Chapters (76)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Also by Karen Brooks
- Title Page
- Dedication
- EXPLANATORY NOTE
- PART ONE
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- PART TWO
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- PART THREE
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- PART FOUR
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Epilogue: Autumn 1706
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- GLOSSARY
- LIST OF CHARACTERS
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Feeling more positive and with a skip in her step, Sorcha urged Nettie to go faster. Lost in her thoughts, as they turned into Cove Wynd she failed to see a dark-robed figure come out of the Tolbooth until they almost collided.
‘Watch where you’re going,’ a voice snapped.
It was Reverend Patrick Cowper. Sorcha stopped in her tracks, forcing Nettie to a halt as well.
The reverend’s eyes widened and his mouth thinned. ‘So, the rumours are true. It be yourself, Sorcha McIntyre. I thought you were gone till at least summer.’
Caught by surprise, Sorcha felt anger flare at the reverend’s tone and her old spirit returned. ‘And a happy New Year to you too, reverend.’ Her heart beat worse than a drum and heat travelled up her neck. ‘Seems I couldn’t keep away.’
Nettie released her hold on Sorcha and stepped forward until she was but inches from the minister. They were of a height. ‘Aye, reverend,’ she said. ‘Sorcha’s back; praise be to God.’ She paused, daring him to say otherwise.
A few people wandering up Cove Wynd from the water slowed to hear the exchange. Still more approached from where they’d been loitering on the High Street and gathered in a large circle, whispering. Among them were bailies Robert Cook and Robert Vernour, members of the town council and Cowper’s friends. Cook started and his pale eyes narrowed as he spied Sorcha. He nudged Bailie Vernour in the ribs, bending to whisper in one of the man’s rather prominent ears. Before he’d even finished, Vernour turned to leer at her, scratching his receding chin.
A small figure with a large basket over her arm pushed her way through the assembled crowd, shouldering aside whoever stood in her way. It was Janet Cornfoot. Her reputation for a sharp tongue and sharper elbows caused many to give her a wide berth.
‘There you be, Sorcha. You too, Nettie,’ she called. Ignoring the reverend, Janet barged past and, standing on tiptoe, embraced them both, smiling. When she did, her face transformed, folding into a maze of lines that criss-crossed her cheeks, somehow managing to emphasise the brightness of her mischievous eyes. Sorcha remembered the first time she met her. She’d been a wee lass, no more than four, and Janet had shouted at her for daring to steal an oyster set aside for bait. Instead of doing what most bairns (and grown-ups) did when confronted by an angry Janet Cornfoot, Sorcha had giggled, bit the oyster in half and offered the rest to the woman. ‘I’m not stealing,’ she’d said. ‘I’m sharing.’ Janet’s eyes had narrowed and then she’d burst out laughing. From that day forward, she became one of Sorcha’s, and by extension her family’s, staunchest allies.