Lotte slips in to clear away the breakfast food as Catharina moves into the parlour to wait for the Horsts. Anna follows her, watching as she moves to stand beside the window, her eyes fixed on the drive, her gaze burning with a feverish intensity. Barely two weeks have expired since the Winter Queen’s masque, but it feels to Anna as if a dozen years have passed. Each morning, Catharina wakes before the sun to pace the perimeter of her bedchamber. Like a restless ghost, she rattles the combs in their ivory cups, pokes about in her writing desk and tugs extravagant costumes from her dresser, holding them up against her body and muttering to herself before tossing them in a crumpled heap. Anna follows in her wake, yawning as she bends to scoop up discarded clothes and return them to the fold. She sets aside the ones that need cleaning and mending, fingering the stained collars and small holes in Catharina’s damask silk waistcoats, thinking of the lye bath she will ask Mrs Hartog to prepare for them later.

If only she found the preparation of Catharina’s canvases as satisfying as a clean gown. More than twice she has boiled and mixed the preparation to daub on the porous surface and although her first attempts were disasters, she has improved. The first time, she spilled the mixture on her skin and the foul scent of bubbling animal fat hung about her for a whole day like a bad omen. The second time, she did better, holding the cauldron between her feet while she dipped in the brush and smeared it across the expanse of cloth. When it was done, she stood back, panting, to admire her efforts. It was only when a frowning Catharina appeared at her shoulder that she saw the drips and runs, the uneven patches where the glue had dried in clumps. After a moment’s silence, Catharina’s displeasure seemed to dissipate.

‘It matters not,’ Anna heard her say, to herself. ‘Griet will soon return and she knows how to prepare a canvas. She has a natural talent for such things.’