She follows him to the waiting carriage. The carriage is a jewel-box, fitted with padded seats far finer than any cushion she or Lijsbeth ever embroidered, the interior decorated with a panoramic scene of a moody sunset filtering through a copse of oak trees. The figure of a young man haunts the foreground, painted in autumnal oils. On closer inspection, Anna sees it is the goddess Athena half-dressed for war, her oiled breastplate glinting in the sun’s dying rays, auburn hair spilling from the helmet she has just removed. A pair of armoured boots lies abandoned at her feet. She could be an ordinary solider, except her shield bears the goddess’s unmistakable symbol of the snake-haired Medusa. It’s hard to tell if she’s coming from battle or going to it. The only other creature, a horned owl perched on a nearby rock, has turned its head away from the deity as if it cannot bear to watch the intimacy of the unfolding scene. Anna, too, experiences an uncomfortable sensation of intrusion, as if she has glimpsed the goddess naked, stripped of her usual war-like pride. She fusses with the heated-brick footwarmer, thoughtfully wrapped in flannel and left on a seat for her comfort. Outside the window, the starry sky and dark roads blend together like wet paint. Resting her head against the seat, she shuts her eyes, only to jerk awake as the coach pulls up in front of a large gabled house. A lantern bobs along the drive. There is a low, inaudible discussion, the soft snicker of horses, before a woman’s curious face, florid and apple-cheeked, appears at the carriage door.

‘Meisje Tesseltje?’ She doesn’t wait for a reply but turns the handle. ‘I’m Mrs Hartog, the housekeeper. Susanna. Welcome to Sterrenwijck.’

She holds the lantern aloft and guides Anna into the house via the main entrance. As they step inside, Anna’s heart begins to thrum. Compared to her father’s property and even Cornelis de Witt’s, the entrance hall of this house is an astonishment of riches. Her feet sink into a velvet rug and she gazes up at a phalanx of framed paintings dominating the space above a scrolled mantelpiece. Marble floors reflect the warm light from the beeswax pillars, smooth as sour cream, poured into silver candlesticks. An empty porcelain vase, the value of which she cannot even guess, rests on a finely turned hall-table, beautiful in its varnished nakedness. This is wealth beyond what Anna has ever experienced, wealth beyond the reach of most citizens. It is the work of two or three lifetimes, carried over into the next generation like water spilling from a golden cup. Everything speaks of taste and tradition and the proper maintenance of things – citrus oil on the stair-rail, wax polish rubbed into the marble floor until it gleams.