It was hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Aidan had no time for fear-mongering or those who talked of witchcraft. He’d seen it when he fought on the continent and witnessed the consequences, how people used such accusations to rid themselves of those they considered nuisances, or were jealous of, or from whom they wished to acquire something — mostly property, and mostly from women. Women who dared to assert authority or challenge those who had it. That this kind of reckoning had come to Pittenweem disturbed him more than he liked to admit. It wasn’t the first time practitioners of witchcraft had been found in the town. The last time anyone was declared guilty, and that had been decades ago according to the men in the tavern the night before, the outcome had been catastrophic. He shouldn’t be surprised fear of malice was being stirred up again. The stain of bewitchment lingered in the earth long after the spell was broken, the root uncovered and removed. Even on Skye they’d heard about the Paisley trials and how seven souls were burned. Later, the girl at the centre of the accusations, the one named — the irony — Christian, whom some in authority doubted even then, was termed the Bargarran Imposter and her denunciations deemed false. Too late to save those who died.

Aware the women were staring at him, he frowned. ‘Sorry. Could you repeat that?’

Sorcha gave a little sigh. Clearly, whatever he’d failed to hear had taken its toll. She was on the edge of her seat, as if she would run from the room at the slightest provocation.

Before she could reiterate, they were interrupted by the arrival of the tea. Silent while it was poured, Aidan watched as Sorcha took the proffered cup and, instead of drinking, gazed out the window. People were passing on the street, baskets over their arms. A cart was wheeled by, two skinny dogs ran beside it, tails wagging. Out on the waters, the sails of three large ships from the city ports further up the firth headed for the ocean. Flocks of gulls wheeled above the craft and the swells, many winging towards the Isle of May. Heavy clouds slunk over the horizon, hinting at late showers.

The maid had only just shut the door when Sorcha suddenly swung towards him. ‘A few weeks ago, you were kind enough to warn Beatrix Laing about what happened to Peter Morton.’

Aidan recalled leaving Sorcha’s cottage and going straight to the Laing woman’s house; the whispered conversation just inside the front door; how hard the woman tried not to show her fear. Careworn, with a pronounced limp and a deep, no-nonsense voice and manner, she’d grimaced when he finished. He liked her even before she expressed concern, not for herself, but for her friends.