Wings over Delft by Aubrey Flegg

for frogspawn. Even after all these years a feeling of guilt welled up in her as she held the translucent hand that rested on the covers. She longed for someone in whom she could confide; it had been such a relief unburdening herself to Kathenka. The trouble was, that after her discussions and arguments with Father, the girlish chatter of her friends about clothes, and hats, and ribbons seemed vacuous and boring. When they wanted to talk about boys they didn’t include her, as they automatically paired her off with Reynier.
    As Mother declined, Annie had assumed responsibility for Louise’s day to day life. It was a curiously lopsided upbringing. Once Louise had completed her tasks about the house, Annie would feel that her duty was done. From then on, Louise was largely left to her own devices, and would wander the town, making friends with anyone who would talk to her, pestering them with questions about anything from windmills to brewing ale. In only one other area did Annie try to exert her influence, and that was in religion.She was a strict Calvinist for whom God was a grim reality. Father, on the other hand, would insist that Louise make up her own mind: ‘You can only believe the believable, my love,’ he would say, and in doing so he would quietly undo most of Annie’s efforts. However, there was one faith which Annie abhorred above all others: Catholicism. Here she gave no quarter, would listen to no argument, and was not above subterfuge. And she fought her case with facts. Many a night Louise’s bedtime story would be some gruesome detail of the Spanish Inquisition. If Louise had been naughty, she would be stood up in her window, which looked south, and be reminded that the Spaniards were only a few miles away, in the Spanish Netherlands: “… and we all know what they do!” Louise was genuinely scared and told Father nothing about Annie’s dire warnings.
    Mother’s cheeks seemed slightly less flushed today, Louise thought to herself, and her breathing was a little easier. But she tired very quickly, so, after settling her more comfortably on her pillows, she left her mother to her rest and went downstairs.
    Louise was restless and bored. She tried her lute, but it was out of tune – again – and when she carried it to the spinet in the parlour she found that that too was out of tune. Perhaps it was the lingering damp from the new plaster in the house. Her mind kept turning to the studio. Would it be very forward to go there without being asked? Eventually, her mind made up, she told her mother that she was going to the studio and was soon hastening through the sunlit streets to the Markt. Here she paused to get her breath back.
    She looked in on Kathenka, with the intention of asking her if it would be all right to go up, and then stood shifting from one foot to the other, offering to help her clean the bar, but hoping not to be taken up on the offer. Kathenka sent her off upstairs with a knowing smile. At the top of the stairs Louise tapped at the board door and listened for an answer. She inhaled the studio smells as they filtered through the door. She recognised linseed oil; that was used for mixing the paint, and then there was the sharp clean smell of the turpentine they used for thinning paints and cleaning brushes. Someone was hammering inside. The noise stopped, and she knocked quickly before it could start up again. This time the Master’s voice called out.
    ‘Come in!’
    She opened the door. Pieter was balanced on the top of a ladder, hammering a nail into the wall. She remembered their unsteady progress down the steps from the town wall and hoped he would be all right. ‘Ah, it is Mistress Louise.’ Pieter swayed on his perch.
    ‘Her room,’ as she thought of it, now looked more like a spider’s web. The Master, short and squat as a spider, was looking out at her from within a web of strings, while poor Pieter looked about as much at ease as a daddy-long-legs caught in the mesh. He