“I need an agent with clout in the business to represent Vincent. I will not be granted as much as an appointment with museum curators. What are my qualifications? None. I am a widow from Bussum who takes in boarders. I am a woman of no consequence with no relevant skills. I can’t be Vincent’s agent.”

“Think of your Mrs. Oliphant writing her many books, doing what she must.”

“She is an exceptional woman. I am not.”

“All are made exceptional by necessity,” Piet, the poet, put in.

Maybe he was right. I would do anything for Wil. If I had to take on a third occupation to feed him, in addition to running the boardinghouse and translating, I would. If I had to crawl on my knees to secure Wil’s heritage, I would not hesitate. And if I said I would do anything, did that not mean that I would be willing to make myself into the kind of woman who could succeed with this quest?

“All right,” I blurted. “I shall represent Vincent myself.”

Eight pairs of eyes snapped to me.

Anna was the first to speak. “I’ll be happy to watch Wil for you if you have to travel.” She put her hand on mine and squeezed. “I tried to make you give up. I wanted to spare you the thankless work and disappointment, but I was wrong. You shall have nothing but support from me from now on.”

Seb, who represented authors, asked, “And what is your strategy?”

The question immediately brought all my doubts rushing back. I stared at him, already lost.

He finished his wine and set down his glass. “In my work, I either start an author with the smaller publishers, bank some early successes, and translate that into bigger contracts at bigger places, or go straight to the top. Because once the top publisher shows interest in an author, his name is immediately made. And often, the second-largest publisher will offer an even more lucrative contract to snatch victory from his main competitor, to have that potential next bestseller for himself.”

“Vincent tried for the Salon,” Max said.

Seb pointed at The Harvest. “His work is certainly good enough for the best venues.”

“Of course,” Jan shot me a reassuring look, “there is nothing wrong with starting small and finding your legs. You could practice on some of the local galleries.”

Gratitude filled me. I had losses, but I had not lost hope. I had been tried, but I had also been blessed. “I think…” I drew a bracing breath, my heart beating too fast. “I shall write an introductory letter to the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. And then follow it up with a visit. Vincent deserves the best.”

“If you need help with the letter,” Piet offered, pushing away his empty plate, “I can contribute a poetic turn of words here and there.”

My eyes burned. “I think I shall probably need a lot of help.”