She picked a flea out of her hair and broke it in half, smearing the blood between her fingers. Aye, she smiled, that was her, dangerous.

If only Reverend Cowper were a flea. He was as irritating as one.

Reflecting back on her time in the cave, for all it had been a miserable, cold way to pass the days and weeks as they all bent one into the other in the dark until they were a crushing weight, at least she hadn’t been tortured any more. Dear God, but that was something she hoped never to go through again. The way that bastard Bollard took such pleasure from inserting his instruments into her auld flesh, her sagging lugs and even her cunt for Christ sakes… She shuddered. There was something not quite right about someone who could inflict that level of pain on another human being, divest a woman of her robes without blinking a cold eye nor show any emotion as he pawed her flesh, pulled and searched… Searched, my arse. It was as if his soul had been dislodged or evaporated altogether. And they called her a witch.

It was thoughts of how she would enact revenge on all the bastards who’d locked her away that kept Janet’s spirit strong. If that cocksucking reverend wanted to call it malfeasance, so be it. She was filled with it, devil take his balls. When she was free, och, how she’d celebrate with the lasses who, just as they did when she was shut deep in the cave, would call out her name, tell her stories and cackle to lift her spirits.

A noise outside the door distracted her thoughts. Who had come this time? It had been too cold to remain by the window and it was too early for a change of the guards. Why, the clock had scarce struck one.

There was the rattle of keys.

The door screamed open and in stepped Reverend Cowper and a large man she’d seen once before. A grubby-looking lad who, Camron told her, had been a soldier. With fists like hammers and a way of wielding the stick he carried so it left bruises but rarely broke bones, he had a smile frostier than the ice-floes of the north. Janet’s heart fell into her feet but she forced a grin nonetheless. They would not see her trepidation. Not if she could help it.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Cornfoot,’ said the reverend.

Scrambling to her feet, Janet bobbed a curtsey. Wouldn’t do to let manners slide. ‘Afternoon, sirs.’

The reverend dragged a stool over and invited Janet to sit. The last thing she wanted to do was comply, but she did. She’d learned it made the punishment less brutal if she did what she was told.