From within the crowd, Mr Adam came forward, taking his daughter’s hand, ensuring no one shoved or threatened her. Mr Brown also appeared, using his stick to create space, and Mr Lawson. When the women reached Sorcha, she hugged each of them tightly.

‘Come, let’s get away from here. We can talk later.’ Sorcha couldn’t help but look over her shoulder, wondering if there was a guard waiting to take her into custody. Best not linger. She had what she came for.

‘Come to our house,’ said Mr Brown. ‘I’ll have the lasses run hot baths and Mrs Gower has a stew in the pot. More than enough for all.’

Pulling Beatrix gently to his side, he set off down Cove Wynd. Linking her arm through Nettie’s, Sorcha waited for Isobel and her father and Nicolas and her husband to go ahead, before taking up the rear.

They hadn’t gone very far when they heard a clamour behind them. Spinning around, Sorcha saw two guards holding someone between them. Thinner than anyone had a right to be, with greyish flesh covered in sores, her hair looking more like a bird’s nest than human, was Janet Cornfoot. Hacking and coughing, she stumbled along the cobbles, her dress tripping her up as her crooked toes caught in the ragged hem.

‘Dear God.’ Sorcha stopped. Unwinding her shawl, she pulled out the blankets she’d shoved in her bag and, leaving Nettie where she stood, ran to Janet. The guards tried to prevent her getting too close.

‘Simon Wood and Gerard Stuart. Don’t you dare,’ she growled. Discounting them, she wrapped her shawl around Janet and thrust the blankets into her arms. Then, slowly, carefully, she embraced the woman. She smelled of musty old caves, fear and hunger. Of nightmares and endless days of loneliness. She smelled of defiance.

Janet hugged her back, her grip weak but determined.

‘You’re here.’ Sorcha pulled away from her and scanned her face, took in the wrinkly neck, the missing teeth in the smile that Janet gave, one that even after all this time, reached her eyes.

‘Despite the bastards,’ said Janet. ‘And they’ll ken I am too, Sorcha. Mark my words.’

Before she could say any more, Simon and Gerard shoved her forward. ‘Sorry, Sorcha. We’ve orders from on high. Back to the cave with you, Mrs Cornfoot.’

‘You’re not free?’ began Sorcha.

‘Not yet. Not until the lairds and lawyers consider what I told them, then I’ll be released. But I be fine, Sorcha,’ said Janet, resting a curled hand on her arm. ‘I be fine. Hello there, Nettie, looking good, hen, looking good,’ called Janet. ‘You too, Isobel and Nicolas. But you, Beatrix, you’re still the same auld clash-bag you always were.’

Beatrix began to laugh. They all did. ‘And you too, you silly auld cow,’ cried Beatrix, dissolving into tears as soon as Janet’s back was turned.