by the shore, a group of children ceased their play and edged forward, the evident tension quietening them. It was telling that not one of the constables looked at the fishwives, preferring to focus on the equipment, the dead fish, the sea.

The fishermen just returned from inshore paused in their swaying boats or upon the crumbling pier, waiting to see what would happen next. A couple tried to call the bairns to them.

‘What can we do for you, gents?’ asked Nettie light-heartedly. Sorcha could feel her arm trembling as it gently brushed against Sorcha’s side.

Constable Gerard Stuart nudged his brother, Angus. Sorcha knew they were the ones who’d beaten Beatrix. Standing either side of the brothers were Mark Smith and Simon Wood. Simon had gone to school with her brother Erik, Mark with Robbie.

Clearing his throat with a sense of self-importance, Angus pulled out a piece of paper. ‘We’re here to take into custody one Janet Cornfoot, Lillie Wallace, Margaret Jack, Nicolas Lawson, Sorcha McIntyre and Janet White.’

For a moment Sorcha failed to register her own name as she wondered who Janet White was, before understanding they meant Nettie.

When she did, she gasped.

‘On what charge?’ demanded Janet Cornfoot, hands on hips.

‘Conspiring with the witch, Beatrix Laing, to cause mal… male…’ Angus stared at the words on the paper.

‘Witchcraft,’ growled Simon. He was the only one to meet Sorcha’s eyes. ‘Now, you can either come peacefully, or you can come in chains. It’s your choice.’

Some of the women began to protest; Sorcha forced a laugh. Surely, this was a charade. Then she caught the expression on Nettie’s face. After all, they’d taken the wax doll from Beatrix’s house. Was that considered conspiring? How would anyone know what they’d done? Regardless, that was down to her and Nettie; the other women had nothing to do with it.

But the men were serious and the dubious smiles and objections swiftly died.

‘I’ll not be going anywhere quietly with you, young Angus, let me tell —’ began Janet, before Nettie interrupted.