‘Aye, it was a sorry showing,’ said Nettie, standing and throwing Sorcha’s skirt at her. ‘Now, get dressed, you sloven.’ Nettie went into the main room.

Sorcha heard her rummaging around with the pots.

‘Come on. I’ve news,’ she called.

Sorcha ran her hands through her hair and plucked her shift away from her body. She was sweaty and her heart was still racing. Aye, it was no dream she had. Dreams were what you held close to keep away the sorrows of the day; they were not meant to make the reality of living worse. Try as she might, she couldn’t rid herself of the image of the destructive wave, how it took out the whole town…

Throwing back the covers, she went to the dresser and plunged her hands in the icy water, splashing her face. Whipping off her shift, she dragged a wet cloth over her body, her skin goosing, her nipples hardening.

‘Can you stoke the fire?’ asked Sorcha, drying herself and searching for a clean shift and the clothes she’d been wearing. Still shivering, she pulled her skirt off the bed and climbed into it, fastening the button at the back.

‘Already done,’ answered Nettie. ‘I’m heating some milk for you.’

Sorcha bundled her hair and pinned it back into place. Gazing at herself in the mirror, she noted the haunted look she’d borne when she first arrived had all but gone. Even if she didn’t feel like it, she was looking more like her old self — not the self Andy wed or the one who lost Davan, but before her da, Erik and ma died. Before Robbie went as well. Older, aye, but hopefully wiser, and able to weather the storms that came with living in the Weem.

She sensed one brewing now. That was the message her mor was giving her. The purple crescents under her own eyes and the glint of uncertainty behind them told her the same.

‘What news do you have?’ she asked as she left the bedroom. There was a soft afternoon light. She’d slept for longer than she thought. At least the drizzle had ceased.

Passing her a warm cup of milk, Nettie indicated a stool by the hearth. ‘You need to sit down.’

Sorcha’s ribs grew tight. ‘What is it? Beatrix?’

Nettie sat opposite her and gave a terse nod. ‘Aye. We need to be prepared.’

‘What for?’ asked Sorcha, her mouth growing dry but unable to drink. The lone cry of a shearwater broke the stillness.

‘The worst,’ said Nettie bluntly. ‘Katherine’s spoken to the bailies.’

A lance of dread pierced Sorcha’s chest as she held the quaich of warm milk Nettie had poured her. ‘The bailies? What for?’

Nettie shrugged. ‘To report what Beatrix told us yesterday.’