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Despite Helma’s pleas to keep her shoes clean, mud had wicked up the silk and her slippers left faint imprints as Clara tiptoed

through the tiled hall, careful to only step on the white tiles. It had been a game from her childhood, the white tiles land,

safe, the dark tiles, water, dangerous.

Between the tiles and up to the vaulted ceilings, paintings covered every inch of the walls, their subjects ranging from cathedral

interiors, quiet domestic scenes, storms at sea, and even the stray bawdy tavern scene. As a child, Clara had liked these

best, with their colorful casts of characters like dwarfs, house wives ruddy-cheeked and drunk on ale, dogs scavenging amongst

the littered floors. But as she grew older, she gravitated more and more toward those scenes of ships on the sea, tempest-tossed

and wild. Even the landscape paintings were too tame for her, with their precise fields, rows of poplar trees, and clean-swept

dirt roads. The ships might have once been perfect, but their canvas sails and carved mastheads were no match for the raw

power of the cresting waves and dark, billowing clouds. Unlike the land, there was nothing man could do that far out at sea

to tame it.

Her father was no great appreciator of art; Clara was certain of that much.

If the vogue had been to collect silver, then their walls would have been covered in plates and medallions.

If it had been possible to affix exotic spices and fine wines to the walls, her father would have done so.

In the absence of these, painted renditions had to suffice.

More than once, Clara had wondered what it would be like to take brush to canvas, to be the one to create an entire world unto itself.

The idea was thrilling, but young ladies did not paint in oils.

As if overhearing Clara’s thoughts, her father’s voice rang out just as she reached the stairs and was on the verge of safety.

“Clara? Is that you? Come in here, girl.”

With a sigh, she abandoned her pretensions of quiet, and followed her father’s voice to the dining hall. A healthy fire flickered

in the tiled hearth, where her mother, back straight as a plank, sat embroidering an elaborate altar cloth. She gave her daughter

a small nod of acknowledgment as she pulled the thread through the hoop on the stand.

Her father gestured to one of the tapestried chairs, and she obediently sat, careful to tuck her soiled shoes under the chair

legs.

Taller than her mother, dark-haired and lean, Theodor van Wieren had no defining physical features other than a pleasantly

bland countenance. He was not a man of flowery words or long speeches; business deals could be made and brokered in the time

it might take to finish with all the usual pleasantries about the weather. But, just like all the other merchants, Protestantism

could not vanquish his love of gold and sumptuous things. If his home was not a bastion of wealth and plenty, how would society

know that he was successful, and thus trust him with their investments? And if he was not successful, how could he pay tithes

to the church? Glory be to God, but also to the shrewd businessman. Worldly wealth was a spiritual necessity, her father liked

to remind her.

So when he sat his only daughter down, Theodor did not mince words or ease her into the matter at hand.

“As you know, it is near time you were married, and your mother and I have found a suitable match for you.”

Clara, used to her father’s direct manner and even more familiar with the paths of thought his mind took, simply said, “Oh,” and tucked her chin in a little to give the words more room to circulate as she digested them. She suspected that this conversation had been coming for some time.

She didn’t have time to ask any of the particulars; her father was in the process of laying them out. “Hendrik Edema of Franeker.

He comes with three of his own ships and a good deal of esteem amongst his fellow burghers.” Theodor paused, rubbed at his

neat black beard, and added in way of an afterthought, “I believe he is in his thirties, and is considered to not be ill-looking.”

Clara barely registered these considerations. She didn’t care if he was the most handsome man in Friesland, or if he were

richer than the Pope. He could have three legs and a cabbage for a head, for all she cared. The only thing that mattered was

that she was being handed a golden key. A key which would allow her to unlock a future that belonged to her and her alone.

She would be mistress of her own household. There would be different grounds to walk, dinners to plan for the city merchants,

and, most importantly, she could finally escape the estate and the ghosts that haunted it. It was a grand adventure, and it

was being laid right at her feet.

Perhaps expecting that their daughter would fight them on this as Clara had done with so many other things, her mother was

already sitting forward in her chair, a frown knit into her brows. “It’s a very good match. He has a large estate and is looking

for a wife that can manage it with ease and grace for him. I know you would have liked to meet some young man, but this is

not the city, and you are a young woman of great means and standing. Care must be taken with such a match.”

She couldn’t remember, but it sounded like the sort of threat that her younger self might have made in a moment of irritation. “No,” she hurried to assure her mother. “If you and Papa think it a good match then I should be glad to meet him.”

Clara didn’t miss the silent look that passed between her parents, one of wary surprise and cautious optimism. “Good,” her

father said. “Because I have invited him to come early next week.”

She squirmed under her father’s direct gaze. “Will that be all, Papa?”

He held her gaze a moment longer—there was no opportunity for control too small that he would not seize. But he finally nodded

and released her, and she wasted no time escaping back to her bedchamber.

“See, Helma?” Clara said that night as Helma helped undress her and plait her hair for bed. “You said that a beached whale

was a bad omen, but here is the best of news. I’m to be married and have a household of my own.”

No more slaps and blows from her mother, or arms twisted painfully when her words got away from her. No more stifling estate

with its watching waters. Freedom was so close she could taste it on her tongue, like the sweet juice of an orange.

Helma didn’t say anything as she brushed out her young mistress’s hair, but her strokes were long and severe.

“Well, aren’t you glad for me? Don’t be in a pout. If you’re worried that you won’t come with me, you are sillier than I thought.

Of course you shall come with me, and you will help me in the running of the household, for I’m afraid that as it stands I

would make a hopeless mess of it.”

Already Clara’s mind was racing in a thousand different directions.

There would be a trousseau, which would require trips into town for measurements and fittings.

Would she be allowed to take the spinet to her household?

Perhaps her new husband would buy her one of her own.

She would need to improve her embroidery skills; he would expect that much of her, as well as her knowledge of cookery and managing kitchen staff.

Helma was silent as she brushed, and Clara wondered if she hadn’t heard her. But then Helma put down the brush and looked

at her in the mirror. “I’m sure your parents have made a very thoughtful match for you,” she said, but she did not look convinced

of her own words as she worried at her lips.

With a huff, Clara turned in her seat to face her. “You clearly disapprove, so why don’t you tell me why?”

“It’s not that I disapprove,” Helma said. “It’s just...” She looked lost for words, even a little anxious. “Only, promise

me that you’ll be careful, little sparrow.”

Clara frowned. Helma never called her the endearment from her girlhood anymore. “Be careful? I’m not a child,” she said. “I’m

nearly one-and-twenty and quite ready to be married.”

“If you say so,” Helma murmured, resuming her brushing. But when Clara tried to meet her eye in the mirror, Helma avoided

it.

Once Clara had said her prayers and slipped under the cool silk sheets, she reached for Helma. “Stay a moment,” she instructed

her. “I am too excited to sleep. Tell me a story about the old days, when there was still magic in Friesland.”

Helma looked weary, but she sat with a grunt on the edge of the counterpane. “I thought you were too old for pet names and

stories of magic. Besides,” she added with raised brows, “there was never magic in my lifetime. I’m not that old.”

Nevertheless, Helma obliged as she always did, and Clara allowed her eyes to grow heavy as she slipped away into the tales

of little folk that lived in tulips, the tricky willow men who were forever striking sly bargains, mermaids, basilisks, and

handsome young heroes.