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
‘What do you say about Nettie Horseburgh casting a spell?’
‘I say she did not.’
The man sighed and shook his head, his jowls quivering. ‘What do you ken about Nettie Horseburgh saying you helped her cast the charm?’
‘I know nothing of this, because I could not help her do something she did not do. Nor do I believe she bears me any malice that she would suggest I did such a thing.’
The man swung to look at the reverend, who flapped a hand for him to keep going.
The man used his kerchief to pat his slick brow. The room was warm, much warmer than the cell below. Lines of perspiration tracked the sides of their faces, dotted their upper lips and stained their shirt-fronts. ‘What then do you say to the fact that Nicolas Lawson also named you?’
Sorcha took a deep breath, trying not to flinch as her ribcage ached. ‘Again, I say that she could not. I neither cast a spell nor am I a witch.’
‘I see.’ The man gave the appearance of thinking, but Sorcha could tell the question was already prepared. ‘Do you happen to ken a Mrs Jean Durkie?’
Sorcha nodded. ‘Aye.’ Of course she did. She was a fishwife and a good friend of Nicolas’s. Her husband was a fisherman who, like others tired of the meagre drave, had become a soldier and been shipped to Flanders before Sorcha left the Weem. He still hadn’t returned.
‘She’s close to Mrs Lawson?’ asked the portly man.
‘Aye.’
‘And you, too, Mrs McIntyre, you are close to Mrs Lawson?’
Where was this line of questioning going? ‘Aye. All the fishwives are close,’ she replied. There were exceptions, those who were surly or kept to themselves, but the men didn’t need to know that.
Reverend Cowper cast a long, shrewd look at one of the other men who nodded and nudged the gentleman next to him.
‘So, it’s not too far a stretch then to assume that like Mrs Durkie, you too were receiving lessons in witchcraft from Mrs Lawson?’
Sorcha felt a frisson of panic. ‘Lessons? From Mrs Lawson? Nae. I do not understand how Mrs Lawson could teach something about which she has no knowledge.’
‘Nae? I find that strange since Mrs Durkie knew well that Mrs Lawson was a witch and admits she asked the woman to teach her to cast spells.’