She wasn’t as wretched as that, was she? Was it truly so condemnable to have left an impossible husband? She was determined to prove that she was not the witch they clearly thought she was. Just how to do that would require some thought.

She walked down the road, where shops and houses had sprung up over the years, forming a small village around the walls of Balhaire. She had rarely come out here before—these were not the sorts of shops she was accustomed to frequenting. There were no silks and china here. No gloves of the finest leather like she wore now.

But one shop caught her eye as she walked down the road. It had boxes of peonies beneath the window, and a wooden sign that proclaimed Miss Agnes Gowan, Proprietress.

A tiny bell twinkled as she stepped through the low door into the building. Something smelled quite delicious, and there, on the counter, was a tray full of freshly baked muffins that made her mouth water. There was a variety of goods and staples—jars of jam, china plates and cups. Sachets of bath salts and milled soaps. Margot picked up a sachet and held it up to her nose. It smelled of heather and lavender.

The sound of whispers brought her head around. Two women had appeared behind the counter, one of them short and round, with a lace cap over gray curls. Margot recognized her from before—she’d been one of the ladies from the kirk she’d tried to involve in charity.

The other woman, whispering into the shorter one’s ear, was younger but had the same bulbous nose. She, too, wore a lace cap and an apron. A daughter, no doubt.

“How do you do?” Margot said pleasantly.

Neither of the women spoke.

“The scents of your sachets and soaps are lovely. I believe the last time I was here, people were still using nettles to clean.” She smiled.

Nothing.

Margot cleared her throat. “You remember me, do you not, Mrs. Gowan? We met when I was last at Balhaire. We spoke of collecting alms for the poor.” Except that they had never collected any alms. None of the ladies of the kirk seemed to understand that raising money to assist the poor was a worthy cause. We take care of our orphans here, they’d said. But Margot had insisted. She’d assumed it was necessary. She had always been involved in charitable endeavors on behalf of Norwood Park and assumed it was expected of her here.

It was Griselda who had finally informed her, quite impatiently, that there was no need to raise alms, as the poor were taken care of within the clan itself. “That’s what a clan is,” she’d said irritably. “We mind our own.”

“Aye, I remember,” Mrs. Gowan said coolly, her gaze narrowing slightly. She made no effort to greet Margot.