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How happy the children sounded outside. They loved the snow. They’d been shouting and laughing all morning. I heard the noise of wagon wheels rattling on bumpy cobbles in the distance and I listened to them until they melted into silence – but still I thought I heard them.From my seat I could see only a small framed rectangle of sky, the colour of dirty snow.
    I picked up the cushion again and returned it to my lap. Why not get up, relieve the strain on my back and readjust the waistband of my skirt? The clock in the corner continued its rhythm – tick, pause, tock, pause – as if it had to inhale before every tick and tock. I glanced at the long pendulum as it swung along its prescribed path. It would never stop; it was wound each day by my mother.
    My fingers started again. I watched them. Left, right, left, right, in time with the stupefying ticking of the clock. The timepiece had been my father’s pride. It was a rare thing. Everyone else lived by the clock on the church tower. How many more ticks until the collar would be finished? Never; the lace would go on as long as the clock. Tock, inhale, tick, exhale, tock, inhale . . .
    My hands continued blind, as my eyes moved away from the sprawling lace. Those pale blue curtains, I’d hidden behind them as a child. They were still there, ready to shut the world out but no longer capable of concealing me. Why could I never get comfortable? It was always there, the pressure of the waistband, the tightness of my bodice and the hardness of the chair. As a child I’d garnered the nickname Mistress Too-Tight for my complaining.
    But I’d adapted to my home like a hermit crab to its borrowed shell. I placed my feet on top of the foot stove and arranged my skirt around and soon felt the warmth rise up my legs. Anything could be endured as long as one’s feet were warm.
    The light suddenly lifted, causing the silver-threaded cloth onthe side chair to sparkle. I rested my hands. The sun was blazing through the windows so strongly that it made the glass glow; perhaps it would simply melt, flow away and the room would flood with fresh air. I put the heavy cushion aside and got up, enjoying each step that took me to the window.
    I inspected the glass. Many tiny flecks of dirt had accumulated there. And the morning sun caused each of them to light up with their own corona, as if they themselves emitted light. Perhaps they did; perhaps it was the dirt that made the world light up. Still, the windows needed a clean and I wanted to clean them, so I fetched a bucket, climbed on to a footstool and rubbed away at the dirt with a cloth, water and vinegar.
    After a while my mother came in. I knew her step. I did not bother to turn or stop; we often talked while we worked. I pushed the cloth right into a grubby corner, determined to remove all the grime.
    â€˜Our neighbour, Jacob van Dorsten, has asked for my hand in marriage and I have accepted,’ she said.
    The clock did not miss a beat, but I was left behind, caught in the moment before the incomprehensible news. My father was barely six months dead; how had she and van Dorsten arranged this? I let my arm drop, and looked beyond the glass as if for the first time: ranks of ice-encrusted cobbles, wild-looking children and a bird’s nest that must have fallen out of the tree on to the frozen ground.
    â€˜I extend my good wishes to you and Mijnheer van Dorsten.’ My mouth formed the words well enough but they were so loud, spoken like this against the glass.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I heard her say behind me. ‘It will be good for everyone.’
    One of the little girls outside was bending over with laughter. Had she heard what my mother had said? Then I started to see where the threads crossed over; he was a widower with three children under the age of five and she was a widow. My brothers and sister had all found occupations near Bredevoort; but there was a single thread left, useless