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The light shone out in the night, a miraculous beacon of habitation that made Clara’s weary legs begin to move faster. Hunger

was a living animal in her stomach, roaring, demanding food. Though she had balked at the idea of eating the fish from Maurits,

her inability to kindle a fire had rendered her pride moot. But now, after walking aimlessly for miles, there was a flicker

of hope in the darkness.

Wind rushed through the poplar trees, pushing Clara closer to the light. She could have fallen to her knees in thanks when

she saw that it was coming from a building. The farmhouse looked like any other Frisian dwelling—a steeply pitched roof of

thatch, brick walls, and owl nests carved into the gables. The familiar sight made her chest tighten.

Rapping on the rough wooden door, Clara leaned heavily against the frame, her legs dangerously close to buckling. There were

the sounds of footsteps and whispers on the other side of the door, then a blade of light sliced into the night. A wrinkled

face peered out of a shawl at her, and for a moment she fancied it was Helma, come to take care of her.

But then the woman spoke, her rough accent putting Clara’s fancy to rest. “Jan! Come quick, it’s a child!” she called back

into the house.

Muttered cursing, clumsy footfalls, and then a moment later a spindle-thin man in nightdress with a candle stumbled forward, crowding the door. Wiping a hand across sleep-crusted eyes, he took one look at Clara and jolted the rest of the way awake. “Well bring her in, bring her in!”

Clara could have wept as warm arms went around her, but she had no tears left. The woman led her into the main room which

must have served as kitchen, dining room, and living space. In the corner, a cabinet bed with the curtain thrown open boasted

an inviting pile of blankets and pillows. A fire licked merrily in the hearth. The room was small, but comfortable, with low

oil lamps burning and throwing warm shadows onto the butter-colored walls. It reminded her of the kitchen at Wierenslot, and

an arrow of homesickness shot through her.

The woman pressed her into a seat at the table, and a moment later a soft blanket was draped over her shoulders. “You just

have a seat there, and I’ll make you up something warm to drink. My name is Tryn and that’s Jan. We’ve lived our whole lives

here in this cottage, and I can’t say we’ve ever had a maiden show up in the dead of night before, but here we are.” She tutted

and tsked as she prepared something to eat, the warm aroma sending Clara into a drowsy state of relief.

“There we are,” Tryn said, setting a plate of rolls and cheese in front of Clara, and a steaming mug of something that smelled

like licorice. “You put some food in your stomach.”

Clara couldn’t get the food into her mouth fast enough. Nearly choking, she tipped the mug back, letting the sweet drink warm

her from the inside. The last real food she had eaten had been her wedding dinner, and even then, she had only been able to

pick at it, her nerves too taught to eat much of anything. Tryn watched her with keen interest, as Jan passed in and out of

the room with armloads of wood for the fire.

Once she’d cleaned her plate and drained her cup, Clara looked around with renewed interest. “Where are we? Was there a flood

here? Have you received news from Franeker?”

Tryn’s gray brows rose. “Child, if anyone is going to be asking questions, it’s me.

You appear in the middle of the night in naught but your smallclothes, your feet near bloody, and an appetite that would alarm even a shipwrecked sailor.

” Clara clamped her mouth shut. “Now, I see you are wearing a ruby around your neck and a gold ring on your finger, and what is left of your clothes is not homespun. So how does a young lady find herself in such a spot? Do you have parents looking for you?”

Even if Clara had been inclined to answer, how could she? Her story was unbelievable at best, the rantings of a madwoman at

worst. Wrapping her fingers around the empty mug, she raced to put something together. “There was an accident outside of Franeker.

A dike broke and my home was flooded. My family all perished, and I became lost.” She tried to gauge the effect of her words

on them before adding, “Have you heard news from Franeker?”

Tryn and Jan shared a fleeting look. “Child, Franeker is a four-day journey from here,” Jan said. “Do you mean to say you

walked all the way and this was the first house you came to?”

Time had begun to lose all meaning to her, but surely she had not walked that far. Maurits must have left her somewhere further

from the city. Any lingering thoughts about returning to Wierenslot were quickly put to rest. “So you’ve no news of a flood?”

Tryn sighed. “I no more know the goings-on of Franeker than I do of Bruges. If there was a flood, it certainly hasn’t reached

here.”

