I slid my treasure box farther from Wil, who was spooning turnip mash into his mouth at the kitchen table, then hurried to accept the crock. One of Anna’s neighbors sold sauerkraut at the weekend market.

“Thank you. I’m making zuuerkoolstamppot for dinner.”

“You could do worse than Janus. He likes you, and you need a husband.”

“It’s only been seven months. I don’t need a husband. Have you seen the postman?”

Saskia tottered forward. “We-we!”

“The postman is married to some old English hag. Honestly—” Anna caught herself. “Oh. Are you waiting for something in the mail?”

“I sent a letter to Goupil in Paris last week. Theo had worked for them so hard, for so many years. I hope they can finally see Vincent’s worth and champion his work. His art needs a gallery.”

“Mm.” Anna shrugged off her silk shawl and hung it on the peg by the door, then tilted her head toward the stairs. “It’s quiet here today.”

“Everyone is out.”

My boardinghouse in Bussum, the Villa Helma, had few boarders so far: the Kerkhovens, who were already renting in the other wing when I’d arrived in May, and a widow.

“You need to find some nice bachelors for the empty rooms.” Anna lifted her daughter onto a chair so the children could share the turnip mash, and then she kissed Wil on the top of his head.

Her cobalt-blue dress, a contrast to my widow’s black, swished around her ankles. The spring breeze had teased a few tendrils of chestnut hair free around her perfectly oval face. She was beautiful even swollen with her next child, or maybe even more beautiful because of that radiance some expectant mothers were lucky to possess. Vincent would have wanted to paint her. He would have liked the cobalt of her dress, how it complemented the peach of her skin.

The children began babbling at each other in baby talk.

“Sasa no!” Wil pulled his bowl away, then immediately changed his mind. “Sasa here.”

Anna and I smiled at each other.

I pulled out a chair for her. “Come sit.”

“My back hurts less when I am up and walking.” Her gaze ran over the sizable box on the table, her lively dark eyes glinting. “And what is this? Love letters?”

“Vincent’s letters to Theo. Theo saved them all.”

“Where are Theo’s letters to Vincent?”

My heart had been hurting nonstop this past year since Vincent’s death, then Theo’s so shortly after, but now it managed to bleed some fresh blood yet. I ran my fingers over the box’s edge. “Vincent tended to be messy and disorganized at his best. He had his mind on greater dreams.”

We both fell silent for a moment.