Catharina snaps the book shut.

‘That’s enough of Seneca,’ she says, rubbing her temples. ‘Come. I want to show you where I work, in case you need to find me there.’

The entrance to the studio in the west wing is through a carved door set into a wooden frame embossed with fat-cheeked cherubs and trailing vines. Walking under the arch, Anna feels as if she has entered the nave of an old-fashioned church. Although it occupies the footprint of two good-sized master bedrooms, the canvases stacked against the walls and shelves crowded with props and accoutrements compress the space. Swagged curtains let in shafts of light through four big windows. Their beams dissect dusty books and wax candlesticks, dried moths and beetles pinned to boards, ostrich feathers and glass goblets ranged shortest to tallest, some patterned with elaborate whorls, the others plain. The ceiling of Catharina’s inner sanctum is decorated with scenes and symbols from Greek mythology. Craning back, Anna contemplates the logistics of painting so high. Does the woman possess wings?

When she asks Catharina this question, her mistress smiles grimly. ‘No, but it would please me greatly. Imagine having such a gift! I would fly east each winter and I would not stop until I reached the tropics.’ She points at the ceiling. ‘You strap a rope around your waist and lash yourself to a platform like a baby tied to a swaddling board. Then you get another person to winch you up and hold the rope steady while you paint. Anyone could do it.’

‘I couldn’t,’ Anna admits. ‘Heights frighten me.’

Catharina nods. ‘Fair. The last time I had Lotte do it, she nodded off and dropped the rope such that I almost fell. An unpleasant feeling it was, sailing through the air like that. I imagine it’s how Icarus felt when his feathers singed and he could see the sea looming, the hungry waves ready to devour him whole. Griet was much better. She never let me fall.’

Anna’s ears prick up at the mention of Catharina’s apprentice. While sifting through Margriet’s clothes this morning before she dressed, Anna searched for clues to the woman’s disappearance, but the few skirts and kirtles told her nothing she didn’t already know. She had more luck with the combs, managing to locate a few strands of long red hair that gleamed on her palm like freshly spun copper. Coiling the strands up, she tied them in a handkerchief and buried them in the bottom of the dresser under her mother’s precious silk dress. She feels a little guilty for not informing Mrs Hartog about the dress’s presence. It could probably be altered. Worn over a chemise, padded at the hips, and with the accompanying accessories of stockings, shoes and ornamental headwear, it might just be suitable enough to be seen at court. But why shouldn’t she keep the knowledge of its existence to herself? If the dress is indeed a talisman, a way of warding off her own ill luck, she can’t afford to dilute its potency or risk losing it to someone else. She needs every scrap of good fortune for herself.