The Miniaturist(20)

He smiles again. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I always forget.’ Nella, unsettled by his beauty, wants to touch those cheekbones if only to push them away. Sensing a presence behind her, she turns. Johannes is upon them, ploughing forward and standing between Nella and the boy.

‘Johannes? I thought you were at work,’ she exclaims. ‘Why are you—’

‘What are you doing here?’Johannes asks the boy, his voice constricted, almost whispering. He ignores Nella’s puzzled expression and pushes a snarling Rezeki back into the house.

Although the young man puts his hand nonchalantly under his jacket, he has straightened up a little, drawing his legs together. ‘Just come with a package,’ he says.

‘For whom?’

‘For Nella Oortman.’

The boy weighs out the word of Nella’s maiden name with care, meeting Johannes with a level look, and Nella feels her husband tense. The young man holds a parcel aloft, and she can see it has been inked with the sign of a sun. Has the miniaturist already made my pieces? she wonders, scarcely quelling the urge to snatch the packet and run upstairs.

‘Your master works quickly,’ she observes, wishing to scrape back some modicum of poise. This was my delivery, she thinks, not my husband’s.

‘What master is she referring to?’ demands Johannes.

The young man laughs, handing her the parcel, and Nella holds it close to her body. ‘I’m Jack Philips. From Bermondsey,’ he says, taking Nella’s hand. His kiss is dry and soft, and leaves a shiver of sensation.

‘Bermond-sey? she echoes. Nella has no image she can fix to this unusual word – no meaning in fact, for this unusual boy.

‘Just outside the City of London. I sometimes work for the VOC,’ Jack says. ‘Sometimes for myself. I was an actor back home.’

From the hallway, Rezeki barks and her noises echo in the cloudy sky. ‘Who paid you to do this?’ asks Johannes.

‘People all over the city pay me to deliver, Seigneur.’

‘Who paid you this time?’

Jack takes a step away. ‘Your wife, Seigneur,’ he says. ‘Your wife.’ He bows to Nella, sauntering down the steps and away.

‘Come, Nella,’ Johannes says. ‘Let us close the door on prying eyes.’

Back inside, they find Otto waiting at the top of the kitchen stairs, a rake in his hand, the sharp prongs glinting in the light. ‘Who was it, Seigneur?’ he asks.

‘No one,’ Johannes says, and Otto nods.

Johannes turns to Nella, and she shrinks from his size, seeming larger to her now in the confines of the hall. ‘What is in the parcel, Nella?’

‘Something for the cabinet you bought,’ she says, wondering what he’d say if he saw the lute, the marzipan, the cup to celebrate betrothal.

‘Ah. Excellent.’

Nella waits for more curiosity, but none is forthcoming – in fact, Johannes seems nothing but agitated. ‘Shall I open it upstairs? You could come and see,’ she offers, hoping he will join her. ‘You could see how your wedding gift might grow.’

‘I must work, Nella. I’ll let you to your privacy,’ he replies with an anxious smile, waving a hand towards his study.

I don’t want my privacy, she shouts in silence. I’d throw it away in an instant if you would pay me some attention.

But Johannes has already gone – Rezeki, as ever, trotting behind.



Still unsettled by the vision of Jack Philips from Bermondsey, Nella climbs onto her giant bed and sits with the parcel. Bulky, the width of a dinner plate, it has been wrapped in smooth paper and string. A sentence has been written round the sun in black capitals:

EVERY WOMAN IS THE ARCHITECT OF HER OWN FORTUNE





Nella reads it twice, puzzled, a feather-thrum of excitement in her belly. Women don’t build anything, let alone their own fates, she thinks. All our fates are in the hands of God – and women’s in particular, after their husbands have passed them through their fingers and childbirth has put them through the wringer.

She pulls out the first object and weighs a tiny silver box in her palm. On the top, an N and an O have been carved, with encircling flowers and vines. She carefully prises open the lid, the miniature hinges well-oiled, silent. Inside lies a neat block of marzipan about the length of a coffee bean, and her taste buds come alive at the prospect of the sweet almond sugar. She probes with a fingernail and puts it on the tip of her tongue. The marzipan is real, even scented with rosewater.

Nella removes a second object. Here is a lute, no longer than her forefinger – with real, tuned strings, its wooden body swelling to hold the sound of notes. Never has she seen things like this – the craftsmanship, the care, the beauty of these objects. She plucks tentatively, astonished as a quiet chord sings out. Remembering the skeleton of the tune she played Johannes in Assendelft, Nella now plays it again, alone.

The next dive in reveals the requested betrothal cup. Made of pewter, a man and a woman with their hands entwined around the rim, its diameter is no wider than a grain. All newly married couples drink from these cups in their republic, just as she and Johannes should have done, back in September. Nella imagines them both taking a sip of the Rhenish wine, standing in her father’s old orchard, rice and petals showered on their heads. This little cup is a memento of something that never actually occurred. What she had intended as a rebellion against Marin now makes Nella feel strange and pathetically sad.