A sob escaped, catching him unawares. At first, he tried to stifle it, but it wouldn’t be stopped. Left with no choice, he let it come forth, a great howl, like a wild animal, it filled his ears, his head, the room. Grabbing the edge of his gown, he stuffed it into his mouth and unleashed his torment.

Forgive me, God, for my weakness, he prayed. You called me to Your service and here I am baulking at what You ask of me. I must gird my weak body, my weak mind and heart and continue. Do whatever it is You ask of me.

There was a timid knock at the door. ‘Are you all right in there, sir?’

It was the housekeeper.

Patrick pulled the edges of his robe out of his mouth, swiped the tears from his face, cleared his throat and sat up. His mind was clearer now.

‘I’m fine.’ His voice was loud and firm. ‘Leave me be.’

Moments later, he heard her shuffle away. He let out the breath he was holding. She couldn’t see him like this. No one could. Only God knew the doubts that sometimes racked him, the demons that cavorted through his dreams whispering lewd things, placing salacious images in his mind. Daily, guilt flooded his body before he forced it to recede, and not just because Satan tempted him — the witches tempted him. Weren’t they one and the same?

The sounds from outside intruded as incomers walked towards the kirk and manse, up Cove Wynd, commenting loudly on what they saw. Stopping beneath his window, people pointed at the Tolbooth. He could hear them, hear the glorious fear and elation in their voices as they discussed the witches.

He knew then what he’d tell the men to do with Brown’s body.

As a witch, Brown didn’t deserve a Christian burial. Witches must be denied the everlasting peace of the hallowed soil of the kirk. Burying Brown in the cemetery would undermine everything he was doing, everything he was achieving. He and the Morton boy. He thought briefly of Peter. He was a good lad. A loyal one, too. To the curious, he was as much an attraction as the witches. Why, the incomers had been weaving their way through Pittenweem lanes and wynds like ants to their hills, begging admittance to the Morton house, even leaving coin just to set eyes upon him. Like the Shaw girl, Peter was a victim of possession, malfeasance, a wonder to behold. For his sake, Patrick had to make a lesson of Brown; for the sake of all that was yet to be done. To do otherwise would be to admit he was wrong, that God was wrong.