Ignoring the disdainful looks of those gathered outside the Tolbooth, Sorcha had risen before dark and found a position as close to the studded door as she could get. This time, if she was to be identified, she didn’t want to be hauled from her house or taken unawares. She wanted any announcements or news firsthand. No amount of pushing, whispered threats or loud insults were going to move her. Call her a witch, would they? Well, she’d bloody well act like one, she thought, glowering at the Crawford women.

By the time the sun rose, revealing a patchy sky of grey cloud washed with insipid blue, and the wind began to wail up the wynd, bringing with it the sounds of gulls crying, waves crashing and the shouts of the inshore fishermen from across the water, a sizeable mob was spilling into the High Street and milling around the Mercat Cross. The mood was dark. Many had already decided that it didn’t matter what the city toffs declared, the women were guilty and they all knew it.

Sorcha’s heart was a lead weight. In her bag she carried extra blankets, food and a large boat hook. If she had to use force and threats to clear the way for her friends, or defend herself, she would. She also needed to let Nettie know that Thom was bedridden. Unable to work on the foreshore, Sorcha had gone to visit him and Rebecca in Anster. It was evident Thom was not long for this world. Nettie would be crushed.

The town clock tolled midday before the first of the gentlemen emerged from the Tolbooth. Warmly dressed in fine suits and coats, with ruddy-coloured cheeks and fleshy paunches, they were a stark contrast to the dowdy Weem folk with their worn clothes and thin faces.

Talking among themselves, they were largely oblivious to the crowd who, despite bold assertions before the men appeared, parted without a murmur. It wasn’t until a pale face flanked by two burly guards appeared that the crowd reacted.

It was Nettie. Behind her was Isobel, her sweet face bruised and bloodied, then Beatrix and, finally, Nicolas. Sorcha’s throat grew thick. Her vision became blurry. They were there. They were alive. Thoughts battered her mind like waves against the braes. It was going to be all right. It was over.

Thank God. She was wrong. Cowper hadn’t won.

Blinking like startled owls in the light, the women stood together in the doorway. The guards used pikes to keep the crowd, who were becoming restless, back.

‘Nettie!’ cried Sorcha. ‘Beatrix, Nicolas, Isobel!’ She waved her arm above her head to attract their attention. Nettie saw her and, with a wide grin, pushed past the guards and beckoned the others to follow.