‘You’d think he was the one who’d been locked away,’ Nettie grimaced, her eyes filled with disquiet as she gazed at him standing beside the cart that would carry their belongings to Anster.

Even with Thom ailing, Nettie found it hard to stay away too long and would often visit. Taking advantage of the long summer evenings, when it was still light enough to roam the coastal path, she’d wait until Thom was tucked in bed before making the journey. Without warning, she’d knock on Sorcha’s or Beatrix’s door and stay for a meal, sharing news. After a couple of weeks, with Thom rallying, she grew bored in Anster, so donned her fishwife’s apron and neepyin and returned to working down at the harbour, going back to her husband upon eventide.

As for Beatrix, there wasn’t a day went by when she didn’t call on every one of them — including Nettie. It was a way of assuaging the terrible guilt she felt at having given up their names in the first place. Holding herself responsible for all their misery, and for Thomas Brown’s death and Janet’s current situation, she couldn’t stop apologising or trying to make amends. Didn’t matter that no one blamed her. They knew Beatrix had experienced all their suffering and more. While some said it was remarkable that Beatrix had recovered so well, especially after being in solitude in St Fillan’s Cave for such a length of time, Sorcha knew she hadn’t. None of them had. But by focussing on her friends, Beatrix could get through, just as Nettie dealt with it by turning their terrible experience into macabre tales.

Then there was young Isobel, still able to eke a living as a seamstress. Much to Sorcha’s relief and the reverend’s wrath, she learned to trade upon her new-found infamy. Sorcha was afraid that just as it had before, the villagers’ mood would swing faster than the northerly winds that swept down the coast. The majority might be with them for now, but when the drave lessened again as autumn fell upon them with cold cruelty, and the reverend kept raging about witches from the pulpit each Sunday, using Janet Cornfoot as an example of utter infamy and malice, she feared the town could turn against them again. It was as if she was holding her breath, waiting for it to happen. When she mentioned this to Nettie, her friend shook her head sorrowfully.

‘If you keep waiting for something to happen, you’ll likely will it into being, hen.’ Cupping Sorcha’s face in her hands, she kissed the tip of her nose. ‘It’s over. For us at least. For poor auld Janet, never mind Nicolas with her terrible hurts, it’s still ongoing.’