Clara’s shoulders relaxed a little. She had envisioned a flood that had reached all the way from Friesland to Amsterdam. Perhaps

it had not been the magic doing of an angry queen, and simply a broken dike after all.

“Is there anyone who would recognize you? Vouch for your identity?” Tryn asked gently. “Someone outside of the city who could perhaps take you in?”

“There’s no one,” she whispered, the gravity of her situation settling in her stomach.

“Poor child,” Jan said around his pipe stem, his eyes creased with pity.

Clara rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes until stars exploded behind her eyelids. In the cave, it had seemed enough

to escape, to get back to land. But now that she was here, reality crashed over her like a frigid wave. “What am I to do?”

she asked, more to herself than the old couple watching her.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I would do,” Jan said, crossing his arms over his thin chest. “I’d go on to Amsterdam and find myself

a position. Good manners and breeding mean you could be a lady’s maid, or even a companion.”

A lady’s maid or companion. Clara searched his face for any sign that he was jesting, but of course found only earnestness.

Her life at Wierenslot might not have been a happy one, but it was all she had ever known. Even in her dreams of escaping

and starting a new life as a wife of some esteemed man, she still would have had a good name behind her, a level of comfort

to which she was accustomed. But to start anew, and with none of those considerations...

As Jan lit another pipe and rambled on about different possibilities, Clara let the idea settle. Losing herself in a city,

starting a new life for herself... She would put Maurits from her mind, devote herself to forgetting all that had occurred.

She was an orphan and a widow, completely alone in the world. And wasn’t that what she had always wanted? Independence? A

future that could forge herself? She had just never imagined that it would come with such a cost.

“Hush, you,” Tryn admonished her husband. “The poor mite is too tired to think about cities and positions. Let her rest, then we’ll talk of it tomorrow.”

Hoisting himself up from his seat with a grunt, Jan tamped out his pipe. “You bide here a week or so, and I’ll teach you some

husbandry, and Tryn here can teach you mending and sewing. By the time you’re in Amsterdam, you’ll be skilled as any maid.”

Clara offered the kind old man a weak smile. Her legs ached, her eyes were heavy, and her mind was all tangled up with dreams

and memories from the flood. Time since then had slowed down, the days and nights spent under the water and walking the land

blurring until she could no longer parse out what was real and what had been a dream. But as she curled up on the blankets

Tryn had arranged for her by the stove, her head was finally blessedly empty, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Life on the small farm with Tryn and Jan was a new kind of dream. Clara went to bed every night with aching arms and fingers

numb from spinning wool, but also with a full belly and clear mind. If only Helma could see her now, working with her sleeves

rolled to her elbows, her brow glistening with sweat. It would be a lie to say that she was good at the work, that it came

naturally to her. But to Clara’s surprise, she liked it. She liked feeling useful, like she had accomplished something by

the time she lay down each night.

Though her family had owned some farmland adjacent to their estate, Clara never knew much of what went on within a farm. She

wondered if all farms were as idyllic as Jan and Tryn’s, with a well that produced the clearest, sweetest water Clara had

ever seen, and chickens that laid plump eggs by the dozens every day.

“I don’t know what we’ll do when you leave,” Jan confided in her one afternoon as they sat to eat a meal of soft bread and creamy cheese after cleaning out the chickens’ coop. “You’ve become like a daughter.”

The breeze was lifting Jan’s wispy gray hair at his temples, and she had the sudden urge to reach out and brush it back for

him. The tender feeling took her aback. Was this what it was like to be beloved of a parent? Could there be more between a

father and daughter than simply cold, transactional duty? “Maybe I don’t have to leave,” she said quietly.

Tryn, who had come outside to join them, put down her cup with a clatter on the ground. “Now don’t start becoming sentimental,

the both of you,” she said. “This is no life for a young woman, never mind a young woman of means. You are educated and gently

bred, and it would be selfish of Jan and me to keep you here feeding chickens and mending hose.”

Clara’s shoulders sagged. It was no use arguing with Tryn—she ruled the house with the authority of a queen. For a few days

at the farm Clara had been able to forget, but more than that, she’d known what it was to have a family, people who cared

about her and valued her. The farm was like a little world unto itself. She hadn’t seen another person besides Jan and Tryn