Chapter Twenty-Seven
AMSTERDAM, 1629
Clara swept her niece up from the studio floor and placed her firmly upon her knee, offering a bird block painted with yellow and green feathers to distract her. ‘See. See Lise. Pretty bird.’
‘She’s spoiled my painting, Aunt Clara,’ Luc said.
Hilde left her easel and deftly painted over the smudged streak Lise’s finger had left on his small rendition of an apple. ‘There, my sweet.’
Clara watched her sit and begin to paint again. She had changed little in the four years she had been with them. Perhaps her face was a little fuller with more colour to her cheeks. And she now had a valuable following of patrons who enjoyed the rendered life-like quality of her work.
Luc studied what she had done. ‘Thank you, Hilde. It’s mended.’
He was such a serious
