What unnerved Sorcha most was the way attitudes towards her altered from one day to the next. Even after she’d been released from the Tolbooth in autumn, there’d been folk prepared to risk the wrath of those who still believed she was a witch and not only greet her and celebrate her freedom, but continue to defy the reverend and buy their fish from her. No more. Doors were closed in her face. More often she would knock and wait, but no one would answer. It didn’t matter if she called out or smoke belched from the chimney, a curtain was quickly rearranged or a bairn’s cry muffled — she was stranded on the stoop.

With the few fish she did sell, she tried to buy milk, neeps and eggs, but found each farm or shop had suddenly run out. Likewise, when she sought to acquire some needles, and even take her boots to the cordwainer for repair, service was refused.

Dejected, she’d gone to Beatrix’s house to find she told the same story, only worse. Word had spread that Beatrix was leader of a coven and she was not only being shunned, but threatened. There were rumours she was going to be hounded out of town — she and Nicolas, whose once much sought-after homemade remedies were now viewed as something altogether sinister.

They were convicted and punished without even a trial.

Making her way home that evening, Sorcha was more conscious than ever of the way people took great pains not to cross her path, how they whispered behind their hands as they watched her progress up the High Street, her creel upon her back, their words dispersing about their averted faces in a cloud of white. Mothers placed protective arms about their children, some raised their eyes to heaven, their lips moving in silent prayer. Faces appeared at windows, doors slammed, barking dogs were dragged away and muzzled. It was unnerving; chilling, even. If Sorcha hadn’t felt anger build within her, the hot tears burning behind her eyes, she would have felt the cold cloak of doom descend.

She began to think of what she’d write to Nettie — how she’d warn her to remain in Anster with her husband. She’d also write to Aidan. She composed sentences in her head, trying to explain these new developments without expressing her fear, her need of him and the comfort his mere presence bestowed. How, with him by her side, she would know the world hadn’t descended into complete madness.

It wasn’t until she reached the Mercat Cross, vaguely aware of the crowd gathered outside the Tolbooth waiting for news of Isobel that, distracted, she almost collided with someone.

As she took a step back, the apology died in her throat. It was Peter Morton.