That morning they’d met at the Mercat Cross then quietly walked to where the coach and mounted constables waited. Dawn had not yet broken and the last stars were glimmering in the heavens, a nippy breeze snapping at their cloaks, threatening to dislodge their hats. Arms linked, they’d kept their heads bowed, trying not to start when a rat scuttled across their path or a rooster crowed.

It wasn’t until they saw the coach, a dark silhouette against the lightening sky, that they knew they weren’t to travel without friends after all. Aidan, Sergeant Thatcher and two corporals were on horseback, talking to the driver and the constables in low voices.

Upon spying them, the women stopped. Sorcha wriggled free of the group and approached.

‘Aidan,’ she said, nodding to the driver and the soldiers. ‘I thought we agreed. You don’t need to do this.’

‘I’m not going for you, lass,’ said Aidan, looking down at her, his breath a plume of white. ‘I’ve been summoned to Edinburgh again.’

Sorcha’s heart skipped a beat. For all he pretended otherwise, she knew he was really doing it to ensure her safety — hers and that of her friends. ‘Do you know why?’

Aidan shook his head. ‘Nae. But, as I explained to the constables here —’ he gestured towards Simon Wood and Mark Smith, who acknowledged the women before looking away, ‘it’s in our mutual interest we travel together, isn’t it?’

He beckoned the other women forward and, dismounting, he and the sergeant assisted them into the coach, ensuring their legs were covered with blankets, the windows sealed against the cold. As he went to close the door, Sorcha gripped his hand. ‘Thank you.’

Aidan dipped his head, but she caught his smile.

The women barely spoke as day broke, dull and grey with heavy clouds. They knew there’d be words aplenty once they reached Edinburgh. What they secretly prayed was that words would be all that was asked of them. As they rocked from side to side, bumping shoulders and hips, Sorcha noted how Nettie would absent-mindedly rub her wrists; how Nicolas winced any time they met a pothole. Margaret and Lillie remained mute but wary. Beatrix closed her eyes, but from the way her lids moved, it was clear her mind was busy. God knew, Sorcha couldn’t cease ruminating.

On arrival they were ushered one by one into a dim room in a large building, its cold corridors filled with dark-coated men carrying voluminous files. The interviews, which Sorcha had been dreading and they all secretly feared, despite Isobel’s reassurances, might involve Mr Bollard and more beatings, were swift. Unwilling to show any sympathy towards the women, the men weren’t entirely contrary to them either, but at least, the women agreed later, the questions were not nonsensical.