Before I get down from the cart, I turn to my family, who are putting kerchiefs to their noses against the stench of Edinburgh: the chimney smoke and gardeyloo and the rotten fallen fruit and veg. For a moment I think of uttering something profound to them, for again it might be our last conversation, but I don’t. Instead I look at Ma.

‘Have you my death-certificate,’ I ask, ‘for I might need it in there? The sheriffs like official documents.’

Again, they look surprised at me, for I was never one for knowing about certificates or documents or parchments because there is no call for that amongst fishwives.

Ma digs in her creel and brings out a scroll, wrapped in a black ribbon. She holds it aloft, between two fingers, as if it might bite.

I take it from her, my hand clasping the thick parchment and wondering at the absurdity of it all – that I should have the written proof of my own death in my hand whilst my pulse beats next to it. But I can do all my wondering later. Now I must think and be clever. I turn to Joan.

‘I shall take my nice glass ring back now, if you please, my dear,’ I say. ‘It is mine, after all, and you have always been given plenty more nice things from Ma and Da than I ever was.’ They all shift uncomfortably at that, for it’s true, but not something we ever said out loud before.

Joan takes the ring off and hands it to me, inspecting her fingers. She opens her mouth and I think she is about to ask Ma if she might ever be allowed another ring to replace it, but when she looks up, she catches my eye and scrutinizes me up and down in my borrowed clothes, and my bruised neck, and thinks better of it.

But I am still furious with her about what happened in the court that day, and that ring is mine and I might need it. It is almost the only thing of mine that they did not lose under those damned gallows, so I consider it lucky. I have come to learn that everything is currency. A death-certificate. A glass ring. A smuggled package. A terrible secret.

Chapter Three

I walk into the courthouse, a McIvor on each side, but the brothers are not so sure of themselves now and no longer grip me, intimidated by the pomp. I do not turn back to catch a last glimpse of my family because I don’t want them to see the terror in my eyes. That was a bold show I put on, out there – bolder than I feel.