The Dutch East India Company dominates the global spice trade, controlling ports in Batavia, India, China and Japan, among others. Their reach is long, their wealth almost incalculable, piling up more swiftly than the many vessels that cross the sea bearing their flags. The vessels carry nutmeg and coffee, tobacco and cinnamon, priceless silk, finer even than the shining fabric used to create her mother’s gown. If Maarten Horst is an officer, he’s either worked his way up through the ranks or else his family are rich. They must have paid for his appointment, but if this is so, why didn’t they have him promoted straight to Commander? Her father often talked about the smalle burgerij – a class of men and women who could afford to place their sons in high positions within the company’s ranks. No such position ever exists for women. Women must marry into their good fortune, their ill luck assuaged by the exchange of guilders and the birth of heirs. Perhaps Maarten means to encourage her to think of the future. But his abhorrent conduct towards his young wife is enough to turn Anna against him forever.

‘Did Catharina lend you that dress and those ornaments?’ Maarten asks suddenly. ‘She must have done, for how else could a maid afford such a gown? Six guilders per yard on the exchange.’

Anna blinks, thrown by his line of questioning. ‘The dress was my mother’s,’ she murmurs. ‘I brought it with me from Amsterdam.’

‘And do you have plans to return?’ His voice is commanding; she can tell he is used to being obeyed.

‘I’m very happy living with the van Shurmans,’ she says. ‘My mistress has been painting again and fulfilling commissions. Master Crispijn seems pleased with her progress. I can’t imagine living anywhere else now.’

Her answer seems to disappoint him. ‘You ought not to sell yourself short. A good servant is worth their weight in gold, my mother always said.’

Anna stares. What does her employment with the van Shurmans have to do with him?

Footsteps echo in the hallway and Catharina appears in the doorway, Crispijn shadowing her.

‘There you are,’ she says, her brow wrinkled in irritation. She dabs her sweat-dampened forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere. It’s time to leave. The dancers have drunk themselves into a rotten stupor. They’ve set up gambling tables and their bets grow wilder by the second. I have no wish to lose all my money to some former English lord without a stuiver to his name.’

She takes one step into the room, then sees Maarten. A look of shock crosses her face, replaced swiftly by disgust. There is a terrible, awkward silence before Crispijn coughs and pushes past Catharina to stand between them, as if he half expects them to fly at each other, fists raised to strike.