Still, what the reverend said that day made sense. Alexander couldn’t remember the drave ever being so poor. Admittedly, in years gone by the catch had been so bad they’d been forced to take the boats into the deeper waters, risking storms and high seas. But doing that made little difference any more. Inshore or out past the Isle of May, the silver darlings, cod and other fish were scarce. No wonder some of the fishwives had taken it upon themselves to wander the coast, seeking work where they could find it. They had to make a living too, didn’t they? There was barely enough work to sustain those who remained — those fishwives who’d no choice but to gut, sort and mend the nets beside the suspect witches. He shuddered at the thought of the danger those women were in.

His stomach growled. It did no good thinking about fish, about food. It reminded him of how empty his larder, his belly. Pouring himself another dram, he poked the fire, the peat crumbling and sending sparks and smoke into the room. At least he was warm, which was more than could be said for some. And there was the reverend, asking for donations to repair the pier again. What they’d managed to fix with the money gained from Thomas Brown’s seized property and the incomers gawking at the witches barely made a difference. And now that had dried up. Christ, folk could barely put food in their pots let alone part with coin to save rotting wood and crumbling stone, much as the village might need the damn pier fixed.

What if the reverend was right and all this ill-fortune wasn’t God’s will but Satan’s? What if witches were causing it, all while living and working beside them, pretending to be affable and godly while undermining everything with their charms and evil spells? Taking another swig of his drink, he thought about the women who’d been imprisoned in the Tolbooth. Some said they’d suffered greatly. He recalled how Beatrix Laing looked when she emerged from St Fillan’s Cave. He didn’t recognise her, so shrunken and pale had she become. Hard to believe it was the same carline who’d bark at you if you dared look at her twice. Nicolas Lawson had been carried out of the Tolbooth, the damage to her legs so great, some said she’d never walk again. Yet she did. How did she recover so well when he knew fishermen who’d been bitten from the frost to lose their limbs?