The Miniaturist(28)

The love note hidden in Marin’s room comes back to her. Where has it come from, how many days – or years – has it lain there in her pages? Nella wonders how Marin reads it – with pleasure or disdain? The soft touch of sable in the severity of her plain black bodice, her bridal bouquet a yellowing skull propped upon her shelves. No. Nobody would ever spoil Marin. She wouldn’t let them.

Nella lifts her hand in the semi-darkness, looking at her wedding ring, her nails like faint pink shells. In Assendelft, there may have only been one town square, but at least the people sitting in it would listen to her. Here she is a puppet, a vessel for others to pour their speech. And it is not a man she has married, but a world. Silversmiths, a sister-in-law, strange acquaintances, a house she feels lost in, a smaller one that frightens her. There is ostensibly so much on offer, but Nella feels that something is being taken away.

When they enter the house, she turns, determined to speak – but now Johannes is bent over in commune with Rezeki. She is clearly his favourite, and Johannes runs a tight palm over the dog’s skull. Rezeki bares her teeth in unaggressive pleasure. No one has lit the candles in the hall. The space is so dark, no moon through the high windows.

‘Have they fed you, my beauty?’ he asks, his voice gentle, full of love. The whippet responds by thumping her muscular tail on the tiles, and Johannes chuckles.

The chuckle irritates Nella, the attention she wants given to an animal. ‘I shall go to bed, then,’ she says.

‘Do, do,’ he replies, straightening up. ‘You must be tired.’

‘No, Johannes. I am not tired.’

She holds his gaze until he looks away. ‘I must make notes on those men I met.’ He walks towards his study and the dog follows immediately.

‘Does she keep you company?’ Nella calls. Eleven days alone as a wife, she thinks. Longer than it took God to make the world.

‘She helps me,’ he replies. ‘If I try and solve a problem directly, I can’t do it. If I tend to her, the answer comes.’

‘She is useful then.’

Johannes smiles. ‘She is.’

‘And how much did you pay for Otto – is he useful?’ she asks, her voice cold and shrill with nerves.

Johannes’ expression clouds and Nella feels the blood pounding in her face. ‘What did Agnes say to you?’ he says.

‘Nothing,’ she replies, but it is true that Agnes’ words have crept under her skin.

‘I merely paid Otto’s first wages in advance,’ he says, his voice level.

‘Does Otto think you set him free?’

Johannes sets his jaw. ‘Does it bother you, Petronella, living here with him?’

‘Not at all. It’s just – I’ve never – I mean—’

‘He’s the only manservant I’ve ever had,’ Johannes replies. ‘And ever will.’

He turns away. Don’t go, Nella thinks. If you go then I will become invisible, right now in this hallway, and no one will ever find me again. She points to the dog, sitting obediently at his side. ‘Is that Rezeki or Dhana?’ she asks.

Johannes raises his eyebrows, patting the animal with a loving hand. ‘You have been paying attention. This is Rezeki. Dhana has a spot on her belly.’

I know she does, Nella thinks, picturing the little dog upstairs, waiting in the cabinet. ‘They have strange names.’

‘Not if you’re from Sumatra.’

‘What does Rezeki mean?’ She feels young and stupid.

‘Fortune,’ he replies, slipping into the study and closing the door.

Nella peers into the darkness of the hall, a cold draught blowing towards her as if another door has opened somewhere beyond the expanse of marble tiles. The hairs on the back of her neck rise up. Someone is in the shadows.

‘Hello?’ she calls.

From deep in the kitchen come faint voices, urgent mutterings, the occasional clang of a pan. The sensation of being observed diminishes slightly, and these sounds, however distant, are a comfort. The house makes Nella lose her sense of proportion, and as if to reassure herself, she puts her hand out and touches the solid wood of Johannes’ door frame. When she hears what she believes is an intake of breath behind her, and something brushes against the hem of her dress, Nella hammers with both fists on the study door.

‘Marin, not now.’

‘It’s Nella!’

Johannes doesn’t reply, and Nella stares down the darkness, trying not to let her terror win. ‘Johannes, please. Let me in.’

When the door opens, the yellow glow is so welcoming that Nella could almost cry.

What strikes her is that the study feels so much more lived-in than anywhere else she has been in the house. This is a room with a firm purpose. It knows itself, and it is the closest Nella has felt to her husband. As she steps inside and he closes the door, she tries to shake away her hallway fright.

‘There’s no one out there, Nella,’ he says. ‘It’s just the dark. Why don’t you go to bed?’

Nella wonders how he knew her fear, just as he knew how Agnes had ruffled her over Otto. Being observed by Johannes is like being watched by an owl, she thinks. You feel pinioned.

Outside it has begun to rain, a gentle night patter, rhythmic and familiar. There is a tangy, papery smell in the small room, a high wooden table hinged to the wall, a mess of scrolls and an inkstand made of gold. Candle smoke covers the low ceiling with black welts, and the swirling design of a deep Turkey rug is scarcely visible for loose sheets covered in unfamiliar languages. Bits of red wax seals are scattered everywhere, and some have been ground into the wool.