It was only when he thought of Thomas Brown that the seed of guilt planted all those months ago sprouted once more. Not that it was his fault the auld souff died, of course.

The man’s death had not gone to waste. Despite his daughter’s protests, his property had been confiscated and sold. The money had gone far: beautiful timbers and stone to commence repairs upon the pier had been delivered to the foreshore only a couple of weeks ago. Many would benefit from that and not just those hired to do the construction. The exception was Mr Brown’s daughter, Ellie. Left with a few measly pounds to remember her father by, she’d gone to live with relatives in St Monan’s. He was glad. He didn’t think he could face her.

There were a few he dreaded seeing again, even though God was on his side. God and the reverend. The very first day he left his house he’d seen Beatrix Laing, the foul auld gilly. She’d pretended not to see him as she hirpled up the High Street, leaning on her husband. He’d been shocked to see how small and lean she was. In his mind, she’d taken on the proportions of a giant. Still, her hands were like claws even if they were stuck on stick arms. Her face was shadowed by a bonnet, but it looked like she’d grown a beard, so dark was a patch on the side of her face. With ever-expanding horror, he realised it was a large bruise.

After that, he’d been prepared for how Nettie Horseburgh, Lillie Wallace and the others appeared. But the one he most dreaded to see again was Sorcha McIntyre. Of all the women who’d been imprisoned in the Tolbooth, it was Mrs McIntyre who haunted him.

Unable to forget how she was so kind to him that day they walked to the smithy, how she’d laughed and given him a smile that made him feel warm deep inside, as if he were the man he knew himself to be, she’d continued to disturb his dreams. Not in the way he claimed the witches did. Nae, Mrs McIntyre was altogether different.