‘Yes, the Dicksons’ fish stall, which is one of our most reliable. I understand the Dickson fisher folk go back generations. Do you want your own fish stall?’

I shake my head. ‘I want to try something different,’ I reply.

He frowns. ‘But what other knowledge do you have?’

‘I lived in Edinburgh awhile,’ I tell him. ‘I learned the gin trade, but I would not wish to bring that to Fisherrow.’

He shakes his head vigorously. A good Presbyterian man.

‘I told stories about my hanging for pennies, but I do not wish to sell myself like that, either,’ I admit.

He considers me.

‘You have been through an ordeal,’ he admits. ‘Many ordeals, if what I read in the Courant is true.’

‘But I am still here,’ I tell him. ‘And I have learned a lot. Folk in Edinburgh would touch my neck for luck. They would think it would save them from their own hardships and perils.’

‘It is easy to be superstitious,’ Mr Munroe says. I can tell that he would not be as willing as other folks have been to believe my stories. His stare is frank. I dare say I could not tell this man any untruths, for he would see right through them.

‘But sometimes superstition is all we have,’ I go on. I sit down now on the spare chair, even though he has not invited me to do so, but he does not object or tell me to get up. ‘I have seen men stand at this very harbour and kiss cauls before they get onto their boats. I have seen their wives pray on their knees as the storms come, watching and waiting for the boats to return. I have seen storms come out of nowhere. I have seen folk ply their own secret trade in trinkets and tea and perfumes, and all sorts of smuggled goods, just to get by, for there is not much of a living to be made selling fish, once they have paid their rent for their stalls and a place to keep their boats overnight.’

He does not nod or shake his head, but looks serious.

‘All I should like to do,’ I go on, ‘is have my own little corner of the market where I can sell bits and bobs – enough to get by and make some sort of a living out of and not disturb anyone, nor be disturbed.’

He sits back in his chair and scratches his chin. ‘Have you brought any trouble with you from Edinburgh? Any constables looking for you?’

I shake my head. I do not tell him about Dr McTavish, or the fact that my own husband is alive and well there.

‘And do you have a trade, other than fish?’