The Miniaturist(3)

‘I heard the first time.’

‘Are you the housekeeper?’ Nella asks. A giggle is badly stifled in the hallway shadows. The woman ignores it, looking out into the pearlescent dusk. ‘Is Johannes here? I’m his new wife.’ The woman still says nothing. ‘We signed our marriage a month ago, in Assendelft,’ Nella persists. It seems there is nothing else to do but to persist.

‘My brother is not in the house.’

‘Your brother?’

Another giggle from the darkness. The woman looks straight into Nella’s eyes. ‘I am Marin Brandt,’ she says, as if Nella should understand. Marin’s gaze may be hard, but Nella can hear the precision faltering in her voice. ‘He’s not here,’ Marin continues. ‘We thought he’d be. But he’s not.’

‘Where is he then?’

Marin looks out towards the sky again. Her left hand fronds the air, and from the shadows near the staircase two figures appear. ‘Otto,’ she says.

A man comes towards them and Nella swallows, pressing her cold feet upon the floor.

Otto’s skin is dark, dark brown everywhere, his neck coming out from the collar, his wrists and hands from his sleeves – all unending, dark brown skin. His high cheeks, his chin, his wide brow, every inch. Nella has never seen such a man in her life.

Marin seems to be watching her to see what she will do. The look in Otto’s large eyes makes no acknowledgement of Nella’s ill-concealed fascination. He bows to her and she curtsies, chewing her lip till the taste of blood reminds her to be calm. Nella sees how his skin glows like a polished nut, how his black hair springs straight up from his scalp. It is a cloud of soft wool, not flat and greasy like other men’s. ‘I—’ she says.

Peebo begins to chirp. Otto puts his hands out, a pair of pattens resting on his broad palms. ‘For your feet,’ he says.

His accent is Amsterdam – but he rolls the words, making them warm and liquid. Nella takes the pattens from him and her fingers brush his skin. Clumsily she slips the raised shoes onto her feet. They are too big, but she doesn’t dare say it, and at least they lift her soles off the chilly marble. She’ll tighten the leather straps later, upstairs – if she ever gets there, if they ever let her past this hall.

‘Otto is my brother’s manservant,’ says Marin, her eyes still fixed on Nella. ‘And here is Cornelia, our maid. She will look after you.’

Cornelia steps forward. She is a little older than Nella, perhaps twenty, twenty-one – and slightly taller. Cornelia pins her with an unfriendly grin, her blue eyes moving over the new bride, seeing the tremor in Nella’s hands. Nella smiles, burnt by the maid’s curiosity, struggling to say some piece of empty thanks. She is half-grateful, half-ashamed when Marin cuts her off.

‘Let me show you upstairs,’ Marin says. ‘You will want to see your room.’

Nella nods and a look of amusement flickers to life in Cornelia’s eyes. Blithe pirrips from the cage bounce high up the walls, and Marin indicates to Cornelia with a flick of her wrist that the bird must go to the kitchen.

‘But the cooking fumes,’ Nella protests. Marin and Otto turn back to her. ‘Peebo likes the light.’

Cornelia takes up the cage and starts swinging it like a pail. ‘Please, be careful,’ says Nella.

Marin catches Cornelia’s eye. The maid continues to the kitchen, accompanied by the thin melody of Peebo’s worried cheeps.



Upstairs, Nella feels dwarfed by the sumptuousness of her new room. Marin merely looks displeased. ‘Cornelia has embroidered too much,’ she says. ‘But we hope Johannes will only marry once.’

There are initialled cushions, a new bedspread and two pairs of recently refreshed curtains. ‘The velvet heaviness is needed to keep out canal mists,’ Marin observes. ‘This was my room,’ she adds, moving to the window to look at the few stars which have begun to appear in the sky, placing her hand upon the windowpane. ‘It has a better view, so we gave it to you.’

‘Oh no,’ says Nella. ‘Then you must keep it.’

They face each other, hemmed in by the mass of needlework, the abundance of linen covered in B for Brandt, encircled by vine leaves, entrenched in birds’ nests, rising out of flower beds. The Bs have gobbled up her maiden name, their bellies fat and swollen. Feeling uneasy but duty-bound, Nella brushes a finger over this bounty of wool, now bearing on her spirits.

‘Your grand ancestral Assendelft seat, is it warm and dry?’ Marin asks.

‘It can be damp,’ Nella offers as she bends over and tries to adjust the large pattens strapped awkwardly to her feet. ‘The dykes don’t always work. It’s not grand, though—’

‘Our family may not have your ancient pedigree, but what’s that in the face of a warm, dry, well-made house,’ Marin interrupts. It is not a question.

‘Indeed.’

‘Afkomst seyt niet. Pedigree counts for nothing,’ Marin continues, prodding a cushion to emphasize the word nothing. ‘Pastor Pellicorne said it last Sunday and I wrote it in the flyleaf of our Bible. The waters will rise if we’re not careful.’ She seems to shake herself out of a thought. ‘Your mother wrote,’ she adds. ‘She insisted she would pay for you to travel here. We couldn’t allow that. We sent the second-best barge. You’re not offended?’