I’d been in Ballaig Books a few times before that night, to browse, and loved the eclectic selection of books arranged on higgledy-piggledy shelves standing at odd angles throughout the space. The organization of the book shelves meant that you could stand behind one of the jutting-out stacks and leaf through or read whole sections of a book, without fear of being seen or eyeballed by staff at the front counter. Having said that, Ruth – the owner – was very warm and welcoming, and didn’t seem to mind in the slightest that I spent a lot of time in her shop without ever buying anything.

Ruth collected our tickets at the door, and told us to go through to the rear of the shop, where a few people had already gathered, some standing and some already sitting in the seats that had been arranged into narrow rows. Elena and Pearl chose seats in the front row, asking if I minded sitting so close. My preference would have been the back row, but when Elena said her hearing wasn’t what it used to be, I agreed.

The space filled up quickly, and soon Ruth was standing in front of us all, smiling at a woman with long, fiery hair. “Good evening and thank you for coming. I am very pleased to welcome the author of The Witches’ Cage, Kate McGrane. Kate’s inspiration for this book was the appetite for accusing women from this very village of witchcraft, who were often, sadly, put to death. The Witches’ Cage is harrowing, telling the stories of twenty women from this part of the world who were accused, and imprisoned in the so-called witches’ cage to await trial.”

We applauded as they both sat down on the makeshift stage, and then Ruth said. “Kate, thank you very much for joining us tonight.”

“It’s an honour to be here in what might just be the best book shop in Scotland.”

Palpably pleased and proud, Ruth thanked her. “Maybe you could start by telling us what you know about how many women from this village were accused.”

Kate cleared her throat and spoke in a gentle, almost hypnotic voice. “Ballaig had a disproportionately large number of women accused, in relation to the population of the village.”

“And is there any indication of why that might have been the case?”

“After the disappearances on Nester Island, a series of rumours spread across this entire area, and then throughout the country. The witch hunts were in full swing, and the rumour spread that witches who lived between the island and the mainland – here, in Ballaig in fact – had killed the people taken to the island to quarantine as punishment for trespassing on their island.”

“And was there any evidence before the disappearances that people believed in the existence of witches who lived between the two places?”

“Not as such. I found one account of someone raving – with fever, I mean – after sailing back to the mainland from Nester Island, saying that a witch had dragged him into her cave, poisoned him, and kept him prisoner.”

“A likely story – no doubt to explain why he hadn’t come home to his wife for days,” someone called from the back of the audience, causing a ripple of laughter.

Ruth looked out at us and gave a little smile, then said, “Please continue”.

“I’ve never found any other accounts from before the disappearances suggesting local people thought there were witches on Nester Island. And before the disappearances I would say the number of women accused in this village were broadly in proportion to the rest of the locality.”

“But that all changed with the disappearances on the island?” Ruth asked.

“It did. The accounts of the witch hunters coming to the village, banging on doors and demanding information about the women who lived here, then forcing their way into the homes of those women and taking them away to the prison became much more frequent. Startlingly so.”

“Can you tell us about some of the accusations?”

“Many of them were much the same as those levelled at women up and down the country. Consorting with and dancing with the devil, stirring up magic with evil intent. Any ailment or illness that struck one of the villagers was blamed on witchcraft, and a perpetrator had to be identified as the one carrying it out. The women most vulnerable to accusation were those who were healers. Any herbs, plants or potions they used could be marked out as magical.”

“And what happened to the women when they were taken away?”

“There is very, very little information about the conditions inside the prison. In sharp contrast to the accounts we have about the trials in Glasgow and Edinburgh, for example, that’s perhaps not very surprising, but the lack of historical evidence is suspicious.”

“Are you suggesting that someone destroyed the evidence?”

“That’s one possibility. It’s also possible that accounts were destroyed by fire, or flooding. It’s what you could call a significant gap in the evidence, for sure.”

“When you spent time in the old prison, were you able to learn anything more about it? Some kind of insider information perhaps, that you gleaned during your time there?”

