One day he announced suddenly, as I was sitting in my chair, “This will satisfy van Ruijven, but not me.”

I did not know what to say. I could not help him if I had not seen the painting. “May I look at the painting, sir?”

He gazed at me curiously.

“Perhaps I can help,” I added, then wished I had not. I was afraid I had become too bold.

“All right,” he said after a moment.

I got up and stood behind him. He did not turn round, but sat very still. I could hear him breathing slowly and steadily.

The painting was like none of his others. It was just of me, of my head and shoulders, with no tables or curtains, no windows or powder-brushes to soften and distract. He had painted me with my eyes wide, the light falling across my face but the left side of me in shadow. I was wearing blue and yellow and brown. The cloth wound round my head made me look not like myself, but like Griet from another town, even from another country altogether. The background was black, making me appear very much alone, although I was clearly looking at someone. I seemed to be waiting for something I did not think would ever happen.

He was right—the painting might satisfy van Ruijven, but something was missing from it.

I knew before he did. When I saw what was needed—that point of brightness he had used to catch the eye in other paintings—I shivered. This will be the end, I thought.

I was right.

This time I did not try to help him as I had with the painting of van Ruijven’s wife writing a letter. I did not creep into the studio and change things—reposition the chair I sat in or open the shutters wider. I did not wrap the blue and yellow cloth differently or hide the top of my chemise. I did not bite my lips to make them redder, or suck in my cheeks. I did not set out colors I thought he might use.

I simply sat for him, and ground and washed the colors he asked for.

He would find it for himself anyway.

It took longer than I had expected. I sat for him twice more before he discovered what was missing. Each time I sat he painted with a dissatisfied look on his face, and dismissed me early.

I waited.

Catharina herself gave him the answer. One afternoon Maertge and I were polishing shoes in the washing kitchen while the other girls had gathered in the great hall to watch their mother dress for a birth feast. I heard Aleydis and Lisbeth squeal, and knew Catharina had brought out her pearls, which the girls loved.

Then I heard his tread in the hallway, silence, then low voices. After a moment he called out, “Griet, bring my wife a glass of wine.”

I set the white jug and two glasses on a tray, in case he chose to join her, and took them to the great hall. As I entered I bumped against Cornelia, who had been standing in the doorway. I managed to catch the jug, and the glasses clattered against my chest without breaking. Cornelia smirked and stepped out of my way.

Catharina was sitting at the table with her powder-brush and jar, her combs and jewelry box. She was wearing her pearls and her green silk dress, altered to cover her belly. I placed a glass near her and poured.

“Would you like some wine too, sir?” I asked, glancing up. He was leaning against the cupboard that surrounded the bed, pressed against the silk curtains, which I noticed for the first time were made of the same cloth as Catharina’s dress. He looked back and forth between Catharina and me. On his face was his painter’s look.

“Silly girl, you’ve spilled wine on me!” Catharina pushed away from the table and brushed at her belly with her hand. A few drops of red had splashed there.

“I’m sorry, madam. I’ll get a damp cloth to sponge it.”

“Oh, never mind. I can’t bear to have you fussing about me. Just go.”

I stole a look at him as I picked up the tray. His eyes were fixed on his wife’s pearl earring. As she turned her head to brush more powder on her face the earring swung back and forth, caught in the light from the front windows. It made us all look at her face, and reflected light as her eyes did.

“I must go upstairs for a moment,” he said to Catharina. “I won’t be long.”

That is it, then, I thought. He has his answer.

When he asked me to come to the studio the next afternoon, I did not feel excited as I usually did when I knew I was to sit for him. For the first time I dreaded it. That morning the clothes I washed felt particularly heavy and sodden, and my hands not strong enough to wring them well. I moved slowly between the kitchen and the courtyard, and sat down to rest more than once. Maria Thins caught me sitting when she came in for a copper pancake pan. “What’s the matter, girl? Are you ill?” she asked.

I jumped up. “No, madam. Just a little tired.”

“Tired, eh? That’s no way for a maid to be, especially not in the morning.” She looked as if she did not believe me.

I plunged my hands into the cooling water and pulled out one of Catharina’s chemises. “Are there any errands you would like me to run this afternoon, madam?”

“Errands? This afternoon? I don’t think so. That’s a funny thing to ask if you’re feeling tired.” She narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t in trouble, are you, girl? Van Ruijven didn’t catch you alone, did he?”

“No, madam.” In fact he had, just two days before, but I had managed to pull away from him.

“Has someone discovered you upstairs?” Maria Thins asked in a low voice, jerking her head up to indicate the studio.

“No, madam.” For a moment I was tempted to tell her about the earring. Instead I said, “I ate something that did not agree with me, that is all.”

Maria Thins shrugged and turned away. She still did not believe me, but had decided it did not matter.

That afternoon I plodded up the stairs, and paused before the studio door. This would not be like other times when I sat for him. He was going to ask me for something, and I was beholden to him.

I pushed open the door. He sat at his easel, studying the tip of one of his brushes. When he looked up at me I saw something I had never before seen in his face. He was nervous.

That was what gave me the courage to say what I said. I went to stand by my chair and placed my hand on one of the lion heads. “Sir,” I began, gripping the hard, cool carving, “I cannot do it.”

“Do what, Griet?” He was genuinely surprised.

“What you are going to ask me to do. I cannot wear it. Maids do not wear pearls.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head a few times. “How unexpected you are. You always surprise me.”

I ran my fingers around the lion’s nose and mouth and up its muzzle to its mane, smooth and knobbled. His eyes followed my fingers.

“You know,” he murmured, “that the painting needs it, the light that the pearl reflects. It won’t be complete otherwise.”

I did know. I had not looked at the painting long—it was too strange seeing myself—but I had known immediately that it needed the pearl earring. Without it there were only my eyes, my mouth, the band of my chemise, the dark space behind my ear, all separate. The earring would bring them together. It would complete the painting.

It would also put me on the street. I knew that he would not borrow an earring from van Ruijven or van Leeuwenhoek or anyone else. He had seen Catharina’s pearl and that was what he would make me wear. He used what he wanted for his paintings, without considering the result. It was as van Leeuwenhoek had warned me.

When Catharina saw her earring in the painting she would explode.

I should have begged him not to ruin me.

“You are painting it for van Ruijven,” I argued instead, “not for yourself. Does it matter so much? You said yourself that he would be satisfied with it.”

His face hardened and I knew I had said the wrong thing.