The Miniaturist(111)

‘Lysbeth,’ Nella murmurs. ‘Go and wake Cornelia.’



As soon as they’re alone, Nella knows that she must speak. ‘Her name is Thea,’ she says. ‘Otto. I have to tell you something.’

But drawn into Thea’s face, absorbed by his little mirror, it does not seem as if Otto is listening.

‘Otto—’

‘Madame Marin said it would be a boy,’ he says.

Nella does not know how to respond. It feels impossible to speak. ‘You knew, then?’ she says eventually.

He nods, and as his face moves before the firelight, Nella sees his tears, how he too is struggling for the right word, any word that might support a fragment of the weight his shoulders seem to bear. He gestures suddenly to the unpolished floor, to the dusty rosewood chairs. ‘She isn’t here,’ he says, as if these inanimate objects are comprehensive proof of loss.

‘No,’ says Nella. ‘She isn’t here.’ She swallows, knowing a sob is there, worrying that to cry might be an invasion of his grief. ‘I’m sorry, Otto.’

‘Madame,’ Otto says. His voice is raw; it cracks the simple word in two. She looks up and he holds her devastated gaze. ‘You saved the child. She would have laid down her life that this little creature might survive.’

‘But why did she have to?’ Nella says. Her tears are coming now, she can’t stop them; the effort to stop only makes them fall quicker, fuller, blurring her sight. ‘She worsened so quickly. I – we could not bring her back to life. We tried, Toot, but we didn’t know—’

‘I understand,’ he says, but from the pain on his face it is clear that he cannot. Nella feels her legs giving way and she reaches for a chair. He remains standing, staring at the top of Thea’s head. ‘I never saw her more determined than when she told me she was with child,’ he says. ‘I was sure the world was coming to an end. I asked her, “What will this child’s life be?”’

‘And what did she say?’

Otto holds Thea closer. ‘She said, “His life must be what he makes of it.” ’

‘Oh, Marin.’

‘I knew it might be safer if I left. But I had to come back. I had to see.’

The fact of Thea – the act of her creation – hovers in the air, life hand in hand with death. Maybe it’s a secret Otto will always keep, she thinks. God knows Cornelia will help him, pretending it never happened, as if Thea was immaculate, or found growing from a tree. Perhaps one day he will tell how it started between him and Marin, and why – and whether each felt love like power or abandon, and whether their hearts were freely exchanged and full of ease, or weighed down over time.

Thea, the map of herself – she will see those plotted points of her father’s face in half of hers and wonder, where is my mother? I’ll give her the doll, Nella thinks. I will show her those grey eyes, those slender wrists, even the bodice lined with fur. There must be no more secrets, so I said. So I will show her that observed curve, the miniaturist’s gift revealed. You were there, Thea. Petronella Windelbreke saw that you were coming, and she knew that it was good. She even sent you a cradle. She was telling your story before you were born, but now you must be the one to finish it.



Still tipsy from the valerian, Cornelia has been fetched from her bed by Lysbeth. She stands at the door of the salon, her face a question, its astonishment feasting on the answer before her eyes. ‘You,’ she breathes.

‘Me,’ Otto replies, nervously. ‘I’ve been in London, Cornelia. The English called me blackamoor and lambkin. My lodging was the Emerald Parrot. I was almost going to write and tell you. I—’

Words fall on words. Otto shores up against the tide of grief before it breaks on his oldest friend’s head.

Cornelia totters towards him – she touches his elbows and shoulders, his hands still full with Thea. She touches his face, anything to prove his flesh is real. She cuffs the back of his head in loving fury. ‘Enough,’ she says, encasing him, breathing in his presence. ‘Enough.’

Still in her coat, Nella leaves them in the salon, crossing the marble tiles to the front door, which was left ajar in haste. She pulls it wide, standing on the threshold, the cooling air upon her cheeks. Sunday evening bells have started over the roofs of Amsterdam, and the churches’ clanging harmonies rise high. Dhana trots up to greet her young mistress, proffering her head for a pat. ‘Have they fed you, my beauty?’ Nella asks the dog, rubbing the silk of her lovely ears.

As the bells call the coming night, Nella sees the small white crescent moon, like a lady’s fingernail curved in the darkening sky. Cornelia passes through the hall, apron tied, head turned towards her kitchen. ‘It’s cold, Madame,’ she calls. ‘Come in.’

But Nella remains gazing along their stretch of frozen canal. A line of melting ice now runs along its edges. Warmer water has begun to fray the Herengracht’s wintry hem, and it looks to her like punched lace, the lining of a giant crib.

Cornelia drops a pan in the kitchen. There is shushing from the salon as Thea sallies a cry. Lysbeth and Otto’s voices float over the tiles. Nella reaches in her coat pocket to bring out the miniature house she took from the Kalverstraat, but it is no longer there. That cannot be right, she thinks, digging into the fabric. The little baby is still there – so is the miniature of Arnoud. So did I drop it, running through the city streets? Did I leave it in the workshop? You saw it, she tells herself. It was real.