Chapters (76)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Also by Karen Brooks
- Title Page
- Dedication
- EXPLANATORY NOTE
- PART ONE
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- PART TWO
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- PART THREE
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- PART FOUR
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Epilogue: Autumn 1706
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- GLOSSARY
- LIST OF CHARACTERS
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Raising the candle higher, the reverend leered. ‘Imagine, the wind upon your face, the fresh spray of the sea, the smell of brine and weed and fish — the odour of Pittenweem. There’ll be a nice view from the Green as well. You’ll be able to see and inhale it all — that is, before the smell of smoke, fire and burning flesh consumes you.’
Before she could respond, he gave a crow of laughter, turned and wedged the door closed, leaving her in the dark once more. There was the jangle of keys, the abrasive scrape of a latch being drawn, then silence.
Beatrix sat still, breathing deeply. In and out, in and out. If she listened very carefully, she could hear the sea. She could almost feel it as well. It was like it surged beneath the floor, echoed deep in the walls. It had been her greatest comfort. Some days, her only one.
Though that wasn’t quite true.
They might break her body, but for all they tried, they couldn’t shatter her mind. Between them, the sea and memories of her husband, daughter, granddaughter and her friends sustained her. And, in its own strange way, so had the cave.
The one thing no one ever told you about the dark, even the inky blackness she now dwelt in, was that despite the absence of light and colour, it wasn’t true that you couldn’t see. You might not be able to fasten upon what was actually there — the uneven cave walls, the pitted, rocky floor, or the low-hanging ceiling, punctuated with crevices, holes, and all manner of shapes. But they were its illuminated dress. It wore another when there was no light, and Beatrix had come to appreciate its beauty. Despite the dark, or perhaps because of it, if she narrowed her eyes she could see the mauves and golds of sunset; if she opened them swiftly after screwing them up tightly, there were the scarlet and blues of a stormy morning. At other times white spots flashed across the undulating dome above her like the lighthouse on the Isle of May. Sometimes she could even make out the changing palette of the Firth of Forth upon the floor, as if it had washed into the cave and was lapping at her toes. Aye, the darkness had its own way of introducing her to a different way of seeing and that was before she considered the textures and smells of St Fillan’s Cave. Nae. Not Fillan’s any more. It was now Beatrix’s cave and she knew it as well as her own sore and worn body.