“Are you in love with Eduard, or with the idea of him, the idea of love? Are you holding on to hope, or are you holding on to misery?”

“Eduard is the kindest, most dependable—”

“So kind and dependable that he never visited you in Utrecht? And he hasn’t written in ages.”

“He is busy with his studies. You know how sweet he’s been before. He escorted me everywhere. He brought flowers. He took me on boat rides. Last summer, whenever we were alone, he drew me so close… I might as well have been sitting on his lap,” I whispered. “He’s giving me time to adjust to such a major change in my life as marriage before he would confess love. There’s an understanding between us. An understanding between our families.”

“And Theo?”

“He barely knows me.”

“Yet Theo has given you careful consideration. And you must have grown to know each other better through your letters. He encourages your fondness for books. He even provided you with the perfect corresponding partner in his sister. He knows what he wants, and he wants you. He is not afraid of declaring either his feelings or his intentions.”

If I only loved Theo.

I had his letter in one hand and my brother’s in the other. “Dries is asking me to visit him in Paris for Christmas.”

“You must go and save Theo from absinth and French women. Look at it as an adventure.”

“Because Utrecht went so well? I—”

Anna’s parents, Meneer and Mevrouw Dirk, strode through the door, cutting off the rest of my argument.

“You are here.” Mevrouw Dirk’s head was uncovered, her hair a teetering haystack. The wind must have stolen her hat. “Good. I was hoping we could present ourselves at lunch on time today.”

Meneer Dirk caught the letters in my hand and headed straight for his own small pile of envelopes. “Treasure your correspondence, Mevrouw Bonger,” he said as he sorted through his mail. “I predict that with that infernal telephone device spreading, letter writing will soon become a lost skill.”

Mevrouw Dirk tugged off her lace summer gloves. “I am sure it won’t come to that.”

His wife’s words did not calm Anna’s father. He tended to take any opposition as an attack. “No more carefully constructed sentences.” His tone elevated. “People will call with the most trifling matters the moment the fancy strikes them. My dear, I expect your mother, to call me in the middle of reading my morning papers to tell me what she had for breakfast.” He chopped through the air with the envelope he held. “Mark my words, ladies. Part of civilization itself will be lost.”

Anna pressed a hand to her chest. “Papa. Not the epistolary arts!”

She shot me a quick glance of mirth.

I kept a straight face, but was laughing inside, our argument forgotten.