The winter that her mother’s companion Kikker came to live with them, she told them a story about three white sisters, fairies who had been given names inspired by winter: Gletsjer, Verkoudheid, Stof. When they were old enough to be wed, the sisters were courted by the same fire giant. He visited so often and for so long that the girls melted, merging into one watery being. The sisters now one, being married to the fire giant, gave birth to a son called Stoom who was a volatile, unpredictable element. No walls could contain him. He had a habit of exploding when he lost his temper, endangering sailors’ lives. In time, the local humans learned how to put his skills to good use. They paid for his services with offerings of milk and honey and called on him to help steer their ships and protect them from the sea’s icy grip and deliver them home safely to their children and wives. Playing in their nursery, Anna and Lijsbeth alternated the role of Stoom. One would burst through their bedding pillows, erupting in an explosion of feathers, a war cry warming her throat while the other cowered in the corner and begged for mercy. They played this game for weeks until their mother discovered them. She punished them for the destruction of the pillows by forcing them to sit still for hours and recite Bible verses. Although any further opportunities to indulge in the pantomime of male violence were curtailed, Anna never forgot the feeling of Stoom’s power, running through her veins like snowmelt.

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?