Katrina McLeod glared at the three men in front of her. Like apostles of a pagan god, they sat behind the table of roughly hewn pine, their faces frozen in pious outrage. Behind her, she could hear the rustle of skirts as the two women ordered to witness her interrogation shifted restlessly on their feet. ‘Can you see the devil?’ asked Jonathan Crawford, the leader of the court. ‘Aye.’ Katrina gave the man a firm nod. ‘I can see the devil clearly.’ ‘What does he look like?’ ‘He is tall and gaunt, dressed in a grey doublet and a thick black coat with a patch over one elbow.’ She directed an unblinking stare at Crawford as she described his appearance. The man’s narrow face twisted with fury. He lurched forward, arms outstretched, as though wanting to strangle her with his bare hands. Katrina recoiled. For an instant, the mental wall she had erected around her fear shattered, and images of what awaited her broke through.
