‘I think he beats his wife,’ Anna says, quietly. ‘Maarten, I mean. I saw him choking her. He lied afterwards, said she was unwell, that he was trying to help her.’

Catharina stares from Anna’s face to Crispijn’s, open-mouthed. At last, she shakes her head. ‘He’s a tyrant. I would not have married him for all the spices in the Orient. I can’t believe he even asked. But then he has never cared for anyone’s opinion except his own. When I saw him sitting there tonight, I swear my blood ran cold. But I didn’t want to acknowledge him nor give him the satisfaction of thinking I’d noticed. That poor girl.’

‘What do we know about her family?’ Crispijn asks. ‘I’ve never heard of them, never seen them at court. It sounds as if they sold the girl to Maarten to absolve their debts and then abandoned her in a foreign place.’

‘They wouldn’t be the first family to do so,’ Catharina murmurs. She is staring at the wall behind Anna’s head, transfixed by the image of Griet as the warrior goddess.

‘I wish we could help her,’ Anna says.

‘It’s none of our business.’ Crispijn raises a tired hand to rub his forehead. ‘Where Maarten is concerned, it’s best to be overly cautious. Leave him to sort out the Governor’s affairs. He will return to sea soon enough and, if he is distracted by his business in Sumatra, all the better for us.’

‘I’m considering Maarten’s request for a portrait,’ Catharina announces. ‘There’s just enough time to organise the initial sitting before they leave. I can fill in the details later, as I plan to do for Lady Killigrew.’ She looks straight ahead, but Anna can see that her jaw is tightly clenched and her eyes are full of a steely determination.

There is a tense silence before Crispijn says, ‘You cannot be serious.’ His expression is one of horror mingled with confusion. ‘Why would you even consider his request, after the stories we’ve just shared about his behaviour?’

Catharina’s eyes flash brightly, lit up with sudden feverish excitement. ‘Didn’t you hear what he said, brother? Didn’t you understand the import? He knows where Griet is. He was giving us a clue. Antwerp, he said, or maybe Ghent. She’s still here! Why, she might only be a day’s journey from Sterrenwijck.’

‘You’ve gone mad,’ Crispijn mutters. ‘He’s playing with you. He doesn’t know where Griet is. Even if he did, he would never tell you.’

‘He might,’ his sister snaps. ‘He only needs encouragement. We can help each other; he needs a portrait and I need to find Griet. To know that she’s safe. And he will pay. You said yourself, we need the money.’

‘Never his coin.’ Crispijn’s voice has taken on a hard edge. ‘Remember Father’s warning? With Maarten, there is always a hidden cost. You know that.’