She could still see him wading through the water, climbing on board, shouting he was fine. The other men had shaken their heads, regarding her with disapproval and touching whatever iron was to hand in an effort to counter any bad luck. Some of the fishwives had too. Only Nettie, Nicolas and Janet had stood by her that day, arms draped over her shoulders as they watched the boat carrying her husband row out of the harbour and into the Forth, where its sails would be raised.

As often happened during spring, the weather turned. One moment it was sunshine and clear skies. The next, a storm erupted. A rogue wave capsized the boat, taking with it not just Andy, but young James Crawford as well. The Crawfords held Sorcha responsible for their son’s death and had not spoken to her since.

Sorcha rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and cupped her chin, staring at the fire.

‘When he blamed you for Andy’s death, hen, I thought I’d be the one to commit murder. Me and auld Janet.’

Sorcha gave a wistful smile.

‘Reverend Cowper said if I’d carried Andy to the boat like other Weem fishwives do their men, he wouldn’t have gone under —’

‘Nae, lass,’ said Nettie with a weary sigh. ‘His clothes would have copped a drookin’ in the storm. It had naught to do with whether you lugged him out there or not. Cowper just wanted you to bear the guilt and we both ken why that was.’

Mesmerised by the golden tongues of flame, it was a while before Sorcha spoke again. Then she whispered, ‘Well, whatever his intention, it worked. He also said it was because Andy drowned that Davan died. God was punishing me for my negligence, for disregarding the laws of the sea. He took my son so I would learn to be obedient.’

Nettie made a noise of disgust and stood up, picking up the poker and jabbing at the fire. Sorcha wondered if, like her, she was imagining the peat was Cowper. Throwing the poker against the hearth, Nettie turned, hands on hips. ‘Many a man walks to his own craft, even if he has a woman to bear him. As for Davan, he died as some poor wee bairns do, because the angels summoned him back to their side. His death wasn’t your fault either, Sorcha. God wouldn’t be so cruel, despite what Cowper says. Anyone who thinks otherwise is wicked.’

‘That’s what he called me, you know — a wicked woman.’

Nettie gave a broad smile. ‘That’s what he calls all us fishwives. We’re all wicked women to him.’

Not just to him, thought Sorcha. An image of the soldiers, Private Donall and Jamie Dyson, calling her a bitch arose before a picture of the captain astride his horse set it aside.