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Back The Darkest Shore Save as PDF
Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Karen Brooks
  4. Title Page
  5. Dedication
  6. EXPLANATORY NOTE
  7. PART ONE
  8. One
  9. Two
  10. Three
  11. Four
  12. Five
  13. Six
  14. Seven
  15. Eight
  16. Nine
  17. Ten
  18. Eleven
  19. Twelve
  20. Thirteen
  21. Fourteen
  22. Fifteen
  23. Sixteen
  24. Seventeen
  25. Eighteen
  26. Nineteen
  27. Twenty
  28. Twenty-One
  29. Twenty-Two
  30. Twenty-Three
  31. Twenty-Four
  32. Twenty-Five
  33. Twenty-Six
  34. Twenty-Seven
  35. Twenty-Eight
  36. PART TWO
  37. Twenty-Nine
  38. Thirty
  39. Thirty-One
  40. Thirty-Two
  41. Thirty-Three
  42. Thirty-Four
  43. Thirty-Five
  44. PART THREE
  45. Thirty-Six
  46. Thirty-Seven
  47. Thirty-Eight
  48. Thirty-Nine
  49. Forty
  50. Forty-One
  51. Forty-Two
  52. Forty-Three
  53. Forty-Four
  54. Forty-Five
  55. Forty-Six
  56. Forty-Seven
  57. Forty-Eight
  58. Forty-Nine
  59. Fifty
  60. Fifty-One
  61. Fifty-Two
  62. PART FOUR
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Epilogue: Autumn 1706
  73. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  74. GLOSSARY
  75. LIST OF CHARACTERS
  76. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

It wasn’t the first time those words had been said to Sorcha, only now they had been uttered by her sister, the last remaining member of her family, they hurt worse than any threats or insults delivered by a self-righteous clergyman.

Sorcha shivered and pulled her shawl tighter. There was no doubt it was a dreich day for a dreich homecoming — Hogmanay or not. She just prayed the rest of the village would not be as work-minded as the fishermen and their families. She was relying on folk being preoccupied with the date and consequent merrymaking to reach her house unseen; to give her time at least to prepare a story.

Beyond the natural harbour and the dilapidated man-made one lay the silvery-grey expanse of the Firth of Forth, heaving and shifting, a restless lucent mass. Midway crouched the Isle of May with its weary lighthouse and never-ending whirlpool of seabirds swooping and gliding above the seething waters. Closer to Pittenweem lay Beacon Rock. From a distance, Sorcha’s practised eye could identify to which village, and even which owner, the boats dotting the sea belonged. The mast of each flew the flag of either the Weem or Anster, along with the sigil of the owner’s family. Sails snapped as the wind filled them and the boats raced the weather back to shore; rising behind them loomed a wall of rain so thick, it threatened to swallow all before it. No wonder there was so much activity; the storm was about to break. It was bustle Sorcha knew as well as the scars that bit her fingers. She curled them now, her gloves protecting the ridges cut by years of baiting lines, furrowed by fish-hooks and sharp shells.

Her eyes dropped to the canting wreck heaving in the harbour waters, entombed, depending on the tide, by rock, sea and sand. How many years had the Sophia rested there? Too good to dismantle and repurpose its wood and iron, and too expensive to recondition, like the rotting pier beside it, it awaited funds that clearly had still not manifested. War and famine had long ago destroyed Pittenweem’s fortunes and it would take more than one of the Reverend Patrick Cowper’s much-touted miracles for them to recover.