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After Helma had blown out the lamps and retired to the antechamber where she slept, Clara lay in bed, staring at the dark

shadows stretched across the canopy. Images of dead whales, bloated and rotten, filled her mind. When her eyes finally became

too heavy and she was just drifting to sleep, there was a faint tapping at the window. She rolled over, trying to slip back

into sleep, but the tapping came again, this time followed by a fluttering.

Hope bloomed in her chest. The magpie! Throwing open the bed curtains, she leapt out of bed and ran to the window. Pale moonlight

illuminated the gleaming black feathers of her remarkable little messenger, a silver fish in his beak.

As quietly as she could, she cranked the window open. The magpie cocked his head at her, his little marble eye glinting in

the moonlight.

“He’s come again, hasn’t he?” she asked in a whisper, as if the bird might answer.

The magpie carefully laid down the fish on the sill, then threw her a meaningful look over his shoulder before taking wing

into the night.

Clara threw on her dressing gown and slipped downstairs, quiet as a thief.

This was very wicked indeed. She had never been out of the house after dark, and certainly not unescorted.

If she were to be found she could expect to feel the full force of her mother’s wrath, and her upcoming marriage would most certainly be in peril.

But as she felt her way down the stone staircase and into the hall, she could no more stop herself than a painter could from putting brush to canvas; the possibility of seeing him was a pull too strong to ignore.

It would be the last time she saw him; she swore it. She could not go on, betrothed as she

was. She would see him one last time, and then put her romantic fancies from her mind.

She liked knowing that she was the object of a man’s desire. Deeper than her vanity, though, she was desperate for the feeling

of his body close to hers, the light pressure of his hand on her arm. The tingling warmth that flourished through her body

when he kissed her.

Helma had told Clara about men when she was younger, sitting her down on the bed, unable to meet her eye. She had likened

them to dogs, sniffing about young women for favors, and then absconding as soon as they had been granted. But the rather

bleak picture Helma had painted of the opposite sex was at odds with the dashing heroes of the fairy stories she had told

Clara since she was a little girl. Now Clara realized how little she knew of men, of their true intentions.

He was standing by the canal with moonlight softly falling on his solemn features, but he broke into a slow smile when he

saw her. It had started raining again, and Clara had to hold her shawl over her head. Her body was fidgety with wanting, and

she felt as if she might die if he didn’t come and kiss her again.

But she would not so much as take another step until he satisfied her need for answers. “You’ve been a fishmonger, a servant,

and a liar,” she said without malice. “Why will you not tell me the truth? Who are you, and why do you come here?”

His gaze was all fire and heat, even in the darkness, but still he did not move from where he was rooted. “Why do I come here?” he echoed. “I come because I cannot seem to stay away. I come because—”

“Yes, yes,” Clara said, cutting his words short. “Pretty words are all well and good, but if you truly cannot stay away from

me as you claim, then telling the truth should be a simple enough tax. Is Maurits de Vis even your real name?”

She thought he would finally relent, or perhaps ply her with another falsehood, but instead he had gone very still, his throat

working compulsively as if struggling to form words. Then he cursed, running both hands through his hair and turning from

her. He looked... tortured.

A strange feeling had begun to creep over her skin, the sensation of knowing there is a spider on one’s hand before it even

bites. “Who are you?” she whispered.

He took a hesitant step closer, hand outstretched, but stopped abruptly when he was still an arm’s length away. “I have no

other name to offer you,” he said, his voice deep and hoarse. “Not one that you would understand.”

What did that mean? She opened her mouth, but he shook his head, stopping her before she could speak.

“I am somebody who should not be here, and certainly not under these circumstances. I am somebody who should know better than

to tempt myself with what I can never have, but I cannot stay away. I am somebody who is completely enchanted with the woman

I see standing before me, and would do anything in their power to linger in her presence, even if just for one more moment.”

His smoldering gaze leveled on her. “Will that suffice?”

She swallowed, and gave a tight nod. So much for not being swayed by pretty words.

She was either the stupidest or luckiest girl that had ever lived.

What she had thought was a harmless flirtation was turning quickly into something she had no words to describe.

