‘For some time now Peter Morton has shown no signs of bewitchment. Something the gentlemen who interviewed you weeks ago noticed as well.’ The captain swirled his whisky then tossed it back, smacking his lips in appreciation. ‘Aye, the reverend may have coached the boy while he was… sick, but if he does it again, it will do naught but arouse suspicion. I’ve a feeling the Morton lad’s days of conning the townsfolk are over.’

Relaxing into her chair, Sorcha sighed wistfully. ‘I hope you’re right, Aidan, I really do. I just wish I knew why Peter did it in the first place. What did he hope to gain?’

Aidan shrugged. ‘Notoriety? Approval? Sympathy? Who knows why people do such wicked things.’

Sorcha dwelled upon the captain’s words. Would the lad dare to perform for an Edinburgh audience?

As she stared at the captain now lying beside her on the bed, his head on the pillow, she thought how young he looked with his eyes shut, his face in repose. It was a strong face, all angles and planes with a dark growth along the jawline and upper lip. His lips were full; his mouth upturned. Tearing her eyes away and quashing the thoughts that rose unbidden, she resisted the urge to push a stray lock from his forehead. What a gentleman he’d been last night. Not only had he bathed her with measured thoroughness and helped her dress, he’d fed, entertained and reassured her and then, when he helped her to bed, acceded to her wish that he remain alongside her — on the mattress.

‘Not for any other reason than the security of your company, Aidan,’ said Sorcha, though she wasn’t sure why. It was clear he neither found her attractive nor much of a woman. Who could blame him? She was like a scarecrow that had hung all season, barely withstanding flocks of crows, pecked, bitten, pulled, weathered and beaten.

Running a hand down her hip, she marvelled at how thin she’d become. She thought back to how Isobel looked upon the Tolbooth stoop, how Nettie appeared. Seeing them back in the community, outdoors with light and rain striking them, it was as if she saw them with transformed eyes. No doubt others observed her the same way. No wonder there was so much anger directed towards the reverend. It was easy to believe they were witches deserving of dire punishment when they were locked away, out of sight, a bunch of stubborn, evil women who wouldn’t confess their sins. A danger to all of Pittenweem.

In broad daylight it was a different story. They were exposed for what they were — ordinary women, wives, daughters, sisters, friends, and, above all, victims of the reverend and the council’s superstitions and panic.