They mutter amongst themselves and, at first, they avoid talking to me. I catch them trying to see my neck and glancing at my ill-fitting gown. They have all heard the conversation that just occurred: Maggie Dickson survived this morning’s hanging. Words pass easily through cell gates; they slip between the bars. Words and whispers and bribes, and slices of pie and bottles of gin, and slender hands that can unbutton a turnkey’s breeches and earn a favour quick as you like. Initially the women let me sit quiet and gather my thoughts. I know the questions will come, though. I am marked, now. I have been on the other side. Some of these women might be destined for their own hangings, once their cases are tried. They will want me to tell them how I survived – whether it was witchery or trickery. The others will be like Joan and will want me to tell them if I saw God, and who was waiting for me.

I don’t know. I only know that I am changed inside and out.

I was someone else, once. A lover. A dreamer. But as the cell darkens into a night I thought I would never see, and the other women fold in on themselves, back to their own troubles, and eventually nod off and twitch and grunt and snore and weep in their dreams, I thank my lucky stars. For the shawl, the thin blanket, the gristle they toss me for supper, and even the rustle of rats. Every time I move my head, my neck hurts. I would have asked for a looking glass, to see the rope-burn. One of these women will have a pocket mirror stashed. Rouge too, and I have even smelled contraband scent in the Tolbooth. These are the novelties that help prisoners remember they are human, when they are treated as less. But asking for anything will draw attention and, besides, I don’t want an audience when I do survey the damage to my flesh.

The glass ring twirls easy on my finger, that’s how gaunt I am. Once I was a little sturdier. A sight dafter. A fishergirl who dreamed of running away from the sea.

When I sleep, finally, lightly and achingly on the prison mat, I dream of snakes again. Snakes and serpents and ropes.

When the serpent came to Eve, she gave in to temptation.

’Tis easy done.

In my dream, I find myself searching for my babe again and wake up with a start. Then it comes to me: I will never sleep soundly again and, worse, will never rest easy in my grave – unless I can be at peace with what happened.

And that means I must think back. Remember how it all started and where it all went wrong.

PART TWO

BEFORE THE HANG

Chapter Four

Fisherrow, Musselburgh
One year earlier: September 1723