Chuckling, she slowly lowered herself onto the ground, falling slightly at the bottom and twisting her ankle. Pain shot through her body and she braced herself against the wall, sucking air into her lungs and with it, determination. She undid the blanket from around her waist and flung it over her shoulders, grateful for the extra warmth, and wished she could ease the window shut. With one last curse at the Tolbooth and a healthy spit for good measure, she crept past the Mercat Cross and turned into Routine Row, slowing as she passed the house and smithy where all this cursed nonsense began.

The smith, Patrick Morton and his blasted lad, Peter, were sitting in the kitchen, the other bairns arranged around the table like a picture-perfect family. Sitting among them like another son was the guard, Simon Wood. So, this is where he chose to spend his night off. The mother, that scrawny excuse for a woman, was running around after them. They were blethering away as if they hadn’t a care in the world, all of them enveloped in smoke and the umber light of candles and no doubt a fire in the hearth; she could almost feel its warmth as she stopped to drink in the sight. Did she envy them this togetherness? They looked almost holy.

Nae, not when it came at the cost of all those she called friends. Not when it meant she was exiled from her town, her home, for the foreseeable future. There was nothing holy about them, about Simon, or their eldest son. Peter was responsible for the damn mess they found themselves in, the lying widdie; and Simon, a lad she’d known since he was in his ma’s belly, had shown where his sympathies lay, beating her and denying her food and water. Funny how, when given the chance to be cruel without consequence, even seemingly decent people would take it. Bowing her head against the rain that was falling steadily now, she turned aside as two men passed. Ignoring her, they continued on their way and she released the breath she’d been holding.