Sorcha felt sickened as she glanced at the faces around them in the torchlight; some were sympathetic, but most possessed an open-mouthed zeal that the flames captured and cast into crazed shadows. From the looks on Nettie’s and Nicolas’s faces, they were too. Mr Adam had the right of it. ‘We’re not leaving you until we find the minister. Not even he can ignore the danger you’re in.’

Janet’s fingers gripped her so tightly, Sorcha knew they’d leave marks. She wanted to say something, offer Janet some solace, promise that it would be all right. But she could not.

When they arrived at the Tolbooth, at first Sorcha wondered where the mob they’d left only a short time before had gone — until she understood they were still there, surrounding her, Janet, Nettie and the guards. Not only had the crowd followed them, but they’d run along parallel lanes, baying and cat-calling, encouraging folk to join them, and were even now converging alongside the women outside the Tolbooth. There was not one friendly face. Nicolas was no longer with them, pushed aside before they reached the High Street. Sorcha prayed she was all right.

Spit rained on them with a savagery she’d never heard or felt the like of before.

As if Janet was possessed of a scythe, a path to the door of the Tolbooth opened. Folk grew quiet, staring at her as though she was an exotic creature washed up with the tide, instead of a woman they’d known their whole lives and whose family had lived in the Weem for generations. Janet may have escaped the town as the Cornfoot crone, but Sorcha knew that by returning in the company of guards, with a reward upon her head, she’d become the felon the reverend had tried to make her. He’d remade her to fit his purpose.

As a witch.

Gerard went to the door of the Tolbooth and banged on it. Janet, with Sorcha and Nettie either side, were immediately behind him.

The door opened a fraction. It was Camron.

‘Summon the reverend, Camron.’ Gerard’s voice was loud enough to be heard. There were noises of approval.

‘He’s not here,’ whimpered Camron. Clearing his throat, his words carried this time. ‘The reverend’s at Bailie Cook’s house, having dinner.’ Before Gerard could ask further questions, Camron slammed the door. There was the sound of a latch dropping.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Angus, standing behind Sorcha.

‘Go to Bailie Cook’s house,’ said Gerard, scanning the crowd. For the first time, Sorcha saw concern flash in his eyes.

The mob, which had grown silent when the door opened, began to mutter again. Shoving people out of his way, using his musket and pike as extensions of his arms, Gerard cleared a passage. People stood aside, eyes fixed on Janet, sneers, leers and what Sorcha could only describe as hatred contorting their faces.