He struggled to his feet, leaning back, holding the rope firm and panting heavily. ‘And you ken what I’ll tell the authorities, don’t you? I’ll tell them it was you, Sorcha McIntyre. You who freed those men who killed Janet Cornfoot. Everyone knows there be no loyalty betwixt witches. You’ll betray and cheat each other if the devil tells you to. Unless the likes of me punishes you, you’ll keep on doing it, too.’ A spray of water doused him and he laughed. The sound was shrill, loud. ‘You released them and, seeing what you are, they turned on you and put you to death the way they tried to kill Janet Cornfoot.’ He laughed at the expression on her face. ‘Aye, you be right, witch. This is what I want. I want to silence you forever. You’ll take your secrets, my secrets, to your grave. No one will ken my part. The sea might have given you a life, but now it’ll be the death of you.’ Shoving her hard with one arm, he swung her off the deck and over the side of the ship. He braced himself and released the rope.

With a scream, Sorcha plunged into the water. She hit hard, the freezing ocean closing over her head, streaming into her mouth, her nose. It was dark. She had no control. She sank deeper and deeper, the water folding around her, icy cold, bitter. The faint light from the surface vanished. She was in total darkness.

Twisting and turning, she tried to free herself, to kick her way upwards, wherever that might be. She tried not to panic, praying the reverend would do what the men had done to Janet, just dunk her a number of times; she forced herself to be still as she sank, peering desperately through the murky depths. It wasn’t as dark as she first thought. There were shadows. She could just make out the hull of the ship. Barnacles and weed clung to its rotting wood like a disease. Her lungs began to ache as they willed her to release what was trapped in there, the air she knew was fast running out. Her wrists stung. Her ankles. Her eyes were burning, she wanted so badly to breathe, to feel the air in her throat, the cold, sweet air, the sharp shard-like spray of the waves upon her face.

Although she forced her mouth to stay closed, bubbles still escaped. She watched as they spiralled away, above her head.

Just as her feet touched the soft, silty bottom, she was hauled upwards. Her head broke the surface and she gulped great mouthfuls of air. Coughing and retching, she was lifted above the water, above the thundering waves until she was level with the deck once more. Level with the reverend.

‘Make your peace with the Lord, Sorcha McIntyre. Deny Satan and accept that God is your saviour before it’s too late.’