Her gaze was so intense, I found it difficult to look away. That old Texel pride. I knew it well, or used to. Spending the past week in the company of Bram and his friends had brought it all back in vivid technicolour. Even Marieke possessed that streak of stubbornness, although Australia had replaced Texel in her affections. Marieke maintained she’d thrown away my parents’ belongings without consulting me first because she hadn’t wanted anyone going through their things. She was worried one of the reporters would find something incriminating, some gossip that could be used against them, tarnishing their memory. I’d accepted her reasons at the time, but now I found myself wondering about my childhood home, what had become of it, whether the wallpaper in my old bedroom was still there, and remembering the loose floorboard under my bed where I’d hidden a packet of cigarettes and a gemstone bracelet I’d stolen from the pharmacy, but hadn’t had the guts to wear. Those memories were stronger now that I was back, as if I’d upended a puzzle inside my head and each turn revealed another piece of myself.

I promised Olivia that Liam and I would speak to the Noord-Holland government and try to ensure the dress was returned. She led me over to one last glass cabinet at the back of the room, unlocked the door and eased out a small leather-bound book.

‘This is a transcription of a journal kept by one of my ancestors. Her name was Brechtje de Jong. She was a weather enthusiast, recorded every Texel storm, saw signs and symbols in the clouds. She married the harbour master in 1682. Her husband, Arend de Jong, was born here. He came from a long line of harbour masters. I’m guessing Mum might have mentioned that a couple of hundred times. Her long-term memory is good, but she forgets small details. Hopefully it doesn’t get any worse.’

Olivia paused to scan a journal entry then nodded to herself and held it out for my inspection.

‘This is what I was looking for. I knew the name sounded familiar.’

I looked down at the entry dated 23 December 1685.

Close air at dawn and a rank smell on the beach like rotting seal meat. A bloody circle rings the full moon. A storm is brewing, the clouds are thick serpents eating their own tails. As I walk along the seawall, a flock of crows takes flight, their cries like Dutch tears, clear as glass. Maarten Horst bears down on us from the east, eating the horizon. I run along the docks, shouting. Hoist the sails! Secure the cargo! See, how swiftly Great Maarten comes? I reach the cottage with seconds to spare and fling myself into the bed box while Maarten hammers the windows with windy fists and does his best to extinguish the fire, pouring water down the chimney into the sizzling grate. Knowing how I hate storms, Wolfert comes to comfort me, settling his paws over my whale-belly, protecting the precious life within. I sense my mother watching over us. As Maarten howls outside, I crawl to my knees to pray. Mother, grant me safe delivery. Give us Pure skies again and a Crispijn morning. I will search the Heavens for your sign, the Star of Utrecht, to guide us safely home.