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Back The Darkest Shore Save as PDF
Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Karen Brooks
  4. Title Page
  5. Dedication
  6. EXPLANATORY NOTE
  7. PART ONE
  8. One
  9. Two
  10. Three
  11. Four
  12. Five
  13. Six
  14. Seven
  15. Eight
  16. Nine
  17. Ten
  18. Eleven
  19. Twelve
  20. Thirteen
  21. Fourteen
  22. Fifteen
  23. Sixteen
  24. Seventeen
  25. Eighteen
  26. Nineteen
  27. Twenty
  28. Twenty-One
  29. Twenty-Two
  30. Twenty-Three
  31. Twenty-Four
  32. Twenty-Five
  33. Twenty-Six
  34. Twenty-Seven
  35. Twenty-Eight
  36. PART TWO
  37. Twenty-Nine
  38. Thirty
  39. Thirty-One
  40. Thirty-Two
  41. Thirty-Three
  42. Thirty-Four
  43. Thirty-Five
  44. PART THREE
  45. Thirty-Six
  46. Thirty-Seven
  47. Thirty-Eight
  48. Thirty-Nine
  49. Forty
  50. Forty-One
  51. Forty-Two
  52. Forty-Three
  53. Forty-Four
  54. Forty-Five
  55. Forty-Six
  56. Forty-Seven
  57. Forty-Eight
  58. Forty-Nine
  59. Fifty
  60. Fifty-One
  61. Fifty-Two
  62. PART FOUR
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Epilogue: Autumn 1706
  73. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  74. GLOSSARY
  75. LIST OF CHARACTERS
  76. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

In no other place in Scotland were witches hunted with such fervour as in Pittenweem.

— Raymond Lamont-Brown, in John Donald, Discovering Fife

PART ONE

December 1703 to August 1704

My Lord, I reckon myself very much honoured by your Lordship’s letter, desiring me to write to you an account of that horrible murder committed in Pittenweem. I doubt not, but by this time, your Lordship has seen the gentleman’s letter to his friend thereanent [concerning the matter]; I refer you to it, the author thereof being so well informed, and ingenous, that I’ll assure you, there is nothing in it but what is generally talked and believed to be true.

— An Answer of a Letter From a Gentleman of Fife, 1705

One

ONE

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Freends ’gree best separate.

(Relatives agree best when they don’t live too near each other.)

Perched atop a patient cob on the western braes of Pittenweem, Sorcha McIntyre wasn’t prepared for what the familiar expanse of water — or the brackish smell of brine, fish and seaweed and the sweet chanting that carried on the wind — did to her senses. It was as if the combination whipped her heart from her breast and cast it adrift upon the pounding waves.

She inhaled deeply, and it took her a moment to register the serious regard of the man who’d ridden beside her all day. Ignoring his scrutiny, Sorcha pressed a hand to her ribs and raised her eyes to the louring sky, where hulking grey clouds were pushed along by icy, seabitten gusts.

‘That be Pittenweem,’ she said, indicating the small township spread out before them. ‘Home.’ The word was both reassuring and bitter.

The man made a gruff noise of acknowledgement. He would wait until she was ready to draw their journey to a close; a journey that had begun that morning, but in reality had started months ago.

Waves that matched the oorlich palette of the sky thundered against the crescent-shaped shore and its stone-walled harbour, sending curtains of wash over the ruined pier, drenching the men who scrambled along it in their hob-nailed boots. As she’d suspected, not even the lure of Hogmanay kept them from work.

Errant beams of afternoon sunlight pierced the thick canopy of clouds, spears of defiance that cast a holy light upon the scene. Sorcha could almost believe that God Himself was welcoming her back.

Just as the thought rose, the sunlight was doused as if it was a figment of her overwrought imagination.

Maybe the Almighty wasn’t welcoming her after all, but sending her a warning. God knew, she’d left the town of St Andrew’s with enough of those ringing in her ears.

‘I never want to see you again, you hear? Don’t ever come back.’