When Patrick learned Alexander McGregor was at the door asking to see him, his first instinct was to send the ragabash away. It had been a while since he’d last enjoyed time alone with Peter Morton. God knew, the lad wanted to forget what happened in Edinburgh — they both did.

Not even his weekly entreaties from the pulpit about witchcraft had yielded the results he’d wished, never mind what the congregation’s reactions had promised. He knew folk were fearful and, as winter loomed and their food supplies shrank and the old parts of the pier continued to fall into disrepair, he hoped they’d be keen to attach the blame to someone. They always had in the past. This time he intended it would be the witches.

But McGregor had never come to the manse to seek him out before and, despite the lateness of the hour and his young companion, Patrick’s curiosity was whetted. When the fisherman was brought to the study, reeking of whisky and the musty smell of damp clothes seldom washed and dried by a fire, all tinged with the odour of fish and the ocean, he wondered what had dragged him out on a night like this. Wringing his cap in his hands, eyes darting, feet shuffling, McGregor was as disoriented in the study as the reverend would have been on his boat.

The reverend rose from behind his desk and crossed the room to direct his visitor towards the fireplace. The last thing he wanted was to have the malodourous man dripping all over the furniture.

‘Well, Alexander,’ he said, as the fisherman stood with his back to the flames, gazing in bewilderment at the picture of the crucifixion on the wall opposite. ‘What can I do for you this dreich night?’

Mesmerised by the painting, Alexander seemed lost for words. Nae, thought Patrick, looking at him closely, it wasn’t so much he’d lost the power of speech, as he was afraid of what he had to say.

‘Come, lad,’ said the reverend, though Alexander was of an age with him. ‘Anything you say to me is as if you were speaking to the Almighty Himself. Whatever ails you, you can share.’

Alexander’s eyes widened before they slid to Peter sitting quietly in front of the desk. ‘It’s not you I be worried about talking in front of, reverend, so much as the laddie.’

‘Whatever you have to say to me can be said before Peter. He’s as trustworthy as the sea is cold. He’s been forged in the hottest of fires and emerged unscathed.’

Alexander raised a brow.

‘The fires of witchcraft,’ said the reverend solemnly.

Alexander swiftly moved his hands from the small of his back to clasp them over his belly, his cap strangled between them. ‘It’s upon that very matter that I’m here, reverend.’