They’d reached her door. Already dreading being alone, she was tempted to invite him in so she might pour out her heart, share her qualms; but she couldn’t afford to attract more gossip and innuendo, not now. She needed to think about what to do about Beatrix and the charm; think about how she, Nettie and the others could counter any accusations against her.

‘I hope so, captain, but the Weem be a place where superstition is sown, not just into the soil, but flows in the veins.’ Shaking herself, she remembered where she was and to whom she was talking. ‘I thank you for your kindness, for listening to me. I’m simply worried about Peter; he’s clearly very ill. He hurt himself badly when he fell. As for talk of a charm…’ She looked towards the kirk, then in the direction of the Mortons’ house. ‘It’s a nonsense. The boy was beset with apoplexy or some such thing. There is no malfeasance involved.’

‘I never credited it for a moment,’ said the captain. ‘I’ve been here long enough to know that while malice may not have been intended, it’s often how others read these things. The folk here seem to have a fascination for bewitchment and such — as you say, it’s in the blood. There’s a history of it in Pittenweem.’

‘Aye, there is — of accusations and burnings, though not for a number of years, thank the Lord. Nevertheless, some make a habit of seeing malevolence where none is intended. It suits their purpose, whatever it might be.’ She glanced towards the kirk once more before averting her eyes, fearing she’d already said too much.

They stood outside her house. Light from the neighbours’ windows allowed her to see the crags and planes of the captain’s face. He was a foreign country, a mystery part of her wished she could unravel. Gazing up at him, she exhaled quietly. Dear God, but the man invited peculiar thoughts into her head. Next, she’d be writing poetry or singing songs to dead lovers.

Dead lovers. Aye, well, she had one of those, only — was Andy really a lover? Loved, well, she’d loved him as much as she could. But he was not what she ever imagined a lover could be.

She shook herself out of her thoughts, wishing the heat that rose inside her would dissipate, and recalled what the captain just said. He was right. It was how Reverend Cowper and the rest of the Weem would read the bucket and coal that would dictate the fate of the person who put it there — they and Peter Morton, who, as they stood talking, lay in his bed, sickened.

Or, as others believed, bewitched; the victim of malfeasance…