About to set down everything, she hesitated. It wasn’t fair to subject him to her tribulations, her apprehension, not when there was nothing he could do. Picking up the quill, instead she wrote about winter’s arrival, the way the clouds gathered over the mouth of the Forth, billowing ever forwards towards the shore, emptying their load of rain upon the township, causing rivers of water to rush down the wynds to the harbour. How children and animals were to be found splashing in the puddles. She described how the masts of the clippers leaving Edinburgh with their mighty sails full would catch the early or late sunlight, appearing like a group of angels hovering above the water. She chronicled the small catch, what she was reading, and how often she prayed for his safety. What she didn’t write was how much she yearned for him. It was an ache so deep, it was like missing a limb.

In a postscript, she asked if he’d heard anything of Robbie. She didn’t expect that he would, but thought if nothing else, making enquiries about her brother might distract him from the danger he faced.

She sealed the letter and, once it had cooled, pressed the wax to her lips, closed her eyes and tried to conjure an image of Aidan. The jet-black hair and coal-dark eyes. The evening shadow that limned his chin and the angular cheeks that made him appear so very rakish. She thought of the warmth of his body, the feel of his lips against hers. Heat that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with her memories swamped her. She pressed her hand against her belly. She was so very lonely and not just for that, but for him and the pleasure his presence bestowed. All those she cared about in the world had been taken from her. Please, God, let Aidan not be taken too, forever and ever. Amen.

If it wasn’t for the women in the Tolbooth, she would have left the Weem. But when she tried to imagine packing her burlap, locking the cottage door once and for all and setting out upon the road, she could not think where she would go. She couldn’t go to her sister, that was evident. The city held no appeal whatsoever. All she really knew was this sea life — the fishwives’ lot and the comfort of her daily tasks. But after one particularly rowdy sermon that had half the congregation on its feet chanting and punching the air, looking about for someone on whom to unleash, even that option was denied to her. Cornelia Gurr, the wife of one of the boat owners and someone Sorcha had always had an easy relationship with, came to see her and asked her not to come to work at the harbour any more.