So did my master’s.

I tried to ignore them, instead listening to Maria Thins. She was discussing the next painting. “You were pleased with the one of the music lesson, weren’t you?” she said. “What better to follow such a painting with than another with a musical setting? After a lesson, a concert, perhaps with more people in it, three or four musicians, an audience—”

“No audience,” my master interrupted. “I do not paint audiences.”

Maria Thins regarded him skeptically.

“Come, come,” van Leeuwenhoek interjected genially, “surely an audience is less interesting than the musicians themselves.”

I was glad he defended my master.

“I don’t care about audiences,” van Ruijven announced, “but I would like to be in the painting. I will play the lute.” After a pause he added, “I want her in it too.” I did not have to look at him to know he had gestured at me.

Tanneke jerked her head slightly towards the kitchen and I escaped with the little I had cleared, leaving her to gather the rest. I wanted to look at my master but did not dare. As I was leaving I heard Catharina say in a gay voice, “What a fine idea! Like that painting with you and the maid in the red dress. Do you remember her?”

On Sunday my mother spoke to me when we were alone in her kitchen. My father was sitting out in the late October sun while we prepared dinner. “You know I don’t listen to market gossip,” she began, “but it is hard not to hear it when my daughter’s name is mentioned.”

I immediately thought of Pieter the son. Nothing we did in the alley was worthy of gossip. I had insisted on that. “I don’t know what you mean, Mother,” I answered honestly.

My mother pulled in the corners of her mouth. “They are saying your master is going to paint you.” It was as if the words themselves made her mouth purse.

I stopped stirring the pot I had been tending. “Who says this?”

My mother sighed, reluctant to pass along overheard tales. “Some women selling apples.”

When I did not respond she took my silence to mean the worst. “Why didn’t you tell me, Griet?”

“Mother, I haven’t even heard this myself. No one has said anything to me!”

She did not believe me.

“It’s true,” I insisted. “My master has said nothing, Maria Thins has said nothing. I simply clean his studio. That’s as close as I get to his paintings.” I had never told her about my attic work. “How can you believe old women selling apples rather than me?”

“When there’s talk about someone at the market, there’s usually a reason for it, even if it’s not what’s actually being said.” My mother left the kitchen to call my father. She would say no more about the subject that day, but I began to fear she might be right—I would be the last to be told.

The next day at the Meat Hall I decided to ask Pieter the father about the rumor. I did not dare speak of it to Pieter the son. If my mother had heard the gossip, he would have as well. I knew he would not be pleased. Although he had never said so to me, it was clear he was jealous of my master.

Pieter the son was not at the stall. I did not have to wait long for Pieter the father to say something himself. “What’s this I hear?” he smirked as I approached. “Going to have your picture painted, are you? Soon you’ll be too grand for the likes of my son. He’s gone off in a sulk to the Beast Market because of you.”

“Tell me what you have heard.”

“Oh, you want it told again, do you?” He raised his voice. “Shall I make it into a fine tale for a few others?”

“Hush,” I hissed. Underneath his bravado I sensed he was angry with me. “Just tell me what you have heard.”

Pieter the father lowered his voice. “Only that van Ruijven’s cook was saying you are to sit with her master for a painting.”

“I know nothing of this,” I stated firmly, aware even as I said it that, as with my mother, my words had little effect. Pieter the father scooped up a handful of pigs’ kidneys. “It’s not me you should be talking to,” he said, weighing them in his hand.

I waited a few days before speaking to Maria Thins. I wanted to see if anyone would tell me first. I found her in the Crucifixion room one afternoon when Catharina was asleep and Maertge had taken the girls to the Beast Market. Tanneke was in the kitchen sewing and watching Johannes and Franciscus.

“May I speak to you, madam?” I said in a low voice.

“What is it, girl?” She lit her pipe and regarded me through the smoke. “Trouble again?” She sounded weary.

“I don’t know, madam. But I have heard a strange thing.”

“So have we all heard strange things.”

“I have heard that—that I am to be in a painting. With van Ruijven.”

Maria Thins chuckled. “Yes, that is a strange thing. They’ve been talking in the market, have they?”

I nodded.

She leaned back in her chair and puffed on her pipe. “Tell me, what would you think of being in such a painting?”

I did not know what to answer. “What would I think, madam?” I repeated dumbly.

“I wouldn’t bother to ask some people that. Tanneke, for instance. When he painted her she stood there happily pouring milk for months without a thought passing through that head, God love her. But you—no, there’s all manner of things you think but don’t say. I wonder what they are?”

I said the one sensible thing I knew she would understand. “I do not wish to sit with van Ruijven, madam. I do not think his intentions are honorable.” My words were stiff.

“His intentions are never honorable when it comes to young women.”

I nervously wiped my hands on my apron.

“It seems you have a champion to defend your honor,” she continued. “My son-in-law is no more willing to paint you with van Ruijven than you are willing to sit with him.”

I did not try to hide my relief.

“But,” Maria Thins warned, “van Ruijven is his patron, and a wealthy and powerful man. We cannot afford to offend him.”

“What will you say to him, madam?”

“I’m still trying to decide. In the meantime, you will have to put up with the rumors. Don’t answer them—we don’t want van Ruijven hearing from the market gossips that you are refusing to sit with him.”

I must have looked uncomfortable. “Don’t worry, girl,” Maria Thins growled, tapping her pipe on the table to loosen the ash. “We’ll take care of this. You keep your head down and go about your work, and not a word to anyone.”

“Yes, madam.”

I did tell one person, though. I felt I had to.

It had been easy enough to avoid Pieter the son—there were auctions all that week at the Beast Market, of animals that had been fattening all summer and autumn in the countryside and were ready for slaughter just before winter began. Pieter had gone every day to the sales.

The afternoon after Maria Thins and I spoke I slipped out to look for him at the market, just around the corner from the Oude Langendijck. It was quieter there in the afternoon than in the morning, when the auctions took place. By now many of the beasts had been driven away by their new owners, and men stood about under the plane trees that lined the square, counting their money and discussing the deals that had been made. The leaves on the trees had turned yellow and fallen to mingle with the dung and urine I could smell long before I reached the market.

Pieter the son was sitting with another man outside one of the taverns on the square, a tankard of beer in front of him. Deep in conversation, he did not see me as I stood silently near his table. It was his companion who looked up, then nudged Pieter.

“I would like to speak to you for a moment,” I said quickly, before Pieter had a chance even to look surprised.

His companion immediately jumped up and offered me his chair.

“Could we walk?” I gestured to the square.

“Of course,” Pieter said. He nodded to his friend and followed me across the street. From his expression it was not clear whether or not he was pleased to see me.