Sorcha stared at him as she swung, doubled over now, the rope squeezing her and making words difficult.

‘God has always been my saviour, reverend,’ she spat. ‘But who is yours?’

With a shout, he let her go again.

It was much the same as before, only this time, he left her under longer. When he finally hoisted her out again, higher than the last time, she could barely breathe.

‘Deny the devil, witch. Deny him,’ he screamed.

Uncaring that her wrists were rubbed so raw they were bleeding, she began to work at her bonds, trying to wriggle free, loosen the rope about her waist and ankles.

‘Very well,’ she panted back. ‘I deny you, Patrick Cowper, for you are the devil incarnate.’

He released the rope.

This time, when he brought her out, she spun around and around, first facing the Forth, then the ship and the reverend, then the shore. Though dawn was breaking, nobody appeared. In her head, she cried out for Aidan, for Nettie, for Beatrix, Nicolas, anyone — even Dagny. She shouted to God, to her mother, her father, her dead brothers, Andy, her wee dead bairn. But no one came.

Down she went. Breaching the surface, she sank fast. Spinning like a piece of bait. This time, she was ready. She kicked hard, coming close to the hull, bumping against it, cutting her arm, her thigh. Keeping her mouth sealed, even though every instinct was to cry out, blood streamed into the water. She wriggled like a fish in a net. The rope was getting looser, greasier.

Before she could do any more, she was dragged out.

Again and again she was dropped, but each time she managed to steer herself towards the hull, directing her bound wrists and ankles towards the sharp shells clustered there. Missing and striking, slowly, the rope began to fray. When it finally snapped on her seventh dunking, she made sure she kept her hands together when the reverend raised her.

Leaving her suspended, he wound one end of the rope around an exposed stanchion and came to the railing. Panting, he shook his head in sorrow. ‘I knew I was right. You are a witch, Sorcha McIntyre. The sea-witch I always thought you were. No Christian soul would have survived this. And so, witch, say your farewells and ask your dark master to prepare himself to welcome you, for I cannot do this any longer. Have you any last words?’

Their eyes met. Sorcha opened her mouth to curse him, to send his soul to hell, then shut it. She was not a witch. Just a woman. He would not remake her in his image.

‘Very well then, witch,’ he said and, with a flip of his hand, unlooped the rope from the stanchion, keeping it about his waist before letting the length go.