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Clara awoke the next morning full of hope and excitement, the early morning light gilding the edges of the memory of her kiss

with Hendrik. The day quickly lost its rosy glow as she fell into her usual routine: sit, embroider, walk, sit, spinet, sit.

Her mother had found her tone at breakfast impertinent and struck her across the cheek, leaving an angry red mark. It wasn’t

as hard a blow as Clara had taken before, but it knocked her backward all the same, and she’d staggered to keep her balance.

In doing so she had knocked a vase off the table, and incensed her mother anew. The wedding couldn’t come soon enough.

The dowry was negotiated and the date settled. Because Hendrik was a Catholic, her parents had conceded to a ceremony in the

Old Church. What an adventure it would be to be married in a Catholic church, with all those murky rituals under the gilded

gaze of statues and icons. Her mother always frowned and shook her head when they passed the Old Church in the square, but

Clara had caught glimpses of the decadent stained glass and smelled the wafting incense on the breeze.

In the meantime, there were clothes to be ordered, linens to be sewn, trunks to be packed. Days no longer stretched on with

no end in sight, punctuated only by her mother’s yelling and blows; now there was a light at the end of a dreary tunnel.

Clara was sitting in front of her mirror, dabbing some powder at the flourishing bruise on her cheek when a faint tapping noise brought her back to the present.

It was coming from the window casement, gentle yet persistent.

Rising and pushing open the glass, Clara found a magpie sitting on the sill, cocking his head at her.

She shooed the pesky bird, but it was adamant that it belonged there, hopping from little foot to little foot. In its beak

it carried a limp silver fish, the same kind that Maurits had brought the other day. It regarded her one last time, head cocked,

before taking off into the gray afternoon.

Clara only hesitated a moment before throwing on her cloak and sneaking downstairs and out to the grounds. Clouds were building,

and the grass was still wet from the morning’s dew. She caught a flash of black through the tender green leaves, and tromped

after the magpie.

When she broke through the thick trees into the clearing, the magpie was nowhere to be seen. “Wicked bird,” she muttered.

Her slippers were soaked through, and she was sure to get another smack when her mother saw the state of her hem.

“I assure you, while I may be wicked, I am most certainly not a bird.”

At the sound of the deep, musical, voice, Clara spun around. It was him. Her mouth went suddenly dry, her stomach tight. The

copse felt smaller with him in it, his quiet intensity radiating a kind of heat within her. Fear quickly replaced the fleeting

gladness at seeing his handsome face. He had come to finish whatever it was that he had started. He would lure her into his

boat and bear her away somewhere, do unspeakable things to her. Nearly slipping on the wet grass, she hurriedly backed away.

Maurits raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I mean you no harm, and no ill will.”

“You don’t work for Mr. Edema,” she said. Her pulse was racing, both from anger and being startled, and maybe a little because of the excitement of it all. “I ought to scream for my maid.”

He was a fool to come back. He knew that she would uncover his deceit as soon as she met Hendrik Edema, but he’d had to see

her again, just once more. “But you won’t scream, will you?” he said. He could have exerted his power over her—he should have—but something told him that she would come willingly without it. The thought gave him pause, a thread of heat running

through him.

She gave the smallest shake of her head. Her chin was obstinately tilted, and he was transported to the moment they had nearly

kissed the other day.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And why did you come, first under the ruse of being a fishmonger, and then a servant?”

He couldn’t tell her the truth, and she would not have believed him anyways. Why had he come? The first time had been to gain her trust, and the second to carry out his errand. But now he was standing before

her, with no intention of doing either, and not the faintest clue of what came next.

The heavy clouds could no longer contain their burden, and a moment later the first raindrop fell, and then another and another.

The copse quivered with their soft vibrations, shrinking into a world of its own, containing only the two of them.

“Who are you?” she asked again, her voice dropping to the thinnest of whispers. A raindrop rolled down her cheek, tracing

the shape of her face and ending at the corner of her parted lips. Pink lips, soft and inviting. What would it be like to

hold a sunbeam in his arms? She was not his, and even less of his world, but he had to know. “What do you want from—”

She didn’t finish. He took her by the shoulders, pulled her to him, and pressed his lips against hers.

She was only stiff for a moment before she melted against him.

His grasp was light enough that if she had wanted to pull away she could have.

She did not pull away. She was warm, so warm.

The perpetual chill of his blood when he was on land receded, a hunger he didn’t realize he possessed filled and sated.

They were so close to the canal; one good step back and he could have finally brought her down into the water and appeased

his mother. But despite having her in his arms, he stayed rooted where he was. She was so trusting, so soft and yielding,

her hands pressed lightly against his chest as if she were as helpless as he to stop. His body responded in a way that reminded

him he was truly a man here on land. He could enjoy this kiss for now, enjoy the sensation of something good and pure. There

would be time to fulfill his duty later.

But as the kiss deepened and she sighed against his lips, a little voice inside of him told him that he was only making it

one hundredfold more difficult for himself.

In the time it took for a raindrop to fall, she had gone from angry, to scared, to helplessly enamored. This kiss bore little

resemblance to Hendrik’s awkward gesture the day before. This kiss ran down her body like the trill in a bird’s song. It threw

open windows, letting in golden light and illuminating every inch of her body. It made her want to hold him in her arms and

never let go.

“I—I have to go,” Maurits said, drawing back. The air where he had been was cold and she felt off-balance, as if part of her

had been ripped away.

His russet hair was tousled from the rain, his sea-green eyes clouding. But as much as he looked like a man transported, there

was an urgency to his tone.

“Of course,” she said stiffly. She knew that she had sinned, had done something wicked and foolish that could only jeopardize her future, yet she couldn’t bring herself to feel the least bit of remorse. For a few moments, she had known what it was to feel her heart race from something besides fear.

He turned to leave but hesitated, drawing close to her again. “You are careful never to go too close to the water, aren’t

you?”

Until then, she had always been safe, heeding Helma’s and her parents’ warnings to stay far from the water’s edge. She nodded,

but didn’t ask how he knew that. The drowsiness from the previous day had returned, rendering her senses fuzzy and dulled.

“Good. And Clara,” he added, cupping her face in his hands. “Take care. Not just near the water, but everywhere. I know you

like to linger in the kitchen, but you mustn’t. Be wary of anyone who approaches you from the water. There’s...” He broke

off, as if battling with himself for what to say. Cursing under his breath, he took a step back and ran his hand through his

hair. “Just, take care. Please.”

Graceful as a cat, he hopped into the boat, giving her one last lingering glance filled with something like concern. Her cheeks

cooled, and absently she brushed at her face, only to find a sheen of moisture where his hands had touched her. As she watched

him push off in his boat and disappear around the bend in the canal, her senses gradually cleared and an uncomfortable realization

spread over her: she was no closer to knowing who Maurits de Vis was than she had been before the kiss.