She could hear the muffled conversation of the women below. The holes in the floor enabled snatches of their words to enter the room and buzz about like summer flies. As they did when Nettie and Nicolas were being questioned, a hush would fall when her interrogation began. At least she knew from Nettie what to expect. The intention was she would not only repeat what was in the confession she made a couple of weeks earlier, but admit to even more wrongdoing.

What the Pittenweem councillors and the reverend hadn’t anticipated was that, faced with a new audience, the women would retract their statements. Nettie told Sorcha this was what she’d done, because she’d learned from Camron as he escorted her upstairs that this was what brave and bold Janet Cornfoot had dared to do. Sorcha could scare believe her ears. Nor could Isobel or Nicolas. Hugging Nettie close, in awe of her courage, of Janet’s, Sorcha felt something akin to joy, a lightening of her spirit for the first time in weeks.

‘After all, hen, what have we got to lose?’ whispered Nettie, returning the tight hold. ‘Good auld Janet, hey?’

As she regarded the men and watched the scrivener prepare his quill and paper, Sorcha feared it was more than they could even begin to imagine. She determined then and there to refuse to let her anxiety show. They’d put words in her mouth once, but never again.

‘Mrs McIntyre,’ began a man with large, protruding eyes and fleshy cheeks. His accent marked him as from the city. ‘We’ll have you know that on this day, the fourteenth of June, in the year seventeen hundred and four, your accomplice, Mrs White, whom you ken as Nettie Horseburgh, admitted to having the devil say her name. She confessed to wishing ill upon Peter Morton and implicated you in this. You and the other women imprisoned here in the Tolbooth.’

Sorcha knew that, despite giving today’s date, they were referring to Nettie’s earlier confession of the twenty-ninth of May and that they were waiting for her to say the names of her so-called accomplices. She remained silent, waiting, watching.

‘You also ken that the lad, Peter Morton, identified you and the others as his tormentors?’ It was quiet except for the sound of a chair creaking under the girth of one of the men. ‘Well, lass? I’m waiting. Do you ken?’

Sorcha took her time. ‘At the start of April, Peter Morton did identify me and the others, aye. But I also know that he was mistaken.’

There were some grumblings, a cough, followed by an exchange of pointed looks. A couple of the men appeared annoyed, and turned briefly towards Cowper.

‘Is that so? Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ said the portly man. ‘What do you have to say about casting a charm against Peter Morton?’

‘I say I did not.’