‘Why?’ asked Sorcha. ‘She was pardoned. We all were. What are they accusing her of now?’

‘What else but witchcraft,’ said Mr Adam then, much to her dismay, buried his face in his large, nobbled hands and began to weep. Sorcha put an arm about him and led him to a chair.

‘Is this why you’re here?’ Nettie turned towards Rebecca.

‘Nae,’ said Rebecca, clearly shocked at the news. ‘It’s pa. He’s back from the city ports, ma, and I fear he’s very poorly.’

Nettie gave an exclamation of despair. Thom had been ill for a long time, eating little, coughing ferociously, claiming whenever asked it was naught and dismissing Nettie’s concern. Sorcha knew living and working in Pittenweem was a way of keeping Nettie’s mind from his troubles as well as helping to earn enough to cover the cost of his treatment. Seeing the way colour fled her face and tears welled, this was a bitter blow. For all her independence, she loved her husband dearly.

‘I said I’d come and fetch you. I ken naught of what Mr Adam is saying. It’s just a coincidence we arrived together. But, ma, he needs you.’ Rebecca snatched up her coat and began to put it back on again, leaving a trail of water across the floor.

‘Give me a moment, lass, and we’ll be on our way.’ Nettie shot an apologetic look at Sorcha.

‘Go. Go,’ said Sorcha. ‘I will send word once I learn exactly what this is about.’ She squeezed Mr Adam’s forearm reassuringly.

Nettie dressed swiftly, throwing some extra garments in her burlap and dropping a kiss on Sorcha’s head. ‘I’ll return when I can.’ She opened the door. ‘If Isobel has been arrested, I’ve nae doubt who’s behind this,’ she said grimly.

After kirk yesterday, they’d had a long discussion about the reverend’s latest sermon.

‘Ma, we have to leave,’ pressed Rebecca, trying to push her mother out the door.

‘I pray Thom will be all right,’ said Sorcha, hugging her friend tightly.

With a grunt, hoisting her bag, draping her coat over it and ensuring her scarf was tied tightly, Nettie signalled to Rebecca she was ready and, with one last wave, left.

‘It’s just you and me now, Mr Adam,’ said Sorcha gently, waiting until the women’s voices had faded. Finding a bottle of whisky, Sorcha poured a dram and pushed it into Mr Adam’s hands. After he’d taken a couple of sips, she sat beside him, her knees almost touching his.

Raising bleary eyes to Sorcha’s, Mr Adam surprised her by grabbing a hold of her hand. ‘Just when I thought this malice nonsense had been put to bed, it starts all over again. This time, they’re saying my lass cast a spell on that drunk Alexander McGregor and sought to murder him in his bed.’