As they rounded the corner, they came upon Camron MacGille and the Stuart brothers talking animatedly to a group of soldiers. The men were tense in their frayed uniforms. Weapons were drawn, faces hard. Some were jabbing their fingers towards the water as they spoke, talking in hushed voices. Nearby, outside the baker’s, a group of men and women watched on warily, arms folded, eyes flickering. The main door to the Tolbooth was open. The window of Janet’s cell had been closed.

When Camron and the others caught sight of Sorcha and Nettie, one by one they ceased to chatter. The faint sounds of activity in the streets nearby, doors closing, folk being hailed, and the grind of cart wheels, could now be heard. The town was waking to the news.

Before Sorcha could approach and pose a question to the men, Gerard Stuart came running up the wynd from the direction of the manse.

‘Right,’ he called. ‘Camron, Private Smith and Corporal Inglis, Sergeant Thatcher says you’re to come with me. We’re to search the witches’ houses.’

Camron swung to look at Sorcha and Nettie, but no one else noticed.

‘The rest of you are to work in pairs.’ He began to allocate tasks. ‘The reverend wants you to go to St Monan’s, and you lot to Anster and Crail, see if anyone has seen sight or sound of the witch. She can’t have gone far, not in the state she was in and in this cold —’ Gerard suddenly spotted Sorcha and Nettie. Pushing aside the soldiers, he marched up to them. ‘Where have you been?’

Sorcha glanced at Nettie in surprise. ‘And a fine morning to you too, Gerard.’

Gerard snarled.

‘Why, nowhere yet, lad,’ said Sorcha with a smile. ‘Why are you asking?’

‘You haven’t seen anything of that auld witch, Janet Cornfoot?’

‘How could we?’ said Nettie. ‘She’s locked in the Tolbooth, isn’t she?’ She nodded towards Janet’s cell.

Gerard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ll both learn about it soon enough. She’s escaped. And if you’ve had anything to do with it, you’ll take her place.’ He pointed at the building. ‘Care if we search your cottage, Sorcha?’

‘Be my guest,’ sad Sorcha, aware they’d find nothing to incriminate her or anyone else.

With a barely concealed look of disappointment, he swung away, but before he could rejoin the men, there were shouts and raised voices. The sound of boots, shoes, and the steady tramp of feet grew.

Marching up Cove Wynd was a large group. Some were waving pitchforks, others hammers, axes — two even wielded old swords. While their words were at first unclear, their intentions were not.

‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’

‘Raise your weapons for God!’

‘Find her, find them all!’