The only sounds Sorcha could hear were the wind rattling the windows and the crackle of the fire. Wriggling her stockinged feet before the flames, she rested her head against the back of her da’s old armchair and looked fondly at Nettie curled in her mor’s. Initially, she’d worried that returning home would reawaken the ghosts of those who used to live there, those she’d tried so hard over the years to make peace with, but once indoors and surrounded by friends, she realised sadness hadn’t leached into the walls, nor had death left its pungent scent. At least, not while she had a cleckin’ o’ women to distract her.

Once the captain departed, Sorcha and her friends had fallen into each other’s arms, talking over the top of one another as drams of whisky were poured, downed and poured again. Only then did the women, who’d entered through the back door and barged straight through the house when they understood Sorcha was being threatened, set about making the cottage warmer and shedding more light on their doings. As Nettie prepared food, Beatrix shovelled more peat onto the fire while Nicolas lit extra candles, placing them where they’d illuminate the cosy room best.

‘Go, lass,’ said Nettie, waving a knife in Sorcha’s direction. ‘We’ll take care of this. Put your things away. Get settled.’ She nodded towards her burlap. ‘That is, unless you’re planning on leaving us again soon?’ There was a note of apprehension in the question.

Sorcha shook her head. ‘I might be back earlier than anticipated, but I’m here to stay.’

With a look of relief, Nettie returned to cutting the smoked fish.

Sorcha carried her burlap and a candle into the rooms beyond, stroking the worn furniture as she passed — the rough table, the unsteady stools — pressing her cheek against the tattered but clean curtains, picking up and replacing a book, an ornament.