Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux Page A

said neededdarning and headed for the linen store. It was perfect – not so much for darning but for hiding. It was up one flight of stairs from the ground floor and was accessed from the mezzanine landing. In the left and right walls of the landing were little viewing windows or peep-holes that looked down into the double-height entrance hall on one side and into Rembrandt’s bedroom on the other. And straight ahead was the linen room. I went in, closing the door behind me. The smell of freshly washed linen welcomed me to my sanctuary. It was quite small and lit by only one window at the far end. I shoved the linen on to the table and took off my cap because I could never get used to the pressure of its ear irons against my temples. I settled into the high-backed wooden chair. If I’d had my foot-warmer, I would have felt just as comfortable as back at home. I sat close to the window to get as much light as possible on to the frayed hole. Soon I found a rhythm, bridging the edges with a lattice of thread. I missed the ticking of my father’s clock but at least my new surroundings were already beginning to feel familiar. This morning I’d put a candle by my bed in preparation for the second night.
    What had Six meant? There goes the true owner of your brush . Geertje certainly seemed to be in charge. None of this concerned me. I turned my attention to my own situation. I was twenty-one; it was getting late in the day. I needed to register with the church and involve myself in social activities. They spoke of marriage as a safe harbour after the treacherous straits of maidenhood but I viewed it differently. Maidenhood had been quite lacking in peril and I fervently hoped that marriage would prove to be my voyage of discovery. Butwhat if I didn’t like anyone, not even in all of Amsterdam? And I always offended people, especially men. Despite what Six had said to Rembrandt, the truth was that I wasn’t pretty; I wasn’t tall and I wasn’t fair. I was as dark as a witch.
    The back of the chair had a vertical piece of wood down the middle which was now making itself felt. Stupid chair. I stood up and pushed it away and sat on the floor, stuffing some sheets behind my back. Much better. The door opened and in walked Rembrandt, nearly falling over my stretched-out legs. ‘Oh, Hendrickje.’
    â€˜Forgive me, Master, I am just mending some linen.’ I couldn’t decide whether to stay on the floor or stumble to my feet in the small space.
    â€˜It’s no bother to me, but can you see in this light?’
    â€˜Erm yes, thank you, Master. I’m sorry, Master.’
    He gestured at the paper he had tucked under his arm. ‘I need to get some chalks. They are in the cupboard.’
    I mumbled further apologies and tried to get my legs out of his way.
    â€˜No, no, don’t trouble yourself, I can get there.’
    He stepped around me and retrieved a small box. When he reached the door he suddenly stared at the top of my head as if I’d grown horns. He took the paper out from under his arm as if he meant to use it. What was he thinking? This was Six’s doing. I pulled the linen up to my shoulders as if it was a blanket. He breathed in and then out with a little sigh. Then he tucked the paper back under his arm and left. ‘Forgive the disturbance,’ he said.
    Maybe he’d not thought of drawing me at all. I got up quickly and sat on the chair. Or he’d seen something behind me? I held the linen where he had looked and a beam of sunlight shone on that very spot; revealing a glowing forest of tiny fibres. My hair, without the cap, must have produced a similar effect. I probably looked as though I had a halo.
    Then I remembered the blackbird. The beautiful things I generally missed, how obvious they were to him, while I went about the world with my eyes half shut. I sat down again in the chair trying to find the hole I’d been working on.
    But I could