They matched pace, Peter holding out his arm for her to take. Aware the eyes of those outside the tavern were lingering upon them, she altered the position of her creel and looped her arm through his, wondering what his da might say, let alone Reverend Cowper should he see them. She knew the Cowpers and the Mortons were close. No doubt word would get back. Recklessly, she drew him closer. She listened as Peter told her all about making nails. He even mentioned Beatrix trying to buy some, though he omitted the part where she lost her temper. She liked him better for that.

They came to the Mercat Cross and paused. ‘I go this way,’ said Sorcha, indicating Kirkgate.

‘Aye, I ken where you live. But —’ Peter glanced at her shyly, ‘if you could just step into Routine Row with me for a bit, I could show you the smithy.’

Thinking how gallant the lad had been and how it wasn’t really much out of her way, Sorcha relented. ‘Very well, but I can’t stay long.’

Peter’s smile was worth her concession. Linking his arm through hers again, he almost dragged her the short distance up the street. She could see the Morton house with its red-tiled roof and the large building to the side with its own chimney to allow the smoke and heat from the forge to escape.

‘Da bought some new bellows,’ began Peter. ‘You have to hear them; they put auld man —’ Peter pulled up short and dropped her arm.

Sorcha took a couple more steps before she realised he’d stopped, and turned around. Peter’s face was chalk-white. He was staring at a wooden bucket propped just outside the large double-doors to the smithy. A thin column of grey smoke rose from it.

‘Peter, what is it?’ asked Sorcha, concerned when he didn’t speak. ‘Peter?’ She touched his shoulder gently.

He lifted his arm and pointed a trembling finger.

‘It’s a bucket, Peter,’ said Sorcha. To prove it, she stepped towards it, nudging it with the toe of her boot and peering inside. There was some water and a fire coal floating on the surface. Sorcha did her best not to flinch. It was a sea charm — one cast to control the waves. An odd feeling began in the pit of her stomach. If she didn’t know better, she’d say Beatrix had put it there.

‘Look,’ she said as if she’d not a care the world. ‘It’s naught but a bucket and a bit of water. It’s nothing to be afr—’

Peter let out a blood-curdling scream and, before Sorcha could prevent it, collapsed to the ground, thrashing, his head striking the road hard.

‘Peter!’ Sorcha flung off her creel, the fish slithering across the ground, and bolted to his side.