This required a careful answer lest she incriminate both Nicolas and Jean. Sorcha’s head hurt. ‘I would assume that if Mrs Durkie indeed made such a claim, asked such a thing, then it was done in jest. She oft said she wished her husband was back, so perhaps she said something akin to that — she wanted her wish to come true and who would not in her position? I say again, sirs, Mrs Lawson is not a witch. She could not teach Mrs Durkie anything nor bring her husband home — Jean would have known this.’

‘What of the wax image it’s claimed you helped form?’ snapped one of the other men. Sorcha turned her head to regard him. He was a sprauchle of a man, puny, and wore a pair of tiny wire spectacles that made him appear owlish. ‘An image that was used to inflict great suffering and torment upon the lad. How did you ken to make that? Did not Mrs Lawson teach you? Or was it the Horseburgh woman?’

‘Again,’ said Sorcha patiently. It was becoming hard to stay upright in the chair. The room, at first so refreshing with its breeze, was now stuffy. Even above her own odour, she could smell the men. Their whisky-breath, their sweat, their horse-soaked clothes. ‘I say I know nothing of a wax image. I know nothing of witchcraft, never have and have no desire to, sir. I would argue the same for the women whom you have named.’

The man stared at her for a long moment, gave a loud harrumph, then rose from his chair and walked over to one of his peers, removed his glasses and began a frantic, whispered conversation. When it finished, he gave a nod before replacing his spectacles and looking at Sorcha carefully. She returned his gaze steadily, even while her heart thundered. The other men talked quietly among themselves.

There was the clatter of cartwheels on the street, the persistent whine of a dog, the shouts of children. A normal day in the Weem, though this was anything but normal.

Resuming his seat, the man eventually spoke again. ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself, lass?’ His tone was not unkind.

Sorcha dared to fancy. ‘I desire, good sirs, along with the other women you have seen and who are confined in a parlous state in this Tolbooth, to recant my earlier confession that —’ The men erupted. There were cries, shouts. Fists thumped the table, chairs were rocked, papers swept to the floor. Her questioner tried to calm them.

‘What?’ shouted one man. ‘How is it they’re all recanting?’

‘Cowper, what have you to say? How can you explain this?’ raged another.