Rereading his letters, Sorcha oft wondered if she’d made the right decision. Skye sounded so beautiful. Och, she’d see it one day, she’d no doubt. But she knew deep in her heart, much as she might fall in love with it, as she had its son, she could never call it home. That title belonged to Pittenweem, the defiant little town that beat the odds, that was filled with people who were curious, hard-working, hard-fighting and inclined to doubt and gossip. But it also had folk who were passionate and, as she knew well, mostly kind and loyal.

At least here she knew who to call friend and who foe. Nae, that wasn’t right. There were no enemies here, not any more. The people were, at least, neighbours and at best, a makeshift family filled to the brim with all the muddling love and conflict that entailed. That suited her fine.

It was an odd consequence of those awful months that the death of the reverend bonded the townsfolk in ways the witch hunt and the deaths of Thomas and Janet never had. If that was to be the reverend’s legacy, so be it. It was more than he deserved.

Beatrix returned permanently to the Weem the day after Patrick Cowper died. No one objected. Mr Brown’s business was recovering and Beatrix was slowly learning to guard her tongue. Isobel’s services had become even more popular since Cowper’s death, and when Alexander McGregor died two months after the reverend, she could scarce keep up with orders.

McGregor had wandered over to St Monan’s one night to drink in the tavern there, and had foolishly decided to walk back along the braes, only to take a tumble down the cliffs. His body was found the next day by one of the fishing boats and brought back to the Weem. Without him to cast aspersions on Isobel and with her father ready to challenge anyone who dared, Isobel was mending clothes faster than they could be made and was even stepping out with a fine lad from a nearby farm.

Therese Larnarch, Jean Durkie and the others continued to work beside Sorcha, Nettie and Nicolas each day and, as the weeks went by and the weather grew warmer, the events of the last year seemed like a dream. Only they weren’t, as the acute absences reminded them.

Before the matter of the Weem witches could be laid to rest, Nettie set about suing bailies William Bell and Robert Vernour for wrongful imprisonment. She asked Sorcha and the others to join her in the suit. Sorcha was the only one to agree and they awaited the decision of Edinburgh. In the meantime, the bailies and, indeed, the entire council had gone out of their way to accommodate them in every regard. It would have been amusing had their co-operation not been born of such pain.