Anna carries the letter upstairs with her, holding it gingerly as if the contents could explode at any second, killing them all. She props it carefully on the dresser and takes off her mother’s silk gown. Folding it carefully away, she drags on her shift, crawls into bed and watches the flames dance in the fireplace, her thoughts creaking like set pieces drawn across a wooden stage. When at last she dreams, she sees Ferdinand’s hairy monkey face transposed on the bloated body of an adolescent boy, his skin blue, cold to the touch. She sees Blanche standing on a beach wearing Anna’s mother’s dress, the silk unspooling in waves around her as if she’s floating in air or water. Anna reaches for her but a shadow falls as the sun disappears behind a cloud and when, at last, the dream brightens, Anna is all alone again.

8

Jo

The archaeology facility at Castricum was set inside a grey Brutalist-style building surrounded by a miniature forest of needle-straight pines. A scrubby garden choked with weeds stood baking in the sun to one side of the carpark. A green banner flying from a rusted flagpole bore the institution’s name: Huis van Hilde.

The temperature inside the lobby was a few degrees below arctic. I thought longingly of the woollen jumper I’d left sitting on the bed at Gerrit’s beach cottage. I’d intended to throw it into the back of the car Gerrit had loaned me before I left Texel, but an unexpected call from Marieke had caught me off guard and I’d been so flustered afterwards, I’d erased the jumper from my thoughts, only remembering when the ferry docked at the marina in Den Hoorn.

Through an open doorway, I could see a circular room lined with glass display cabinets full of broken plates and iron-age tools, the artefacts illuminated by strategically placed downlights. A set of lockable metal doors in the far wall prevented visitors from accidentally wandering into the conservation and research areas. That was where Liam would be – up to his neck, I hoped, in revelations about the gown’s composition. I shivered, imagining the slipperiness of the floral silk draped over my hand, the pulse of it, like a living thing, waiting for us to decode its secret language.

A young woman in a crisp pantsuit emerged from behind a reception desk.

‘Welcome to Huis van Hilde. Are you here to visit the museum?’ Her tone was formal and distanced, and with her straight blonde hair and spotless nails, she appeared every bit the heritage professional. I must have looked like a scruffy backpacker standing beside her, my jeans rumpled from the drive, my grey T-shirt stained with cleaning solvents.

‘Actually, I’m here to visit Doctor Pinney,’ I said. ‘I’m Jo Baaker.’