Sorcha gave the lass a hug, then found a bannock and some cheese to feed her. She looked half-starved as well as frightened.

‘What about McGregor’s neighbours? Didn’t they come to your aid when you screamed?’ asked Nettie indignantly.

Taking the offered bannock and cheese, between mouthfuls Isobel explained. ‘Och, aye, but they didn’t come in. They just laughed and said it was auld drunk McGregor seeing things again.’

Sorcha shared a look of disgust with Nettie.

‘They were probably right. McGregor’s too fond of the whisky and anything else he can pour down his throat. He likely meant you no real harm.’

Isobel gave a tremulous smile. ‘I ken that now, but when he had me by the neck and was screaming about demons, I thought I was done for.’

Sorcha patted the girl’s knee. ‘It’s over, Isobel. You can stay here with us tonight. I’ll not have you walking back through town, not this late.’ She thought of Captain Ross and his sword. Where was he when they needed him? He would have put McGregor straight. If only he’d walked through her door at midnight, she’d send him straight up Lady’s Wynd to deal with McGregor. Him and his sergeant. She glanced at the door, then at Isobel.

‘Isobel,’ she asked. ‘Why didn’t McGregor’s neighbours come in and help you? Why’d they stay outside?’

‘I suppose it was because the clocks had struck midnight and they didn’t want to be a first-footer…’ A hand flew to cover her mouth and she leapt to her feet, sending bits of bannock and cheese tumbling to the floor.

Nettie stood slowly, staring in horror at Isobel; Sorcha was looking at Nettie and Isobel was glancing from one to the other muttering, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

They’d been so wrapped up in remembering, they hadn’t heard the bells toll the midnight hour.

Sorcha glanced over to the clock standing on the mantel. Like the mirror, it was covered with a cloth. Time had eluded them.

While a dark-haired male first-footer brought good luck to a household for the new year, a fair-haired woman brought ill-fortune down upon all who dwelled beneath its roof. Sorcha could see disaster and doom writ upon Isobel’s features. And upon Nettie’s, as she understood the bad omen Isobel represented.

It would not do.

‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ she said, emphasising her order with her hands. ‘It’s all superstitious nonsense. First or last foot, it doesn’t matter. Stop apologising, Isobel, you’ve nothing to be sorry about. Put what happened with Mr McGregor behind you, and, like his neighbours, laugh it off. It means nothing and will be forgotten by dawn. Instead, let’s have one last drink to celebrate the new year. You’re safe, and that’s all that counts. Praise God, we all are.’