Chapter Seven
AMSTERDAM, 1614
Clara hurried to keep pace with Nico, who carried this last painting for Fabritius, bound with felt and sacking. Both of them wrapped in heavy cloaks against the January cold, their breath pluming ahead suspended in the still, smoke-laden air which tasted sooty and rank, stinging Clara’s throat and making her cough. The path beside the Herengracht was rimed with frost and the canal murky and still. Houses across the canal showed candles alight in many windows, glowing dimly like marsh-lights through the gloom. A few farmers’ boats glided along water, which parted thickly around their prows, the boatmen silent, swaddled creatures formed from tarred canvas and mangy skins. A veil of fog shrouded the city into a half-forgotten thing.
Clara frowned. ‘If he asks
