‘Have you thought any more about my offer?’ the woman says, as Anna rolls on Blanche’s stockings. ‘Maarten says he has almost finalised the staffing of the Governor’s property in Sumatra. We will be leaving within the next month once the last arrangements are made.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t abandon my employers,’ Anna says. She is wearing her own gold dress and stands carefully to avoid crushing the hem. ‘It’s a kind and generous offer, Madam, and I thank you for it. But Madam van Shurman suffered much after the loss of her assistant and friend. And now her brother has been called away to Amsterdam. I fear she might relapse into melancholy if I leave now.’

Blanche’s young face falls. A faint flicker of anger crosses her expression and Anna steels herself for a fight. But the girl seems to rally. ‘I understand, of course,’ she says, a little stiffly. ‘You may go and wait in the library. I will see to my own hair, thank you.’

Anna curtseys. She opens the door and goes to stand in the appointed place. Something about Blanche’s attitude disturbs her. She has seen that expression before on Lijsbeth’s features. An all-or-nothing look that never bodes well for the person on the receiving end.

Uneasily, she watches Blanche emerge from the closet and take Maarten’s arm. Grasping the train of the silk gown, she bends her knee the better to balance, trying to find a pose she can comfortably hold since her body was sore after that previous sitting, her limbs stiff and frozen after hours stuck in the same position.

Catharina begins to paint. There are dark circles under her eyes and Anna can tell her patience with Maarten Horst and his endless demands is beginning to wear thin. Today, though, it is Blanche who surprises them by breaking away after half an hour has slipped by, eliciting a sigh from Catharina and a stern look from her husband that she, for once, ignores.

‘Was Griet a good painter?’ she asks, plucking a paperweight off a side table and hefting the glassy orb in her hand.

Catharina turns pale. ‘She was an excellent apprentice,’ she says in a small, choking voice. ‘She would have gone on to be a master painter, I’ve no doubt about that, Madam.’

Maarten sniffs.

‘I suppose you’ve heard nothing about her for months,’ Blanche continues. Catharina’s brush hovers over the canvas.

‘No,’ she says hoarsely.

‘I would hate to lose a friend in such a way.’ Blanche sets the paperweight down and rests her hands across her belly. ‘I can tell you where she is.’

‘Blanche!’ Maarten’s face is scarlet. He moves towards his wife, but Blanche darts away, towards the dusty curtains out of his grasp.