Passers-by would swing wide of the women, their extreme efforts not to associate with them making her laugh. Sometimes she could hear her friends talking to Camron or the Stuart lads below. Janet knew that meant they’d delivered something for her to enjoy — fresh bannocks, a flask of whisky and even, one time, a fish pie. That had been a good day. But it wasn’t only her friends who took it upon themselves to ensure she was fed. Other packages would arrive — slices of mutton, smoked fish, coddled eggs. The guards wouldn’t say who delivered them, but Janet had a suspicion. It was the women folk — well, some of them. Others would spit as soon as look at her, as they did to Sorcha and Nettie. But there were those who, by disobeying their men, quietly, anonymously, demonstrated a support she’d thought had all but gone. It gave her a warm feeling right between her breasts.

Why, she thought, gazing around at the remnants of her last meal, if she kept eating like this, they’d have to widen the door to let her out. Holding the fabric of her waistband away from her, she grimaced. She hoped she wasn’t going to be imprisoned that long. God, but she was like a speet. It wasn’t only the way her skirts swam on her that made her pull a face, but the stains — blood, sweat, tears, gravy and grease. Her ma, one of the fussiest people she knew, would be rolling over in her grave if she saw her lass. Two of her could fit into the filthy skirt and there’d still be room for half of her again. She examined her hands. Scarred from the pricking, they were sprinkled with spots and marred by ropey veins — veins that looked bigger now her hands had begun to resemble birds’ claws, even curling into her palm the way a jackdaw’s might. At least all the loose flesh upon her arms and thighs remained to keep her warm. All in all, considering where she was and why, things weren’t so bad.

Anyhow, she’d no one to blame but herself, not really. If only she hadn’t given in to the bloody reverend and that fucking pricker the first time. If only she hadn’t recanted her confessions. But then, if she hadn’t told Mr Cooke and Mr Kippilaw what the reverend really did to her and the others, the threats that burbled out of that sliver of a mouth like water gushing into the burn, how he’d promised her that if she admitted to the things he said she did with the devil (och, she only elaborated to please him), he’d not only baptise her again, but she’d be set free, then she’d likely still be in the cave. As it was, she was akin to illicit goods brought back by a smuggler: too dangerous to touch.