Katherine slowly rose to her feet and cast an anxious look at the others; she put her finger to her lips, warning them not to speak. ‘Who’s a-knocking?’ she called.

‘It be myself,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Thom White. I’m told my wife is there and I need to see her.’

Nettie jumped up, put down her mug, drained her dram and brushed her skirts. ‘I’m coming, Mr White,’ she replied. Placing one hand on Beatrix’s shoulder and the other on Sorcha’s, she bent over. ‘You are walking a dangerous path, Beatrix,’ she said quietly. ‘And I am afeared where it will lead you. But stick to your story. They can’t prove intent, no matter what they claim. Intent is in the intender and they can’t wrest that from you unless you give it to them. You hear me?’ Swooping, she kissed the top of Beatrix’s head, then Sorcha’s.

Katherine held the door ajar.

Nettie turned to regard them one by one. ‘It be nothing but a storm in a bucket.’ She tried to smile at her joke, but it was weak. ‘And, like a storm, no matter how wild, it will blow over. We just have to stay strong. You, Beatrix,’ she jabbed her finger in the woman’s direction. ‘You need to stay strong.’

‘Och, don’t you worry about me, lass. I be sturdier than a Dutchman’s ship.’ Beatrix raised her mug to her.

As soon as Nettie left, Katherine poured another dram for each of them. The room felt bigger without Nettie in it, so large was her presence. Sorcha dragged her stool closer to Nicolas, who remained with her arms folded, her expression fixed. The sea was loud in the cottage, not so much the gentle breath she was accustomed to, as a roar. It was unsettling to say the least. The wind had also picked up and brought with it a right blash — sheets of rain slapped the windows, roof and sides of the cottage hard. They were being menaced from all directions.

Katherine took her seat and stared at Beatrix over the rim of her cup. Beatrix gazed at the fire, lost in thought.

‘I can’t believe you were fool enough to cast a charm, Beatrix, not after what happened to you the last time,’ said Katherine.

‘Nothing happened,’ grumbled Beatrix, daring anyone to contradict her.

‘Nothing except you were called a witch,’ corrected Nicolas. ‘A name that’s haunted you and all those you associate with ever since, for all you pretend it hasn’t.’

Lillie Wallace nodded in grim agreement.

Beatrix went to say something, then closed her mouth tightly.

They sat in silence, the wind and rain serenading their dark thoughts.

‘Did you see the Morton lad at all when you were in the house?’ asked Nicolas finally. She was pale but fierce, her dark eyes glimmering with unshed tears.