Feeling miserable, Anna retreats to the far window of the sitting room to watch the furious wind thrashing the trees. Will it always be this way? Catharina, sullen and cross, Crispijn absent, Susanna ensconced in the kitchen while Mr Hartog runs back and forth between the stables, ensuring the horses are safe and dry, shielding himself from the downpour with the aid of a patched oilcloth. Last night as she escorted Anna to her bedroom upstairs, Susanna explained that the head servants would usually sleep up in the attic but Crispijn had given up his quarters on the second floor, since he preferred the attic with its pulleyed trapdoor, affording open access to the night sky. Catharina’s brother, Anna was told, has a keen interest in all things stargazing and astronomy. Lotte, however, sleeps in a space no bigger than a broom closet behind the two kitchens. Catharina’s extensive rooms occupy the entire west side of the house and include a summer studio and portrait workshop.

‘He is so tiresome,’ Catharina says suddenly into the sitting room’s silence, interrupting Anna’s recollection of the night before. ‘My brother, I mean. I have to rely on him for everything, at least publicly. If I were a man, I could take control of my own business interests. I could sell this house and move to Paris and paint whatever I liked. As it stands, I am stuck here, like a living statue trapped in a walled garden who can see and smell the beautiful forest beyond the gates but can never touch it. If I were free, I could pay someone to search for Griet. I’m sure they would find her and then we could…’

Anna waits for her to continue, but the artist seems to remember herself. Frowning, Catharina shakes her head and returns to her book, dismissing whatever else she intended to say. The fire crackles, sending out small sparks that flare and fizzle before they can endanger the rug. Anna longs to sit down but as Catharina has not given her permission, she continues to stand, rolling her ankles every now and then to encourage the blood flow to return to her feet. She distracts herself by imagining the proper snow that failed to materialise. She conjures the soft whump of powder falling from the house’s eaves, the vast interior silence, her thoughts stilled like boats on a windless sea. She’s always loved new snow for its purity, for the way it smothers the earth like a freshly starched sheet.