She only knew that she was standing on the edge of a very dangerous, very slippery precipice, and could not seem to back away.

At her nod, he let out an impatient huff, and swiftly closed the distance between them.

Cold fingers found her cheeks, but his eyes were fire as he pulled her into his embrace. His kiss was hungry, almost desperate,

nothing like the gentle, teasing kiss they had shared the other day. “I think about you every moment of the day,” he murmured

into her hair. “It is the most blissful torment.”

She allowed his words to wash over her, through her. While she was determined to keep her mind coolly reserved, her body had

other ideas, and she lengthened herself against him, until her breasts ached and her nose was full of his delicious scent.

His skin was smooth and cool under her fingers, and no matter how close he was, it was not enough.

“Clara,” he said hoarsely between kisses, “there’s something I must tell you. I—”

But he didn’t have a chance to finish. By the time the lamp came upon them, it was too late. Clara jumped backward, nearly

tripping on the hem of her dressing robe.

“Holy Mary!” Helma dropped the lamp and crossed herself, sending shards of light splintering through the clearing. “You get

away from her, you beast! Just wait until my master gets his hands on you!” She was reaching for a heavy stick and was lifting

it to take a swing when Clara regained her wits and threw herself in front of him.

“Wait! Helma, wait, it’s not what it looks like.”

Helma slowly lowered the stick, but kept her gaze trained on Maurits as if he might try to beat a hasty retreat. Clara rushed

to explain. “He was doing nothing that I did not wish of him.”

Another sign of the cross, this one slower, accompanied by a muttered prayer.

Before Clara could say anything further, Helma burst into tears, the stick falling to the ground.

“Have I been so lax in your care that you think sneaking off in the night with a man is appropriate behavior for a lady of your standing? The good lord have mercy—what would your mother say if she knew?”

“She can’t know!” Clara put her arms around Helma’s shaking shoulders. “Helma, listen to me. Mama must not find out. I’ll

be married in a month and she never need know about this.”

She shot a glance at Maurits. He knew that she was to be married, but it was not a reality they had discussed in any of their

brief encounters. His gaze was steady and penetrating, trained on her with an intensity that made her shiver despite herself.

His hair was still ruffled from where she had run her fingers through it, his shirt still loose at the throat. Foolish girl

that she was, the only thought running through her mind was how beautiful he looked, how perfect a tableau the rain and the

moonlight made of his lithe body.

“Please, Helma,” Clara said, breathless. “Please just give us one more moment. To talk.” It was hard not to see Helma as anything

other than a ball and chain in a lace cap, especially now.

Helma’s expression could have frozen canals, but Clara was used to her disapproval. Muttering a contradictory string of prayers

and curses, Helma stomped back to the edge of the trees, arms crossed, her glare cutting through the rain.

Clara’s upbringing had been a gentle one, with the expectation of obedience first to God, then to her parents and a husband.

But obedience had never come naturally to Clara; she’d had to push down her inclination to forge her own path.

Now she had to call on every reserve of patience she had and reign herself in from the brink of disaster.

Helma had shattered the magic glow of the kiss, the lamp throwing Clara’s situation into stark relief.

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’ve continually lied to me about your identity.

Perhaps it makes me a fool, but I gladly played the fool for my own reasons.

Now, however, it is time for me to say goodbye.

I am to be a married woman and you cannot come back to see me again,” she managed to make herself say.

“And even if I were not to be married, I’m not certain that I would want to see you after everything you have lied about. ”

Maurits was very still, saying nothing. The clouds swept away on the breeze, revealing a plump silver moon. He was as beautiful

as ever, almost otherworldly in the pale cast of the moonlight, but there was something not quite right. His breathing was

labored, his tall body canting slightly as if he could not balance properly. “Are you sick?”

At this he cracked a smile. “Oh, Clara,” he said. “I wish I didn’t have to lie to you. I wish that we had more time. But your

maid is right—you shouldn’t be here. You need to go.”

Her anger began to fade, replaced by concern at the strange sight of him. “Are you sick?” she asked again. “What’s wrong?”