Chapter Twenty-Four
AMSTERDAM 1624
The following spring, alone in the studio, Clara sat at her easel working on a long overdue commission. A high finish piece of a sumptuous, gilded platter piled high with fruit, the amount on her table doubled on the canvas. At last, it approached completion and, as with all this type of work, she would be glad to see the back of it.
Rain fell steadily and the afternoon light was fading as she added a splash of white to the drop of moisture on a red apple. Where was Nico? She would soon have to stop to light the candles.
When the infant’s piercing wail began again, Clara put down her brush and covered her ears, glad Nico was not there to scowl his disapproval at her. ‘Please, tiny one. Stop. Stop. Stop,’ she whispered.
Sandrin was three weeks old and
