‘But you aren’t.’ Crispijn adopts an air of negotiation. Lacing his fingers together on the tablecloth, he sits forward, his tunic straining across his chest. ‘Take my advice and accept the commissions. Just try. They’re saying this winter will be a long one and bitterly cold. We should take the opportunities given to us by God to –’

He falls silent as Catharina holds up a hand. She looks weary, like she did when Anna left her last night in the parlour, dark shadows circling her eyes.

‘Spare me,’ she says. ‘You could never understand. You think art is only something to be bought and sold. You see my talent as a means to an end. But when I see a vision in my mind’s eye, it’s as if God has directed me. I must paint it. It is a compulsion, it cannot be tamed or rationalised. A man without money is like a ship without sails, isn’t that right? And what would you be, Crispijn van Shurman, without all your fancy clothes and fine horses and your pendulums and telescopes. You would be nothing.’ She pauses to draw breath. ‘I do not want to paint a portrait of another rich burgher from Antwerp. I cannot do it. I will not.’

Her impassioned refusal bounces off the walls. Anna looks from sister to brother, holding her breath and wishing she had the power to make herself invisible so she could slink from the room and take refuge in the kitchen, leaving the siblings to their tempest. Crispijn’s expression reflects Catharina’s resolve. His jaw is tight, his brow creased with fine lines that makes him look older, more like the old gentleman whose portrait hangs in the entrance hall. Anna wonders if this is how the twins always behave or if such stand-offs are rare, like wild storms glimpsed off the coast that blow themselves out before they reach the shore. She’s always assumed that her deference to Lijsbeth was based on their personalities, but perhaps age was a factor, as Lijsbeth once suggested. If only a minute’s difference exists between the birth of these siblings, which twin has authority over the other? Can they ever truly be equals or will one always trail behind?

Crispijn dabs his cheek with his napkin, then stands abruptly and drops it over his plate.

‘Life is not fair,’ he says. Turning to Anna, he bows. ‘Miss Tesseltje, you’ll have to forgive my rudeness. I’d hoped to ask you more about your family, but we will have to speak another time. If you’ll excuse me, I have some correspondence to attend to upstairs.’ As he passes Catharina’s chair on his way to the door, he gives her shoulder a brotherly squeeze. She shrugs it off, two spots of colour sitting high in her cheeks.