When Nettie declared she was moving into the manse with Robbie, tongues wagged, especially with Nettie being a widow. But there was no romance or wrongdoing in what she intended. She was like a big sister to Robbie. Sorcha was glad. Nettie would manage the household, ensure he remembered to eat, and bring the best of the drave from the harbour for his table. ‘Put some fish on those scrawny bones,’ as she promised. Knowing it was really her role and feeling a little guilty she wasn’t taking up Robbie’s offer to shift in with him, Sorcha knew her brother understood the decision and forgave her.

After all, how could she leave her cottage now?

Finishing the last of the mopping, the hearth gleaming in its newly blacked state, the pots and pans shining and the curtains smelling sweet, Sorcha put her hands upon her hips and looked around one last time. Bright flowers stood in a quaich of water. She’d baked some fine bannocks and fresh fish were ready to cook. Mr Durkie had managed to acquire some Rhenish wine from associates, and there was even some delicious cheese to accompany it. She’d purchased eggs and butter at the market and some jam. The sheets on the bed were clean, the bedroom furniture polished to a high sheen. All that was left to do was tend to her own toilet.

This was what one should be doing in spring, not autumn. Not that anyone would object. It was a ritual that wiped away the old, shed any dark, unpleasant memories and made way for the new, regardless of the time of year. While there were memories she’d never forsake, and did not want to, there were some that were becoming easier to bear as each day passed and fresh experiences overlayed the more painful ones, softening them, dampening them down, burying them beneath layers of sweeter recollections.

Washing quickly, enjoying the rose petals and other herbs she’d infused in the water, Sorcha studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had grown quickly once she had a decent diet again, it fell well past her shoulders now. Her cheeks had filled out and so had her breasts and body. The Weem was still poor, with most crops failing again this year and meat scarce, but at least the fish were biting again. More coal had been discovered nearby, promising work for those prepared to mine it, and there was talk of doing something with the saltpans. Maybe, just maybe, things were looking up. That’s what Robbie reminded folk each week — to count their blessings, not tally their losses.

Heeding her brother’s advice, that was what she was doing.