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He must have noticed the change in her face as she gazed at the basket. “Do you always arrange the flowers for your house?”

“No, I’m quite hopeless at them actually—my mother’s maid usually does them. These are for... something else.” She could

not bring herself to tell him that they were for his master, though heaven knew why he would care.

He frowned a little, but did not press her on their purpose. Instead, he asked, “And which is your favorite?”

She had never really thought about it before. “They’re all beautiful,” she said as she let her gaze wander over the frills

of pinks and blues in her basket. “They each have their own unique personality. I rather find that more interesting than putting

them together in a pleasing manner.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” she said, considering it. “Roses are thorny and winding, but cut them and bring them inside and they will stand straight

and obedient in a vase. Not tulips, though. Tulips will grow straight up, neat and orderly when they’re outside, but cut them

and bring them inside and they go all curvy and wild, reaching for the sun.”

He slanted her a look. “So you’re a tulip then, straining for the sun, obedient to no man.” His voice was light, but there

was something scrutinizing in his gaze.

She gave a little laugh, determined not to appear too serious. “My mother would tell you that my manners are much too coarse

to be anything so sweet and delicate as a tulip.”

“I would respectfully have to disagree with your mother. Besides from studying the habits of flowers, how do you spend your

days?”

It was a strange question, one that no one had ever asked Clara before. She spent her days doing what any young woman of her

station did: embroidering, praying, and being a dutiful daughter, an ornament to her father’s home.

At her dismayed expression, Maurits tried again. “Perhaps that is not the right question. What thoughts fill your head, from

the moment you awaken to the moment your eyes close at night?”

This was no less difficult to answer, but she was determined to try. She desperately wanted to prolong their conversation,

and he was giving her an opportunity to think more deeply than she had in a long time. “I suppose it’s not so much a thought

as a feeling,” she said at last. “A sort of hopeful rising in my chest, as if my heart were a bird and were ready to take

wing into a fine spring day. But then there’s a weight that closes in around me, and just as quickly, the bird plummets back

to the ground.”

He studied her, and she flushed. “What brings the weight?” he asked.

One of her slippers’ ribbons had come loose, and she made a pretense of leaning over and straightening it.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it is because I know exactly what the day will have in store before I’ve even opened my eyes in the morning.

It will be the same as the day before, and the day before that. ”

“And are those days so very bad?”

“I know what you are thinking, that I live in a castle, on a large estate, and wear fine clothes and eat good food. I ought

not to complain, I know that.”

“But?” he prompted.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said testily. “I am a spoiled girl and much given to capricious whims.”

But he was not having that explanation. Gently, he asked again. “What brings the weight, Clara?”

“It is my parents,” she finally said, only vaguely aware that he’d used her Christian name. “They feed me and clothe me and

would never allow me to come to bodily harm, but there is a... coldness.” She paused, biting at her lip. “I don’t believe

they love me.”

“That must be very hard for you,” he murmured. She thought he might say something more, but instead, he only squinted up at

the sun which had now burned through the low clouds. “I’m afraid, Mistress van Wieren, that I have stayed overlong and must

be returning.”

There was an unexpected tug in her chest, as if he would be taking something of hers with him when he left. “Of course,” she

said, giving him an easy smile. “I must thank you for the conversation. It’s a rare morning that I have such diverting company.

Or any company other than Helma, for that matter.”

He held her gaze a moment longer, his clear green eyes searching hers. “Nor I,” he said.

They had come full circle, back to the edge of the canal where his little boat sat motionless on the still water. She was close to him, very close—when had that happened? His breath touched her cheek, cool and intoxicating.

“Clara,” he said, his voice smooth and sweet as honey, “would you come with me in my boat? I have oranges, and you may have

as many as you like.”

Clara looked sharply up at him. He was speaking to her as if she was a child, or a stubborn ox to be lured to the plow. But

she suddenly felt drowsy and light, like she might float away at any moment. It was as if a new color had been introduced

into her universe, casting her dreary world into a brilliant paradise. At some point during her rapture, he had cupped her

face in his hands, and was gently stroking her jaw with his thumb.

“I...” Clara opened her mouth, but found that she could not form words, could hardly form thoughts for that matter. Suddenly,

stepping into this strange man’s boat seemed like the most natural thing to do, the only thing to do. Never mind that he was a servant, and worked for the man she was supposed to marry. Never mind that she was a

well-bred young lady and wasn’t supposed to be unchaperoned.

The air had gone still, the birds all quiet. Cold sweat gathered under her arms and her chest tightened. She had to get away,

she knew as surely as the hart pursued by the archer knows it must flee before it even sees the drawn bow.

Maurits took her hand in his and was just about to help her step into the boat, when the sound of carriage wheels on gravel

cut through the quiet spring air.

Clara blinked, as if coming out of a daze. What was she doing? Hendrik Edema had arrived, and she was supposed to be inside

arranging flowers, not out in the mud with a strange man.

Snatching her hand away she quickly took several steps backward, away from the boat. “I—I have to go,” she managed to say.

“Wait! Clara!” Maurits was still standing with his hand outstretched, but he did not give chase. As she hurried back to the house clutching her skirts, she cursed herself. She had almost made the worst mistake of her life. She had almost gone into the water, willingly, just like Fenna.