‘What? Why?’ Sorcha’s mind galloped. A shadow passed the window, there were voices. Did folk know what Beatrix had done? Was her name on everyone’s tongue?

Nettie let out a long sigh. ‘There was nothing Beatrix said while I was there that was worth reporting to anyone, let alone the authorities. But, Sorcha, Katherine Marshal went to Cowper, who summoned the bailies and made her repeat what she’d told him.’

‘What did she tell him?’ asked Sorcha quietly.

Nettie’s eyes locked on her. ‘That’s why I’m here. What exactly did Beatrix say to you about Peter Morton after I left that made Katherine run to Cowper?’

She tried to recall what was said. ‘She… she said that Peter brought his sickness upon himself — that it was his ill-tongue that attracted… Dear God.’ Sorcha gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She stared at Nettie in despair, then slowly lowered her fingers so she could finish. ‘That attracted an evil spirit.’

Nettie’s head fell into her hands. After a moment, she raised her face. ‘You ken what this means?’

Beatrix had admitted that Peter Morton was bewitched; that a malevolent spirit possessed him. And now Cowper and the bailies knew.

‘Aye.’ Suddenly, Sorcha saw her dream for what it was, a premonition of the worst kind. ‘Will they arrest her again?’ she asked.

‘If they haven’t already. It’s only a matter of time.’ Nettie reached over, scrambling for Sorcha’s hand. She didn’t need to say more. Sorcha heard her as clearly as if she’d said it out loud. It was only a matter of time for them all.

‘Why’d she do it?’ asked Nettie.

For a moment, Sorcha was uncertain whether she meant Beatrix or Katherine. Sorcha shrugged. ‘Maybe she thinks it will help Beatrix?’ Nettie shot her a look of disbelief. ‘Maybe she thinks it will remove any suspicion from her. I don’t know. I don’t have the answer.’

Snatches of conversations, images of Beatrix, her anger when Peter wouldn’t sell nails to her, the bucket, the coal, Peter collapsing, and Reverend Cowper paraded through Sorcha’s mind. Then they were replaced by one of a tall man on a grey horse, with dark eyes and a captivating grin. It was Nettie who once told her the captain was there to protect the women of Pittenweem — not from rogue waves rising out of dark depths, but from the men. She’d meant the incomers, the billeted soldiers. And he’d done that. But what was to stop the captain from protecting them from their own? Had he not invited her to share the burden she was carrying when he found her after the Morton lad was struck down?

As much as she was loath to do so, perhaps it was time to take him at his word and ask him for help again.