Hannah nodded.

“You are a stout girl, you know, and a pretty one too, under those cruel clothes. How sad such beauty must be hidden. Senhor Lienzo has often spoken of how pretty you are, and of his brother’s good fortune to have such a pretty wife.”

Hannah did not know if she should nod. It seemed to her immodest to affirm her own beauty. But Miguel thought her pretty, and that was something.

Unable to resist, she reached into her apron and grabbed one of the last coffee berries, dirty with lint and street dust. With it clutched in her fingers, she lifted her hand, as though holding it to her mouth in fear, and slipped the hard fruit inside. It was too soon to chew, she told herself, and took comfort in clenching the berry with her molars. A little too much pressure, and the bean split. It would be fine if she just chewed it carefully.

“On Sunday.” Annetje was repeating some words Hannah had missed. The girl’s mind churned through possibilities. “Near the Weigh House?”

“Near the Weigh House,” the widow agreed affably. “The senhora and I saw each other. Is that not right, my dear?”

Hannah nodded again: a fine opportunity to work at some of the larger pieces of the berry.

“I saw you chasing after your girl. I can hardly imagine what she had done to make her mistress chase after her, but I suppose that is none of my concern.”

Annetje clucked her tongue. “I am certain the antics of youth are a distant memory to you, and so they appear puzzling.”

“Such a witty slut. I’ll indulge you your barbs, so I may sooner get to the heart of my meaning.” She looked at Hannah. “I only want you to know that I happened to be near the Weigh House all morning. Indeed, I saw you as I came by way of the Oudezijds Voorburgwal, and I saw from which house you came. I know what it would mean if the world were to know you were inside it.” She reached out and pressed her fingers ever so gently on Hannah’s belly. Just for an instant. “I only wanted to beg you to be more careful. Do you understand?”

Hannah nodded once more.

“What does she care for your concern, old woman?” Annetje demanded.

The widow smiled thinly. “You probably know nothing of who I am. I cannot imagine dear Senhor Lienzo speaks of me to you, so I must think you concerned about this knowledge I now possess. I only wanted to tell you that you needn’t fear anything from me. I have many talents, dear senhora, but none so precious to me as that of keeping secrets. You may sleep at night knowing I will never speak of what I saw to a living soul-not to Senhor Lienzo, though he is a great friend of mine; not even to my dear Hendrick.”

Hendrick bowed at Hannah.

“All I ask in exchange,” began Geertruid, but she stopped herself. “No, not in exchange. I won’t make a bargain with you; I won’t have you believe my silence some precious thing, easily broken. I will keep your secret, yet I would ask a favor of you, lamb. May I do so?”

Hannah nodded and swallowed the last of her coffee.

“I’m so very glad. You see, I only ask that you not speak of what you saw-not to Senhor Lienzo or your husband or your friends or even to this sweet girl here, upon whom you depend. I think it best we both forget we saw each other that day. Do you not think so?”

Another nod.

“I’m so glad. May I kiss you?” This time Geertruid did not wait for a nod. She leaned in and put her soft lips against Hannah’s veil, pressing through so she could feel the warmth the widow’s mouth. “Were things ordered differently, I’m sure we could be friends. It’s sad that it cannot be, but know that I always wish you well. Good-bye, my dear.”

Geertruid turned and walked toward Hendrick, who offered the ladies another bow.

“Christ,” Annetje said loudly. “I hope the senhor doesn’t fuck anything that withered.”

Hannah began walking quickly. Annetje remained a moment, watching them depart, and then hurried after her mistress.

“By Jesus,” Annetje swore, “you had better tell me what that was about.”

Hannah kept her eyes straight ahead. A group of women, thick-waisted matrons, passed them by, glancing at Hannah’s veil.

“You may speak now,” Annetje urged. “There’s no harm in it.”

“I won’t speak of it,” Hannah said. She felt as though the widow had been some kind of witch, that a spell had been cast, and that to defy the widow’s wishes would bring down her curses. How could she be sure the widow was not a witch?

“Don’t be a silly,” Annetje urged quietly. “Because that old whore says it doesn’t mean it must be so. She can’t know of what we speak.”

“If I’m to hope she keeps her silence, I must keep mine.”

“A peculiar sort of logic.” Annetje clicked her tongue. “I want to know her secret.”

Hannah stopped. She looked Annetje full in the face. “My child is in danger. I beg of you not to speak a word of this to anyone. You must promise me.”

Annetje laughed airily. “I will not,” she said. “I can ruin you more easily than that widow can, and I’ll not make any vow because you tell me.”

Hannah did not turn away. She would not be intimidated, not about this. “You will promise me, and honor your word too.”

Annetje’s laugh ended, and her smile retracted into her face like a cat’s claws. “You want my promise? I promise that if you keep secrets from me, I’ll tell what I know of them to your husband. There is my promise. Keep your affairs hidden from me again, and you’ll have cause to regret it,” she said. “Now stop staring at me like a puppy and let’s go.”

Hannah nodded helplessly. Still, she had won, hadn’t she? Annetje had demanded that she not keep more secrets, not that she reveal this one. The girl had backed down.

Perhaps her will was worth something after all. But what to do about the widow? She hated to hold something back from Miguel, but what choice had she been given? In any case, the widow was his friend. Perhaps she planned something for him as a surprise. Perhaps she secretly helped him with some business. Yes, that made a great deal of sense. She helped Miguel behind his back and did not want him to know lest his pride be injured. All would be well, she told herself again and again, each time hoping to believe it.

After a disappointing afternoon, nothing would have been so welcome as the cool isolation of his brother’s cellar. Sad home though it was, it offered some retreat from the world.

It had been more than two weeks, and still no word from any of his prospective agents. True, it was still early, but after two weeks it was now within the realm of the possible that he might have word. That was what he had told himself. Don’t look for answers before two weeks had passed, though he had secretly hoped to receive word sooner.

Now all that might comfort him would be a few struck candles, a glass of wine-or perhaps even some coffee. Miguel had stopped by the bookseller that afternoon and found a new tale of Charming Pieter and his Goodwife Mary. It was only eighteen pages long, so he took no more than a glance at it in the shop, not wanting to spoil the pleasure of the discovery.

Miguel had received yet another note from his Muscovy agent that day. The fellow had too many debts and too many creditors pressing for them. He needed to call in his own loans, and if Miguel could not comply there would certainly be consequences.

There were always consequences, he told himself, and he’d ignored his share of similar communications, but not with Dutchmen who might well drag him before the courts-something he could little afford now that he was beginning to order his affairs. So he spent the day in search of Ricardo, but no luck. Instead he ended up at the Flyboat, drinking with Isaiah Nunes.

“What do you know about Ricardo?” Miguel asked his friend.