Upon seeing her, he lifted his hat and bowed his head, his sign that he saw her. Tears filled her eyes as she waved, making sure she put all the energy she possessed into the simple gesture. She would not let him, or any of the others who might be looking, see how much the action cost her. How moving her arm caused her shoulder to pain, her ribs to burn, the sores in her armpit to open. Thank goodness he was too far away to see her wretched state; the dirt that lay beneath her fingers, in the crook of her elbow, the dried blood. Thank goodness he couldn’t inhale her scent. Her lips were cracked, her pricked belly sunken. She was mere bones dressed in filthy flesh.

Gazing at her slender arm, the bruises and bloodied scratches that tracked her skin like a pitted roadway mapped by a madman, she gave one last wave and withdrew, using the rainwater to wash away the dried blood, stifling her groans as she did so. She moved away from the window and joined Nettie, who resembled a nun without her cowl; almost beatific.

‘Maybe they’ll leave us alone today,’ she whispered. A habit already honed.

‘It’s Sunday. Even we witches deserve a day of rest,’ agreed Nettie.

‘Don’t call us that,’ snapped Nicolas. Of them all, Nicolas suffered most. Mr Bollard had been crueller to her than the rest. After she refused to admit to any wrongdoing, despite being accused of fashioning a wax figure that was never found, he took even greater satisfaction from pricking her flesh, fondling her breasts, searching her maukin, her woman’s parts, for signs of a witch. The more she sobbed and cried, the harder he stabbed and prodded.

If Sorcha had an instrument she could have turned on the man and used to end all their suffering, she would have gladly. Let them hang her for a real crime. But they were all bound when the pricker came. Their wrists were tied and, as they were taken one by one to the rooms above and forced into a chair, their ankles as well. It was the same when the reverend asked his endless, repetitive questions over and over; they were secured so they couldn’t use their limbs to conjure demons, to enchant the men.

Thus far, despite what had been done to them, none of them had broken. Not yet.

Beatrix had told the men nothing else since she gave up their names; not even the worst Mr Bollard could do was as bad as confessing, surrendering to the pain and telling lies. She begged Alick to pass that piece of wisdom on to her friends. He had.

Upon that, they were agreed. They would not tell falsehoods; they would not condemn others to this miserable fate.