No great doom had befallen Sorcha and, as spring approached and people flooded into town for the twice-weekly markets, buying fish from her as easily as they did from any other vendor, she was able to mock her foolishness. She’d allowed the superstitions and malice of old to affect her. It was what Pittenweem did, cast a spell that made you view the world and those within it in a different way. It was easy to forget what had befallen her when she was with the fishwives, especially those she counted as friends. Doing her best to avoid those who weren’t, it was only on Sundays, when almost all the village went to the kirk, that she was forced to confront them and listen to sermons intended to shame her and any other fishwives who didn’t conform: those who remained single, working hard to earn coin, raise their families — with or without husbands — and contribute to the town. None of that seemed to matter under the self-righteous stares of those who hung on Cowper’s every word — words he claimed over and over were God’s.

‘I think the reverend forgets God always said blessed are the weak, and what are we women if not weak in His and Cowper’s eyes?’ Janet whispered loudly as they stood in the kirkyard one Sunday after a particularly long delivery, rocking from foot to foot to stave off the cold.

‘It’s the meek and Jesus said it,’ corrected Sorcha wryly, sharing a smile with Captain Ross who was standing close enough to overhear.

‘Aye, well, meek and weak, that’s me,’ said Janet. ‘Praise be to God.’

They all burst into laughter, earning wrathful looks from first the Crawfords then the Cooks, Cleilands and Vernours — the families of the town bailies — as well as getting a dire stare from Cowper. The last thing Janet could ever be considered was weak, let alone meek.

Uncaring of the opprobrium they’d attracted, the women went back to Sorcha’s cottage for a meal, joined by Beatrix and Isobel Adam.

And so the days melded into each other like a gentle roiling mist and Sorcha’s nightmares dimmed. The memories the cottage held ceased to scorch her each time they intruded, retreating into a fuzzy warmth that was more akin to basking under the sun in a yellow-flowered field. She could finally touch them without getting burned.

When poor Margie Strang, the young wife of one of the fishermen, was attacked by a soldier in the streets after dark, it was Sorcha who brought the deed to the attention of Captain Ross and demanded redress.

Though the accused soldier denied Margie’s accusations, the captain upheld her version of events and the man was sent to Edinburgh for trial. Weeks later they learned he’d been transported.