When he was first called to the city to give evidence, he was glad of the opportunity to tell how afeared he’d been. Travelling by the coach the reverend organised, dressed in his finest clothes, he imagined the men would commend him for his courage and how, by identifying the witches, he’d prevented others from being harmed. What he hadn’t expected as he sat in the stuffy room lined with books and documents on the second floor of a huge stone building, the smoke-wreathed light above the men’s heads making them appear otherworldly, saintly almost, was scepticism.

It was like a heavy blow; even now he struggled to recover from it. He wasn’t yet ready to face his family. Or the reverend. Insisting the coach leave him outside Anster, he’d wended his way back to the Weem, crossing fields to avoid encountering anyone. Favouring rarely used paths, he approached the village from the north, where he was less likely to be seen. Thank goodness the soldiers had gone.

He made his way towards the western braes, knowing he’d have to head home soon. His ma would be expecting him. So would Reverend Cowper. He’d made it clear he wanted a full reckoning the moment Peter returned. How could he explain about the earl and the other gentlemen who’d questioned him as if he were the culprit and not a victim? From the moment they began, the men challenged the reports the reverend had written about Peter’s affliction. When they asked how they were to credit such tales when he looked so hearty, he told them the truth: his symptoms had disappeared about three months prior, as mysteriously as they’d begun.

Red-faced, uncomfortable, shocked by their lack of faith, he felt their scorn as surely as if they’d struck him. And that was before they offered alternative explanations for what he had been through.