As they made their way towards the bailie’s house, the horde fell in behind. A simmering, roiling mass that, like a great wave, threatened to break over them any minute.

Sorcha was afraid to let go of Janet’s arm. She could feel the woman shaking; her bones like sticks about to snap. When Nettie took Janet’s other arm, steering her away from a group that poured out of a house, their eyes met and Sorcha could see her own anxiety echoed in her friend’s. Aware of the bodies moving around them, some creeping up as if to cut them off, Sorcha cast about for an escape route should such a thing become necessary.

When they arrived at Bailie Cook’s house, the chatter lulled and folk grew orderly, shifting back from the door and making space. Sorcha wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or angry that they could quell their passions for the authorities.

Upon seeing who stood on his threshold, Bailie Robert Cook said nothing. He held a napkin in his hand and used it to wipe the glistening grease from his mouth, then signalled for them to wait and spun on his heel, going back inside.

Seconds later, the person everyone wanted to see appeared. Sorcha saw the flare of triumph that lit the reverend’s eyes, even the beclouded one appeared to sparkle with victory before he rearranged his features into a semblance of regret. She willed Nettie to remain silent. Janet too.

‘So, Janet Cornfoot,’ he began, his eyes alighting upon Sorcha then Nettie. ‘You’ve returned.’

‘Not by choice,’ said Janet.

There was a low growl.

Sorcha tugged at her clothing. It was time to stay mute.

‘Now you’ll finally answer for your crimes.’

The assembled crowd gave a cheer. Someone called out, ‘Burn the witch!’

Nettie inhaled sharply.

Reverend Cowper raised a hand and shook his head. Waiting for the chatter to cease, he spoke, projecting his voice as if he was delivering a sermon. The light from the crowd’s torches shone in his face, made the evening falling around them darker than pitch and impossible to penetrate. Yet Sorcha sensed movement beyond the circle of people around her, even if she couldn’t see who or what was there.

‘Nae, nae,’ said the reverend, fondly, with such tolerance it was as if he was addressing an obstinate bairn. ‘That’s not the way we do things in Pittenweem, is it?’ His brows drew together. ‘Not that we have any say in how we do things here any more. Not since poor Peter was beset with his troubles.’ There were more grumblings. ‘Since then, it’s Edinburgh that’s seen fit to dictate to us Fifers. Telling us how we must treat those who seek to undermine our community. Those who sin against God and commit heresy, threatening our Christian souls.’ He gave a smile that was all yellow teeth and chalky lips.