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The sky that greeted Clara the next morning was gray, a hue that appeared so frequently, it might as well have been permanently

imprinted in the sky. It neither promised rain nor sun, just simply sat reticent and apathetic over the never-ending fields

and fens.

Shaking the last of the dream from her head, Clara washed and dressed. At least when she dreamed of the drowning she was able

to see her friend’s face, a bright gift wrapped in darkness. But when she dreamed of the cabinet, all that it left her with

was a lingering feeling of foreboding.

In anticipation of her betrothed’s visit, Clara had gone out to the garden with a basket on her elbow to collect flowers.

Great blue-and-white vases of blooms already graced the rooms and halls of the house, but it would be charming to present

her suitor with a bouquet handpicked by herself. Her mother had grudgingly agreed.

At the edge of the canal dainty bluebells clustered around the trees like little jewels. They weren’t as showy as the roses

and tulips her father cultivated, but they had a rustic charm that Clara thought might please Hendrik. If he was as successful

a man as her father said he was, then he could have exotic hothouse flowers whenever he wanted.

Clara bent to work, plucking up the blooms, for once indifferent to what her father would say about her raiding his garden.

What would Hendrik be like? Would he be old and stiff, pinching snuff out of a little ivory box and watching her with watery yellow eyes?

Or would he be young with a fair complexion, broad-shouldered, and tall?

Would he have a clever wit and a quick tongue like Fenna had had, able to make her laugh despite her occasional dark moods?

It didn’t matter, of course, only that he wanted to marry her and take her away from here.

She had never given much thought to men before, all of them taking on a rather abstract form in her mind of “someday.” Someday she would marry one, someday one would take her away.

Someday, she would be a wife, a mother, a grandmother.

“Gathering flowers for your sweetheart?”

Clara snapped upright, petals falling from her hands at the unexpected intrusion. “Oh!” she said, catching her breath as her

gaze alighted on the lithe form of a young man, standing in his boat with his arms propped on the oar. The delivery man, from

the previous day. There was knowing in his eyes as he watched her, a mocking edge to his question. She was, after all, in

her good morning dress and her hair elaborately braided and arranged under a lace cap for Hendrik’s visit; there was no mistaking

her as a kitchen maid this time. She flushed a little. “You startled me.”

He hopped ashore and pulled up his boat, throwing the line around an obliging tree trunk. Clara took an involuntary step back.

Before yesterday, she’d never been alone with a man—even her spinet lessons with her teacher were supervised by Helma. If

her parents knew that she was speaking with not just a man, but a man of his class, she would be punished, severely. Yet she

couldn’t seem to tear herself away.

“It’s the hands that give you away,” he said nodding at the flowers clasped in her fingers. “Maids don’t have soft pink hands,

or pretty dresses that cost a king’s ransom.”

Clara couldn’t help the blush that stole over her cheeks at his words. “I might not be a maid, but you aren’t a fishmonger.”

“Oh?” The man leaned against the tree, his arms folded, long legs crossed at the ankles. Of course he wasn’t a fishmonger,

she could see that now. He was altogether too beautiful, too well-dressed in fitted breeches and buff coat. “Inka says that

we get our fish from Mr. Tadema, and that he only has the one man who does deliveries.”

“Aha, so I have been found out.”

He didn’t say anything else, and Clara found herself impatient, and a little cross at having been deceived. If he knew who

she was now, why wasn’t he treating her with the deference she was owed? “Well? Who are you?”

He beckoned her closer with a crooked finger, and despite her annoyance, Clara found herself powerless to stop from moving

toward him. He leaned down a little. “Do you promise not to tell?”

She nodded. She was close enough that she could see the marble smoothness of his skin, the swirling blues and greens of his

tidal-pool eyes. “I work for Mr. Hendrik Edema.”

Clara gave him a long look, her heart beating a little faster at the mention of her betrothed. “Why did you come to give us

fish then?”

He lowered his voice further, obliging Clara to lean in even more. He smelled divine, like a fresh sea breeze. “My master

bid me come and see the woman to whom he would be married. He wanted me to see you without the benefit of pretenses and chaperones,

and know if she was as fair as she was rumored to be.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and even though she knew he was baiting her with his statement, she couldn’t help herself.

