Anna crosses the room and opens the second drawer. Inside are stored the familiar working day-gowns they traded at market in exchange for their good brocade silks and warm, fur-lined cloaks. The laundry was Lijsbeth’s idea. ‘Why not?’ she said to Anna, a few hours after members of the city’s civic guard marched out of their house carrying the best furniture and painted vases and china plates. ‘We can do anything; we are young and strong. Why shouldn’t we take on laundry to earn a living?’ Anna admired her sister’s courage. In that moment, she forgave her for refusing to act while their father’s wits disintegrated and his business failed. If only Lijsbeth had set aside her pride earlier and accepted Master Honig’s offer of help. But there was no use dwelling on what might have been. There was still hope for them, as Lijsbeth said. They were in charge of their own lives and destinies. Like a child, Anna believed her. The reality, of course, is very different.

She’s about to lift out a starched apron when her hand encounters the unexpected coolness of silk. She blinks at the yellow gown that has been folded carelessly and shoved towards the back of the drawer. As she draws it out, the fabric shimmers and dazzles and flares, as though defying its rough treatment. The silk train slithers to the floor and the scent of faded perfume rises – oil of roses, their mother’s favourite.

Lijsbeth eyes her from the bed. ‘It belonged to Mother. Do you remember?’

Holding the gown against her body, Anna caresses the hem of a sleeve with her thumb, the lustrous fabric clinging to her waist and legs like a second skin.

‘It looks well on you,’ Lijsbeth observes. ‘I should have sold it. It would have fed us for months. Mother intended for it to be part of my wedding gift.’ She coughs. ‘Even less of a reason to keep it.’

‘Don’t say that.’ Anna begins to fold the dress, careful to avoid tearing the fragile silk with her ragged nails. ‘You may yet be married.’

‘Who will have me? Not even the baker’s son would look twice.’

Anna places the dress carefully back in the drawer, even though it feels wrong to do so, like hiding the sun behind a cloud. A dress like that is meant to be looked at and admired. It’s unusual for practical Lijsbeth to keep it, but Anna is so glad she did. Unlike the befouled cloak, the dress feels like a comforting omen, a message of hope from her departed mother. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘A baker could be useful. At least we would have buns for Epiphany.’