I never read Jessie Burton's prequel to this book, The Miniaturist, but I promise you it doesn't matter if you haven't either. The House of Fortune stands on its own (with tantalising references to its forerunner which could easily send readers who haven't read The Miniaturist back to it).
 

But this is a magnificently intriguing story all on its own. (We're going to Amsterdam soon, which was a contributory reason for buying the book, not - of course - that it's anything remotely resembling a travel guide, it's set in the early eighteenth century. But some of the streets and canals still bear the same names so I'll find them when we go.) It's a mystery-filled story of identity and destiny and the influence the first has on the last. One of the characters says, about three-quarters of the way through:

But, just as in life, it takes the characters in this twisting, turning and beautifully-written novel, some time to realise that. I looked forward to finding out more every night and, now that I've finished it, I miss it, although the characters live on in my head (as do the streets and the canals).