Just over a week later, Sorcha was wearily wandering back from Ninian Fields. She’d sold the last of the fish in her creel to Mrs Oliver at the farmhouse, and stayed to enjoy a dram with the lonely widow. Before she went away to St Andrew’s, she’d surrendered her usual customers to Nettie, Nicolas, and the others. Though Nettie had offered to return them, Sorcha refused, content to roam the countryside seeking folk to buy her fish. But it also meant she had to walk further to find them. It hadn’t been as hard as she feared. Before long there’d be some people in town willing to buy from her as well. Till then, she’d make do; after all, she was in the enviable position of having the monies from the Mistral to tide her over.

As her boots crunched through the thin covering of snow, she passed a herd of cows studiously indifferent to the honking geese in their midst. Like her, they were enjoying the weak afternoon sun. There would be rain again tonight, she thought, glancing at the sky, noting how the low-slung bank of clouds on the horizon were becoming darker and more menacing. Likely there’d be the thick fog of a hoar as well. Quickening her step, she avoided a puddle, glad she’d left her skirt tucked into her waistband so it didn’t trail in the slunks.