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for . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was unable to say the word, fearing it was an ambition too far.
    â€œA book,” he said. “Aye, why not? Witches is always interesting, specially if you make it spooky. Mind you, I’ll never be persuaded thon poor woman was the last witch hereabouts. If you read some o’ the letters to the Gazette you’d be convinced the town and county is hooching wi’ them.”
    â€œDon!” She laughed, but recalling the trial of Alice Ramsay, “witch hunt” was still an appropriate term.
    â€œSo, how are you going to tackle the idea? Historical? Romantic? Base it on the mean-spirited gossip o’ those who condemned Miss Ramsay just as they condemned thon poor auld wifie that was burned alive centuries ago?”
    â€œYou are completely incorrigible!” The laugh burst out of her, making those around look up, making Don grin, making her cover her mouth with one hand and smile with her eyes.
    â€œIncorrigible but right.”
    â€œAye. Maybe. And thank you. I needed to be reminded there’s lots worse troubles than mine.”
    â€œWith writing, it’s a good idea to begin at the beginning,” Don continued.
    â€œStarting with the last witch in Scotland?”
    â€œMaybe no that far back. Ask why was the Ramsay woman accused? How come it went as far as a trial? Seems a bit far-fetched that the police would be involved if it’s only tea she was making. Naw, there’s got to be more. Research, then do what I always told you. When? Who? What? Why?”
    â€œI’ll never be able to use it. But yes, the why is what interests me.”
    â€œWrite it for no other reason than to put it to rest. Ask questions in a big sense. Why do small communities turn on those who are different? Is it malice? Idleness? And if a person is seen as suspicious, are they? If someone is acting weird, do they have something to hide? Or are they just plain weird? Sometimes something—animal instinct, call it what you will—is behind the gossip and speculation, an’ it turns out to be true, or partly true.”
    â€œAlice Ramsay was guilty of being a woman alone—no man, no children, even her dog is a stray. She is, was, content. That’s all.” Joanne knew her voice had risen and sat back to calm herself. “Thank you, o Great Wise One, it’s good to talk it over.”
    â€œFor that you can fetch the next round.” He looked towards the bar and the barman, who had known Don for at least thirty-five years, nodded. “Ach, no need. But I have to warn you, this is the last time I buy you lemonade. Any self-respecting writer knows it’s the hard stuff you need to be a novelist, ladies included.”
    As she walked up the hill to home, she felt lighter. Don was right. She was assuming Alice Ramsay had nothing to hide. So what evidence did the police have that made the procurator fiscal decide to go ahead with a trial? What didn’t come out? It was then that she realized she knew nothing about the prosecution’s case.
    She was panting by the time she reached the top of Steven’s Brae. Still not completely fit, she could walk for miles on the flat, but the steep brae and the cobblestones were a challenge. By the time she reached home, she was desperate to write. Afraid that the words and ideas might escape, like dandelion seeds in the wind. She fairly flew into the sitting room to her typewriter.

    The Sutherland Case.
    The woman lived alone. She was content with her life, and said so. Fulfilled in her work, never seeming to need a husband or children or the company of others, at first she attracted the curiosity of her neighbors. Then suspicion.

C HAPTER 6

    I t had been five days since the meeting in the hotel. She enjoyed meeting him again but wondered if she was not being paranoid. Life was now returning to normal, and she was keen to add the final touches to the manuscript.
    Then