The trekschuit is due to leave Amsterdam at nine, but at the last moment, the driver discovers one of the horses needed to pull the boat has lamed itself. Men in fur-lined cloaks gather to smoke and give the driver their opinions on the cause of the misadventure while the other passengers, Anna among them, climb out again. The cold envelops her like an old friend. Tucking her hands inside her own cloak, she stamps her feet to ward off the chill rising from the canal. The water moves sluggishly between the banks, floes of ice and chunks of human refuse swept along by the lazy current towards the River IJ. At least the bitter air masks the worst of the stink. In summer, you have to smother your nose with your hand as you walk along this stretch of water. Everyone in this district, from the tavern owner to the wool dyer to the man who plucks pig droppings off the street to be turned into fertiliser, uses the canal as their own personal dumping ground. Only a colossal downpour or a hard freeze can hide the worst of the area’s effluvious sins. Anna can’t recall whether the canals smelled any better where she lived on the Herengracht. She suspects the lavender water the maids used to sponge their clothes was partially responsible for keeping the unappealing miasma at bay. The house had strong foundations, too, and the convenience of a cesspit on the lowest level which neither she nor Lijsbeth was ever allowed to enter. Out here near the city ramparts, the houses lean together like drunkards, lacking the stately symmetry and ventilation of their richer counterparts on the Golden Bend.

The soil on which they are pitched is boggy, badly drained and prone to flooding. Even the polders – great swathes of land reclaimed by the ingenious extraction of water from windmills and canals – can’t protect them from every storm surge. Exposed to the air, the houses’ wooden feet have rotted like the stems of overwatered plants. It’s only God’s grace that stops them tumbling into the bay. Anna imagines their tilted frontages ripped away in a sudden storm, the inhabitants’ lives laid bare. Is this what God sees when he peers down from His heavenly throne? All the people scurrying about, pretending they are in control of their own destinies? These are the dark thoughts of someone who has lost her whole family. Anna whispers a prayer for her sister’s soul.

One day, she and Lijsbeth will meet again.

A woman patting a swaddled infant catches her eye. ‘Why is it that men prefer to congregate around a problem rather than fixing it?’ she grumbles. ‘The canals will freeze if they continue their useless pontificating. They’ll have to bring back the icebreaker.’