‘She must be mute,’ the other woman says loudly. ‘I had a dress like this once.’ She pinches Anna’s skirt without asking for permission. ‘A fine fabric and cut… I couldn’t wear it now, not with this waist.’ She pats her rounded stomach. ‘If this child doesn’t make his appearance soon, I will have to trade the last of my gowns for food. God willing it is a son or all this sacrifice will be for nothing. There will be nobody to petition for our return once the Prince reclaims his throne. We might just as well have stayed in England. I wonder what Lady van Shurman thinks of this new pet.’ She tips back her goblet, swaying, her throat swelling like a bullfrog’s as she swallows. Wine dribbles down her chin and leaks into her bodice. Anna stares at the dark stain. That will be difficult to remove, she thinks. ‘I heard it was the brother who arranged the hiring of her.’

Her companion sniggers. ‘Maybe they share her.’

Anna glares at them, her cheeks burning, but the women make no attempt to cover their drunken laughter. They collapse in a fit of giggles, leaning against each other for support, the jewels adorning their clothes winking in the illumination from the wall sconces. Disgusted, she bobs a curtsey and walks away. Crispijn was right. These courtiers who place themselves high on gilded pedestals and parade themselves as paragons of good breeding and taste are no better than her or anyone else.

She passes two silent footmen guarding the entrance of the ballroom and turns left in the corridor, following a series of floral paintings down the hall, passing countless doorways leading into empty sitting rooms, each heated by its own private fire. Anna lingers as long as she dares in the entrance of a particularly grand parlour, drinking in the view. She cannot imagine owning even one of these rooms. The heating alone would cost more than she and Lijsbeth made over the course of one year. Catharina tells her that the Queen’s private residence lies behind Binnenhoff’s labyrinthine public corridors, and Anna imagines her rooms must be even more sumptuous than these mahogany-panelled sanctuaries, these islands of luxury where exiled English nobles can dance and make merry, pretending the outside world no longer exists.

The sound of muffled voices arrests her progress. She pauses outside a half-open door to listen to a series of guttural groans and soft whimpers. Perhaps a dog has wandered upstairs and got lost, she thinks. Or else it’s a ghost.