I am suddenly aware that my hair is escaping from my bonnet in wind-pulled knots, and my dress is a merry shade of pink that has never been seen in Fisherrow. I don’t know whether to walk straight in or announce my arrival. In the end I tap on the door with a gentle knock, bracing myself.

It is Joan who answers and, when she sees me, it takes her a moment or two, but instead of all the things she could do – like shriek or frown or shout for Ma, or say my dress looks trollopy – she puts her hand to her throat and shakes her head.

‘I did not think you would ever come back,’ she says.

‘I did not want to, for a while,’ I tell her.

We stand and look at each other for a bit. Then she puts her hand to her throat again. ‘The mark looks better,’ she tells me.

It is her way of trying to be nice.

She walks inside and I follow her in. The cottage smells the same, but mustier than I remember. But the familiarity of it: the scrap of Turkish carpet. Little Paws waking and stretching and stalking over to me, her tail in the air.

‘Da is at the Mussel Inn, and Ma is having a nap,’ Joan whispers, nodding at the bed-curtain. ‘She has not been well these past weeks.’

I stroke Little Paws and let her rub against my legs. I know that if Ma is unwell, it’s my fault. But I say nothing as Joan pours me a mug of lukewarm tea.

‘We heard stories you were selling yourself. Letting folk touch you. Ma thinks you might be whoring,’ she goes on. She looks me up and down, taking in the dress, but seems to swallow back any comment about it.

‘Not whoring,’ I tell her. ‘But something like it, I suppose.’

‘Your coming back here will be a scandal,’ she begins. ‘Da has only just got back in favour with his gang at the Mussel Inn, and this will upset everyone again.’

‘It has not been a scandal so far. I have been welcomed by the Fishmarket Close sellers and I will be accepted back by everyone else, I believe. This is my home after all, and I have the right to live peacefully here. They might have called me all manner of things in Edinburgh, but I did nothing wicked. I lost my baby, Joan – you were there.’

At this, her eyes fill with tears. Mine too.

‘I am sorry that I was not stronger in the courtroom,’ she says.

‘Joan, I am furious that you did not try harder to defend me in that courtroom,’ I reply, my voice rising.

‘I know it. But that Lord Leith was a bully,’ she says. ‘I have nightmares about him.’