Chapters (76)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Also by Karen Brooks
- Title Page
- Dedication
- EXPLANATORY NOTE
- PART ONE
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- PART TWO
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- PART THREE
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- PART FOUR
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Epilogue: Autumn 1706
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- GLOSSARY
- LIST OF CHARACTERS
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sorcha shook his hand off and looked him up and down. ‘Why do you think? He was posted there weeks ago. I doubt I’ll ever see him again and I know who I’ve to thank for that.’ Once again, Peter couldn’t hold her glare.
The sky was darkening as thick clouds gathered. A flock of birds cawed their way north. ‘Now,’ said Sorcha finally. ‘I’m going home to write to the very same man. Someone needs to know what’s happening around here before it gets out of hand. Again.’
This time Peter let her go. Sorcha was astounded by the level of relief she felt.
That might have changed if she’d seen the expression on the lad’s face, how it altered or where he headed next, striding away with fuming purpose.
It wasn’t until she was inside her cottage, a piece of paper and her quill and ink ready, a small dram beside her, and had begun to record the latest events in Pittenweem, that the tightness in her belly started to unfurl. Not that she relaxed completely. Every footfall, raised voice and even the crash of the waves and the rain as it drummed upon the roof set her nerves on edge.
As night fell and the room grew darker and the downpour became heavier, she finished her letter. When it grew lighter, she would take the missive to Mrs Fraser and ask her to ensure it was sent. Then she carefully washed, using a perfumed soap, dressed in her best clothes, combed her hair and tied a fresh scarf about her head. Shaking out her shawl, she wound it across her shoulders, pinning it with her mor’s favourite brooch. ’Twas of a mermaid. Sitting with her legs stretched out before the fire, she soaked in the sights, sounds and smells of her cottage. The way the windows rattled with every gust; how the embers in the fireplace looked like living creatures huddled together for warmth. How the smell of dinners past melded with the briny scent of the ocean, the almost mint-fresh odour of the rain. How the wooden arms of the chair felt beneath her callused fingers, the fabric of the worn cushions almost silky through her skirts. How the plates in the dresser gleamed, the patterns swirling as if they too were alive in the shadows cast by the flickering light. With her hand atop the letter clearly addressed to the captain, she waited for dawn to herald what she knew would happen.
The guards would come for her. Just like Isobel, she’d be marched through the streets and to the Tolbooth. Only, unlike the last time she was there, she understood that on this occasion, despite what she’d written, despite the pleas they’d all make, there’d be no escape, not unless a miracle occurred or, worse, another tragedy.
Thirty-Nine
THIRTY-NINE
