Anna had thanked him and tucked the sheets into her pocket. When she’d reached home, she spread the papers out. One contained a lengthy summary of Catharina’s achievements. According to the pamphlet, she’d penned half a dozen plays and twelve poems over the past four years. Her pastel miniatures had been so highly praised and admired by the members of the Guild of St Luke’s in Utrecht that they’d admitted her to their ranks as an honorary member: a rare honour, for a woman. Jacob Cats, the Dutch Republic’s best-loved author and poet, sang her literary praises in his famous treatise on marriage and predicted her career would span decades – which it surely would, now that he had offered his precious endorsement. Further back, there was a record of her official artistic training, conducted under the watchful gaze of Magdalena van de Passe, an artist and engraver. The daughter of Crispijn the Elder, a prominent engraver and publisher, Magdalena was famed for illustrating her father’s translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Unusual, for one woman to train another. Yet Magdalena felt compelled to nurture Catharina’s talents. She declared they were nothing short of a divine calling. God himself had bestowed his grace on Catharina’s artistic spirit. It would have been foolish, even heretical, to deny His wish to see her skills blossom and bear fruit.

A small line on the reverse page had caught Anna’s interest.

The words in this pamphlet were prepared at Sterrenwijck by Margriet Pieterson, Meisje van Shurman’s apprentice.

So Catharina, after tasting success, had taken on an apprentice of her own. Not just any apprentice, either: a woman.

When Anna had pressed Cornelis for details, his answers were frustratingly vague.

‘There was some dramatic exit. Nobody knows where she went. Her family would not say. They are Papists who disapproved of the apprenticeship in the first place, Margriet being somewhat old at twenty-six to be an artist. Perhaps Margriet herself was displeased with Catharina’s treatment of her, although I can’t imagine that to be the case. When she was younger, Catharina developed a reputation for always speaking her mind. She’s softened little over the years. You would never describe her as a shrinking flower. However, I cannot imagine her being capable of actual cruelty.’

He’d returned to his etchings, humming a tune, leaving Anna to stew over the mystery of Margriet’s sudden disappearance and to wonder if she’d made a mistake accepting the offer she’d initially refused.