Patrick Cowper ignored his eldest daughter’s entreaties to join the family for supper and retired to his study, a bottle of whisky in one hand, a plate of bannocks and hare in the other. Until he heard how Peter Morton fared in Edinburgh, he wouldn’t be able to sit still, let alone tolerate mindless blather.

When the knock came shortly after six of the clock, it took all Patrick’s willpower to remain patiently behind his desk and pretend an indifference he didn’t feel.

As he watched Peter cross the floor, he noted the redness of his cheeks, the sweat that beaded his brow. Had he run from Edinburgh? The lad was alive with a simmering intensity, keen to speak, but why could he not meet his eyes?

‘Sit, lad, sit,’ said Patrick, rising to his feet, coming around the desk and clapping Peter on the back as he took a seat. He noticed his boots were wet, his stockings as well. His hair was tousled and he smelled of sweat and seaweed. By which route had he come?

‘You’ll have a dram with me?’ asked Patrick and, without waiting for an answer, collected another glass, poured and passed it over.

The lad gulped the drink, coughing and wheezing, rubbing his chest.

Patrick waited for him to regain his composure. ‘Well,’ he began, easing himself into his chair, fingers spread on the desk as he fixed his eyes upon Peter. ‘Tell me what happened, tell me everything.’

Peter did.

Patrick resisted the urge to swear when Peter related how the earl, the advocate and the other gentlemen had treated him. He forced himself to remain calm. So what if those puddocks didn’t believe the lad? They weren’t from here. Hadn’t seen what those women had done. What they were… But they would. God help him, they would.

When he finished, Peter sat quietly. Patrick’s mind raced. Now he had to deliver another blow. News had come that Isobel Adam, the first of the women to be sent to Edinburgh for questioning by the Privy Council back in October, had been set free. No longer was she on a bond awaiting trial. Despite her confession, Edinburgh had ordered that every charge against her be dropped. She would not face trial. It had been all Patrick could do not to tear the missive bearing the news into shreds and shove it down the messenger’s throat.

It was clear what had happened. Those ridiculous men had paid no account to what he and the councillors reported, or the gents from St Andrew’s who believed the women guilty despite their recanting; nor to the confessions signed by the witches or eyewitness accounts of Peter’s afflictions, or indeed the word of the lad himself. Instead they took the word of a pretty young lass. A pretty young lass and an interfering captain…