I promised Olivia that Liam and I would speak to the Noord-Holland government and try to ensure the dress was returned. She led me over to one last glass cabinet at the back of the room, unlocked the door and eased out a small leather-bound book.

‘This is a transcription of a journal kept by one of my ancestors. Her name was Brechtje de Jong. She was a weather enthusiast, recorded every Texel storm, saw signs and symbols in the clouds. She married the harbour master in 1682. Her husband, Arend de Jong, was born here. He came from a long line of harbour masters. I’m guessing Mum might have mentioned that a couple of hundred times. Her long-term memory is good, but she forgets small details. Hopefully it doesn’t get any worse.’

Olivia paused to scan a journal entry then nodded to herself and held it out for my inspection.

‘This is what I was looking for. I knew the name sounded familiar.’

I looked down at the entry dated 23 December 1685.

Close air at dawn and a rank smell on the beach like rotting seal meat. A bloody circle rings the full moon. A storm is brewing, the clouds are thick serpents eating their own tails. As I walk along the seawall, a flock of crows takes flight, their cries like Dutch tears, clear as glass. Maarten Horst bears down on us from the east, eating the horizon. I run along the docks, shouting. Hoist the sails! Secure the cargo! See, how swiftly Great Maarten comes? I reach the cottage with seconds to spare and fling myself into the bed box while Maarten hammers the windows with windy fists and does his best to extinguish the fire, pouring water down the chimney into the sizzling grate. Knowing how I hate storms, Wolfert comes to comfort me, settling his paws over my whale-belly, protecting the precious life within. I sense my mother watching over us. As Maarten howls outside, I crawl to my knees to pray. Mother, grant me safe delivery. Give us Pure skies again and a Crispijn morning. I will search the Heavens for your sign, the Star of Utrecht, to guide us safely home.

The entry ended there. I looked up at Olivia.

‘Maarten Horst? She named a storm after him?’

‘She was an odd creature,’ Olivia said. ‘Some people thought she was touched in the head. Brechtje used to tell people her mother nearly drowned while she was pregnant with her and that the near-death experience had changed her somehow, as if the water got in and altered her very constitution. Brechtje had a lot of strange notions. We’ve no record of her mother’s name, but we know that she grew up in an orphanage on the island. She was something of a beauty. That entry was written right before her daughter was born on Christmas Eve. Brechtje called her Annemie. It means “bitter grace”.’