Kate shifted in her chair, as though uncomfortable with the question. “I spent time in the prison, which is really now just a ruin - three low walls where the tower once stood. I don’t know what I was expecting, exactly, when I first visited the place, but I remember being surprised by how peaceful it was, how calm.”

“You thought, maybe, that a place where women had been imprisoned and likely brutalized, would have held onto at least some of that terrible energy down the centuries?”

“That’s a good way to put it. Yes, I suppose I thought it might. But it was very peaceful.”

Ruth took a deep breath, and then said, “This might be a good time to address some of the accusations that have been levelled at you recently. Can we just confirm first of all – is this a work of fiction?”

Kate’s entire demeanour changed, and she looked as though she might burst into tears. “Yes, it is.”

“I understand, though, that there has been a small but vocal campaign saying that this is a work of non-fiction. This group has been getting quite a lot of press for saying that you are, in fact, a witch, and that you used magic to write this book.”

Kate’s voice was shaky as she said, “I use a writing technique that I call immersive storytelling. I situate myself in a place – in this case, the old prison – and I conjure up as much as I know about the setting. What did it smell like? What would the women have heard? The appearance of the place, right down to the finer details about every little thing in the room. Of course, there was no or almost no light in the room, so the other senses would have been much more important to the women’s experience of the place. When this experience is truly immersive, it’s as though the women are in the same room as me, talking to me like I was inside the prison with them.”

“So, you combine extensive historical research with a writer’s eye? And also, let’s be clear about it, a feminist commitment to pulling the stories of women who were persecuted into the foreground?”

Kate smiled warmly at Ruth. “I like the way you’ve put that. Yes.”

Ruth took another deep breath. “So, let’s be very clear about this: you have not used magic to write this book?”

Kate smiled again. “If only. Hard graft, I’m afraid.”

There was some laughter, and then Ruth asked, “And do you want to address any of the rumours that are being spread about you?”

“I’d rather not give them any credibility by addressing them. I’d prefer the focus of people’s attentions to be on the stories of the women, which are fictional as I’ve said, but based on fact.”

Ruth smiled. “Thank you, Kate. And now, I understand, you are going to read a bit from your book?”

Kate proceeded to read the story of Aileen MacKenzie, a healer who had been arrested and imprisoned after the deaths of two children in the village. Aileen had provided tonics, which hadn’t succeeded in preventing pneumonia from claiming both of the infants. When her accusers arrested her, they spared no amount of physical brutality. Her body broken beyond repair, Aileen was taken to Glasgow, where she was burned without first being strangled, a fate reserved for those women deemed worthy of the worst form of death.

At several points during the reading I wanted to leap up out of my seat and run for the door. It was so graphic, so tragic – I didn’t think I could bear to hear another word. Part of the reason I didn’t was to avoid attracting attention, but I also decided it was important to listen, as a way to honour the lives and deaths of so many women in Ballaig who’d been condemned to such a terrible fate.

The question and answer session that followed focused initially on questions about the research Kate had done before writing, and her immersive storytelling technique, before turning more contentious. Someone I didn’t know said he understood why Kate wouldn’t want to dignify the rumours about her using magic as she was writing, but surely she would want to address the fact the parallels between witch hunts, past and present.

“I detest the term,” she replied calmly, “because it’s been largely co-opted by politicians as an excuse to avoid answering questions about their conduct or policies.”

After a brief burst of applause, the man who’d posed the question said, “But what about the people coming forward to speak to the media about you, saying that you used to call yourself a witch?”

The air in the room seemed to change; all at once it was dense, stuffy, like fog had just rolled through. I saw something pass over Kate’s face that looked like anger, and maybe defiant fear – like an animal that’s been backed into a corner.

“As I’ve said, I don’t think it’s wise to feed any rumours or speculation about me. I’d rather people read the book, and pay attention to the stories of the women, rather than me.”

But Kate’s look had charged right through my body, because it suddenly seemed possible that I was looking at someone who understood me – or at least who I might be. I decided I needed to talk to Kate, just the two of us, even though I had no idea what I was going to say.