A frosty silence greets these pronouncements. Crispijn places the notebook down, picks up his fork and begins to eat, his gaze fixed determinedly on his plate. The bread on Anna’s tongue forms a hard, indigestible lump. Forcing herself to swallow, she glances at Catharina who sags low in her chair, as if the air is laden with a thick choking smog she is trying to avoid inhaling.

‘I told you I would not be ready to paint anything new until summer,’ she mutters.

Crispijn, reluctantly it seems, looks up. ‘I know. But if we wait for summer, all the best commissions will be gone. We must seize the opportunities when they present themselves. Besides, you have a companion now. Someone to entertain you while you work, to help you and boost your spirits.’ Turning to Anna, he says, ‘Master de Witt tells me you’re quite the reader, Miss Tesseltje. You’re welcome to borrow any of the books in my study – it’s the one opposite the parlour, behind the door covered in copper stars. Catharina is often rummaging through the trunks for new volumes. I’ve been meaning to have more shelves built, but I’m yet to find time. When it grows warmer, there will be entertainments, masques and ballets, musical soirees. You and Catharina can go together. And you’ll enjoy walking the grounds of Sterrenwijck. I promise there is more to the place than you’ve seen so far. We had Father’s old barren orchards torn up a few years ago and replanted with new fruit trees and fragrant roses. There’s a ruined temple on the hill overlooking the river which is worth exploring – it dates all the way back to 1648.’

His mood is so jovial, Anna can’t help grinning in return.

Catharina snaps suddenly. ‘I don’t need a companion,’ she says, thumping her fist on the table. ‘I don’t need anyone else. Don’t you understand? Without Griet, there is no point. We have a studio full of paintings. You were supposed to focus your energies on finding homes for them. How many of those did you sell?’

Anna senses the mood has turned. Crispijn closes his eyes. When he opens them again, she notices how long his lashes are, darkly fanned against his cheeks, as soft and delicate as a baby rabbit’s.

‘You must understand,’ he says, quietly. ‘People want certainty. With the position of Stadholder abolished, they want to see themselves reflected in their paintings, just as they are. They don’t want elaborate costumes and mythical allegory. Even with the endorsement of the painters’ guild, it’s a difficult time to sell your kind of art.’

Catharina gapes. ‘My kind of art?’

‘Yes,’ says her brother, and Anna hears the frustration creeping in, although he does his best to remain calm. ‘The kind of art that pleases you alone. The kind of art you are inspired to create, which is not always compatible with what a buyer wants. A painting of Icarus sailing through the sky on wax wings? A fortune teller on horseback, predicting the future on a Frisian beach? Sister, I cannot sell these. You expect too much of me.’