Outside, the voices of those waiting for news were a dulcet song. A dog whined and the shrill cries of gulls carried as they fought over food. A cart bumped along the cobbles, pausing outside the Mortons’ door. Within the house, Patrick could hear the low murmurs of one of Peter’s sisters and his ma, and the deep, short notes of his father’s voice. There was the smell of meat cooking. Patrick was hungry. A door opened, then closed.

‘I think maybe Mrs Wallace did curse me once,’ said Peter softly.

‘Margaret Wallace? The fishwife?’

‘Aye, that be her. My ma calls her Lillie.’

‘Good, good, Peter. Can you think of anyone else?’

Peter frowned deeply but finally shook his head.

Drawing his chair closer, Patrick whispered, ‘What of Sorcha McIntyre?’

Peter recoiled. ‘Nae. Not Sorcha. She be no witch.’

The reverend relaxed back into his chair. ‘But was she not with you when you were struck down?’

‘A… aye. But da told me Hetty and wee Mary said she did all she could to stop me hurting myself. She didn’t —’

‘She made sure you saw the charm, lad,’ said Patrick abruptly, slapping his hands against the arms of the chair, causing Peter to jump. ‘Did she not come with you up this very road and stop right where the charm lay, so you might be the first to set eyes upon it?’

In answer, Peter screwed his eyes up tight.

The reverend waited. Was the lad trying to remember, or trying to shut out the very thought of Sorcha McIntyre and the intoxicating spell she cast over every man she met?

Patrick recalled her as he last saw her, the bronze hair threaded amply with burnished copper, her eyes translucent blue-green like the sun on the Forth, that pale northern skin and the lush full mouth, more often drawn back in a smile that was never for him.

‘Like the others, she is a maker of malice,’ whispered the reverend.

‘Nae… I can’t believe it,’ whimpered Peter.

‘They’re witches, lad, every last one of them. Sorcha McIntyre too. Open your eyes. Open your heart. You must see the truth for us to bring it to light. In doing so, everyone else will see it too.’

Blinking rapidly, Peter opened his eyes. ‘B… But Sorcha would never do anything to hurt me. Nor would Mrs White, or Mrs Wallace.’

‘Are they not friends of Beatrix Laing? Did you not tell me that she cursed you?’

Peter turned his face away.

‘Peter,’ said the reverend softly. His voice was like warm honey. ‘’Tis a sin to lie, just as it’s a sin to curse and weave spells. You’ll not want to be like those who would cause harm, would you? And yet if you tell falsehoods, if you protect them with a still tongue, then you do the devil’s work for him…’

The reverend paused.