A shout brought her back to the present. Another load of fish was tipped onto those waiting for her, some striking her quiescent hands. The bridge, like her daydreams, shattered.

Nettie threw her a look of concern. Sorcha returned a watery smile and began sorting. The catch was still poor, and that was unlikely to change soon. The women gathered around the table and baiting the lines could more than manage. Gone was the blether and laughter that had always accompanied their tasks. There was no song, no whistling, either. Even the men were dour-faced, the bairns too. Everyone was thinking about Janet.

Except for her: she was thinking about Janet and about Aidan.

Billows of seagulls and terns whirled above, cawing and crying, waiting for an opportunity to dive on a boat or an unsupervised table and grab a fish. They watched the fishwives as if they were the prey. Not unlike the men who lined up like regimental soldiers along the harbour wall. Dressed in thick coats, arms folded, some with pipes protruding from their mouths, they’d murmur to each other, their frowns deep, their thoughts dark. Wanting to ensure no other witch walked among them, they’d taken to observing the women at work — any work. The weavers reported being watched, the milkmaids, spinners, seamstresses and nursemaids too. But the one group that attracted the most attention and earned the closest vigilance was the fishwives. After all, Mr Bruce said, had not the reverend pointed out it was the occupation that produced the most witches?

Trying to ignore the men and their baleful stares, Sorcha finished sorting and helped Nettie scale and gut. She was keen to get away.

It wasn’t until hours later, when she’d sold the last of her fish and bought some smoked herring from Mr Murdoch, that Sorcha was able to go home. Already the day was darkening, even though the bell hadn’t long tolled three of the clock. A low bank of heavy clouds was rolling in from the east. Lightning split the grey heavens, great gashes of brilliance that presaged a mighty storm. With a shudder, Sorcha prayed it didn’t signify anything else.

As she came up the High Street, she finally understood why the lanes were so quiet, why there’d been barely a soul about to sell fish to. At the top of the road a huge crowd had gathered outside the Tolbooth.

Sorcha broke into a run, uncaring that her creel slapped hard against her back. She dropped it at the corner and pushed herself into the throng, trying to find someone who’d tell her what was going on. Familiar faces were contorted into ugly, shouting shapes; people shook their fists; strangers’ faces stared at her with disdain and curiosity as she jostled and thrust through the press of bodies, trying to find someone who would talk to her.

‘Nettie,’ she gasped, clutching her friend.