As she watched her friends laying everything upon the table, she couldn’t help but admire not just the feast, but the defiance that had led to it. Not that she really wanted to celebrate, especially while Janet still languished in St Fillan’s Cave, though she knew the woman wouldn’t begrudge them some festivities — on the contrary, she would have been the first to suggest them. Sorcha, Aidan and the others had done what they could, but neither the council nor Edinburgh were prepared to say what the new charges were that justified Janet still being held. All avenues of appeal were, for the moment, closed. Janet’s liberty — just like the repayment of their bond money — was at the discretion of the Pittenweem council. Part of Sorcha was afraid that celebrating their pardons would rouse Cowper to be harder on Janet than he already was.

All too soon, guests began to arrive. Mrs Fraser was among the first, along with Crabby. Pipes and fiddles appeared and music started. Food and drink were downed and conversation rose and fell, laughter sprinkling it like early winter snow. Despite the general air of gaiety, Sorcha couldn’t escape the feeling that maybe, just maybe, they were counting their fish before the catch.

As the light began to fade and evening fell, she also wondered, as people came and went, some reflecting soberly on what had happened, others less so, where Aidan was. Since she’d left him outside the sheriff’ s offices in the city, all she’d had was a hastily scrawled note, promising he’d return as soon as he could.

Why did her heart quicken painfully when she thought of those words? Was it because his notion of soon didn’t match hers? Or was it the feeling of foreboding they conjured?

Almost as if she was a witch and sensed an evil spell had been cast.

Curled in her da’s armchair, Sorcha cupped her quaich and gazed dreamily into the fire. Outside, the wind howled and rain smacked the windows as if a pagan god was wielding a whip. Between blows, Sorcha could just detect the reassuring rumble of the ocean. She tried to gather her thoughts, aware she’d drunk too many drams to do this altogether successfully.

The detritus of the evening’s festivities was scattered around her. Glasses, quaichs, greasy platters, half-eaten bannocks, crumbs littering the floor. A lump of cheese looked most unappetising melting by the fire; what remained of the bowl of neeps had turned grey. Next door’s chickens would appreciate what remained. Remembering the way Crabby had snuffled along the floor, licking up scraps, they were lucky there was anything left to toss their way. The memory of the dog’s golden head and wagging tail made her smile. Content to roam between legs, accepting pats, all Crabby really wanted was some attention and a full belly. Like most men, Sorcha thought. Most men except for one.