“Well?” she said. “What will you tell him?”

“Oh, well, I couldn’t divulge my findings—it would be a breach of confidence.”

At Clara’s dismayed expression, he laughed. The sound of it filled the copse with music, and a few birds sang in response “Very well. I told him that she is beautiful beyond comparison, and that if he did not marry her quickly, some other lucky man may very well try to lay claim to her hand.”

The man was shameless, trying to flatter her like that, but nonetheless she glowed at the compliment. “Why have you come back

then? Did he find your report lacking?” Clara burned with curiosity about her betrothed—what sort of man sent a spy to the

house of his intended?

The spy in question regarded her, some of the humor leaving his eyes. “Yesterday I came on business for my master, but today,

I came only for myself.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “I wanted to see you again,” he elaborated.

Flustered at his directness, she fidgeted with the wilting stems in her hands. “Well, Inka will be sorely disappointed. She

said she’d never seen such quality herring in years.” Indeed, the fish had been so fresh they had tasted as if they’d leapt

right out of the water and onto Clara’s plate.

Looking around he asked, “And where is your guard dog today?”

It took her a moment to understand his meaning. “Who, Helma? Don’t call her a dog, she is only trying to stay on my mother’s

good side, and I don’t always make it easy for her.” Clara nodded toward the flowers in her basket. “And the flowers this

time of year make her sneeze, so I have the morning to myself.”

“And here I have intruded upon your solitude. Forgive me.” He bobbed his head and turned to leave.

“Oh, no. Wait!” Clara said a little too quickly.

When he turned back with a raised brow, blood rushed to her cheeks.

“Please,” she said, composing herself, “I would welcome your company.” New faces and lively conversation were so rare in her world, and the young man had such a pleasant way of speaking, such a comfortable warmth about him.

“I suppose I could tarry a little longer, gather some more information to take back to my master.”

“I can’t see how you will have time—he is due presently.”

She had hardly noticed that they had started walking, slowly, keeping to the shaded edge of the canal where they were hidden

from view of the house. Occasionally Clara would stoop to snip up a few flowers, or her companion would reach up and wordlessly

pluck a blossom out of a tree for her. She had not realized in the kitchen when he was holding the crates quite how tall he

was. He stood a good head above her, easily able to pull down apple blossoms from the higher branches.

“Thank you for the orange,” she said presently. “That was kind of you to remember, and to send it up.”

“Orange? I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said gazing straight ahead of him. Only the tiniest glint

in his eye said that he was pleased.

She smiled. “Well, it was sweet and lovely. Somehow even better than those that the fishmonger’s boy usually brings me.” She

stopped short and looked up at him, a terrible realization dawning on her. “I don’t know your name. You’ve let me go on all

this time without even an introduction.”

“In your case, it is not needed,” he said. “You’re Clara, only daughter of the great van Wieren family. You’re twenty years

old, and soon to be married to my master, Mr. Edema.”

There was something in his voice that caused her to look at him, really look at his remarkably colored eyes, the defined line

of his jaw. He looked extraordinary when she compared him to her father’s associates, who prided themselves on having narrow

calves under their silk breeches, and slender waists. They were peacocks, all puffed-up finery and pride and completely useless.

But this man was altogether a different kind of bird, wild and free, with a golden tongue.

“You’ll make me blush if you go on staring at me in that way,” he said, cutting into her thoughts.

Hiding her own growing color, she swept her glance away. “Why do I have the impression that it would take a great deal more

than that to make you blush? In any case, you still have me at a disadvantage,” she said. “What is your name?”

“A fine lady such as yourself, interested in my humble name? I’m flattered.” He stuck out his hand as if he were introducing

himself to another man. “Maurits de Vis.”

Without a blink of hesitation, she put her hand into his and shook it. His grip was strong and cool to the touch, not at all

rough or calloused the way she assumed the hand of a man of his class would be.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. de Vis.”

“Maurits,” he gently corrected her.

By now her basket was overflowing with flowers, far more than she would need to make a bouquet. In fact, she had nearly forgotten

the reason for her walk outside in the first place. Her heart dropped a little at the prospect of spending an afternoon in

the house, making pleasantries with her intended.