She prayed now, raising her head towards the ceiling when she’d finished. Not so much to see if her words went to God, but to try and spy the presence of those who spent a great deal of time peering through the holes in the ceiling to watch them.

Nettie saw where Sorcha was looking and shook her head. They were alone. It didn’t happen often, as one or more of the town council, the guards or the reverend spied on them most days. Whether it was when they were being forced awake by having the large sounding horn blasted in their ears, or dragged to their feet and marched around the floor by a constable and volunteers from the kirk, pricked by Mr Bollard, or being shaved, stripped, having a shit or piss, eating what little they were given, the men would watch.

At first Sorcha had been self-conscious; the ignominy of being observed in the most private and vulnerable of moments had almost consumed her. But once Nettie said she thought that they’d been put in the top room because they were the younger of the accused and the men sought to get pleasure from viewing their bodies and the punishment inflicted upon them, she made a promise to ensure any delight the men had was short-lived.

It was the idea they were watching that kept her strong when her hair was cruelly cut then shaved from her scalp. As her long tresses floated to the floor to be scooped up along with Nettie’s and Nicolas’s dark ones and Isobel’s golden ones, knowing the men would find them less attractive allowed her to forget her vanity and take a peculiar strength from her prickly naked skull. She discussed this with the women and they all agreed they would celebrate their new look, hold their heads high and feel no shame. If anyone should feel that particular emotion, it was the men who ordered it to be done, who observed as their orders were carried out.

That night, they’d chuckled about their appearance as they tried to adjust to their bald, itchy scalps, the way the cold bit at their flesh, stroking each other’s heads, describing how odd they felt.

‘Reminds me of Thom’s cheeks when he kisses me,’ said Nettie.

Isobel broke into a smile. ‘Mine feels more like my grandpa’s lips. When he offers me a tirl, it’s like being stung by nettles.’

‘You’re lucky,’ added Nicolas. ‘Reminds me of my ma’s.’

They’d all rolled around on the straw at that, cackling loudly.

Their confidence didn’t last long, their determined defiance. Not once Mr Bollard came to visit.

It took only one session with the pricker for them to retreat to their stinking bedding, bleeding, crying quietly, to make a solemn pact.