I looked across the café at the fire flickering in the grate. Soon it would be too cold for diving, too cold for anything but staying indoors curled up in front of the fire with a good book. I thought of Brechtje and her fear of storms. The poor woman must have suffered often, living on one of the most storm-prone islands in the northern hemisphere. I wondered about her reference to Maarten Horst. Had they been related? Had Horst’s death notice been wrong? Perhaps he’d made an undocumented trip back to the island before he passed away in Sumatra. Maybe they’d met. An image popped into my head of a girl in an orphan’s smock leaping across the dunes, running down to the marina to greet a tall figure wearing the VOC’s distinctive red livery. But the scenario felt unstable. Brechtje had not been fond of Maarten, I theorised – she’d been afraid of him, so afraid she had named a storm front after him. What had their relationship been? And how did Catharina’s dress link them?

7

Anna

Descending the staircase the morning after her arrival, Anna hears a man’s voice coming from the dining room. Two faces turn as she enters – one her mistress’s, the other its mirror, except for the nose which is slightly humped, as if it was once broken and healed badly. They break apart as she approaches, affecting an air of breezy nonchalance which doesn’t quite dispel the conspiratorial atmosphere preceding Anna’s arrival. Anna guesses she has been the subject of their conversation. She decides to pretend she has not noticed.

‘Goedemorgen,’ she mutters, moving towards the table where an abundant breakfast has been arranged, a loaf of bread resting beside a platter of shimmering haddock, another platter piled high with wedges of cheese and dried fruit. A thick Bible embossed with the van Shurmans’ family crest rests on the table in front of Crispijn’s setting. Anna slips into her own chair and lowers her head, waiting for grace to begin.

‘Crispijn, this is my new companion, Anna Tesseltje,’ Catharina says, when Crispijn has finished praying aloud. ‘Anna, my brother Crispijn. My younger brother,’ she adds.

‘A difference of less than a minute,’ Crispijn says drily. ‘I hardly think it counts.’