Sorcha resisted the urge to bolt from the kirk. Striding past the reverend and his eldest daughter with barely a greeting, she waited for Nettie and Beatrix on Cove Wynd. Clutching her shawl against the cold wind and the icy blood in her veins, she noted that fewer people than ever acknowledged her. Some even went so far as to turn in the opposite direction, even though she knew their houses lay past where she stood. Others lingered around the kirk door, aligning themselves with the reverend.

Her heart sank into her gelid, worn boots.

When Nettie and Beatrix finally emerged, Nettie was stopped by the reverend who, resting his hand on her arm, whispered something. At first, Nettie gave a derisive sound that might have been mirth, but when he continued, her face paled and she staggered. Beatrix, who was standing next to her, wagged an angry finger at him, eliciting a mocking laugh while the other parishioners recoiled in shock. Instead of remaining together, the friends parted ways without a farewell.

Before Sorcha could ask what was wrong — aside from the obvious — Nettie took her arm and propelled her towards the cottage.

‘What is it?’ asked Sorcha quietly.

‘Not yet,’ murmured Nettie. ‘Wait.’

The Robertson family turned aside as they passed, pretending they hadn’t seen them.

‘Good day to you, Mr and Mrs Robertson, and your bairns,’ said Nettie pointedly.

Sorcha greeted them as well. They might ignore her, but she wouldn’t disregard people she’d known her whole life, no matter what they were thinking. No matter what the reverend encouraged them to do.

It wasn’t until they were inside Sorcha’s cottage that Nettie spoke. Hefting her burlap onto a chair and turning her back to the fire, she faced Sorcha.

Her eyes were blazing, her cheeks grey.

‘Nettie? What is it? What did he say to you?’

‘That bastard,’ spat Nettie. ‘Can you believe how he twisted the Edinburgh verdict?’

‘Aye,’ said Sorcha contemptuously. ‘I can. And before the entire congregation. I also witnessed how many were prepared to accept his version.’

Nettie closed her eyes briefly and sighed deeply. When she opened them again, she offered Sorcha a hopeful look. ‘Do you have any whisky left, hen?’

Sorcha peered around. She’d had a wee tipple the night before, enough to know all her supplies were drunk.

‘Nae bother,’ said Nettie. ‘Though I fear we’re both going to need some after I tell you what the blaggard dared to say to me and Beatrix.’

Sorcha sank into a seat and waited for Nettie to do the same.