She may have been spared arrest this time, but in the villagers’ eyes, she was as guilty as if she’d flown on a broom through the night skies raining curses on all and sundry. If it wasn’t for Moira Fraser and a few of the others, she would have starved or frozen to death as winter descended upon them in a fury of storms, snow and gale-force winds.

It wasn’t just Sorcha who was targeted by frightened and zealous folk. Fishwives, even those who’d never been accused, were being refused service in shops, hounded wherever they walked. Unable to sell their fish as no one would buy from them, they ate what the men caught. They may not have earned coin from the extra catch, but at least they didn’t starve.

Along with Nicolas’s and Beatrix’s husbands, the other fishermen were denied ale and whisky at the tavern. Furious at first, the fishermen soon jumped back in their boats and rowed to Anster to drink at the Dreel Tavern. Although they were regarded with some suspicion, they weren’t rebuffed; coin was coin, after all.

To the people of Pittenweem, it was as if by turning their backs on all those who associated with the accused witches, they were somehow convincing the reverend, the council, God and even themselves, of their innocence. Scorning the witches’ families, friends and allies was a form of protection, a talisman against evil. With heads held high, they’d attend the kirk each Sunday and heed, with increasing fervour, Reverend Cowper’s sermons. Sermons that Sorcha knew were thinly veiled calls to act against malfeasance — threats against the likes of her.

Listening to the reverend, Sorcha marvelled that this man of God, who should be alleviating people’s fears, was exacerbating them. When he should be encouraging unity, he was fostering discord and suspicion. How was this helping the town? It wasn’t. It was destroying it and giving Cowper the power he relished. She could see it in his face, hear it in his voice. It shone in his eyes every time they landed upon her. A self-satisfied gleam that some might read as godly fervour. Without words, he was telling her she was next. Part of her wanted to whisper to him to come and get her; the other part quailed in terror.

After another dismal day and another fish supper, instead of retiring to bed and the consolation of dreams (not that they’d offered much of that of late), she found some paper and writing implements and determined to write to Aidan again, keep him informed of events. When she first wrote to him, she’d explained what had happened to Nettie, Isobel, Beatrix, Nicolas and Janet, sparing him her more dismal thoughts. Gazing out the window, she wondered where he’d be when he read her words. What he was doing? Was he safe?