About to enter Marygate, the street where she’d lived another life, she thought she heard footsteps before they were replaced by the faint ring of a horse’s clopping hooves. Spinning around and wiping her face, she saw the street was empty. There were the vague shapes of the buildings hunched on the corner, candlelight wavering in the windows. The heavy shower, swirling fog and encroaching evening had turned the world into one of shifting shadows and outlandish sounds. Still, the noise echoed around her and she wondered briefly who in Pittenweem had a horse abroad in this weather. She thought of Mr McDonald, who because of her was left with no choice, and hoped he — and the horses — managed to find the inn of the corbie.

Striding past her neighbours’ houses, she slowed as she approached her destination, her chest tightening. As she’d intended to be absent from the Weem until at least late spring, she’d leased her cottage to her friend, the fishwife Nettie Horseburgh. Though married, Nettie had always been independent and let it be known even before wedlock that she wasn’t inclined to share a roof with her husband. Understanding if he wished to call Nettie Horseburgh wife he had to accept her condition that they live apart, Thomas White agreed. The arrangement drew the opprobrium of many in the village, in particular that of the minister, Patrick Cowper, but Nettie and Thom hadn’t cared. Their love transcended a roof and walls, or so they said. If Nettie was most content living on her own, then Thom was happy to accommodate her. When Sorcha made the decision to accept Dagny’s summons to go to St Andrew’s and help with the bairns while her sister awaited the birth of a new one, she’d offered her cottage to Nettie — a decision that drew harsh criticism from the reverend, who reproved Sorcha publicly, accusing her of undermining the sacred bonds of marriage, even though Nettie and Mr White had lived separately for years.

‘Just because you’ve lost a husband,’ he’d said outside the kirk after service one Sunday, his tone cold and unapologetic, ‘you think it’s all right to divide a man and his wife? That’s not your decision to make.’

Sorcha had met his gaze, ignoring the whispers of the others assembled outside. ‘You’re right, reverend. It’s not. It’s Nettie and Thom’s,’ she’d said calmly, even though her heart was somersaulting.

Fixing a tight smile, he’d shaken his head. ‘We’d all be better off if the likes of you never came back.’

‘Nae, reverend,’ Sorcha had said, tilting towards him and lowering her voice. ‘Confess. You would.’ Pretending a composure she didn’t feel, she’d walked away, aware of the dark mutters and the reverend’s poisonous glare following her.