The Miniaturist(32)

As Nella lowers her gaze to the people milling inside the church, her heart sends a hot thump of blood into her stomach.

The strange woman from the Kalverstraat is here. She sits alone in a chair near the side door, the sun through a plain window catching the top of her blonde head. Again, she watches Nella. There is nothing neutral in this gaze; it is active, enquiring and curious – but she is so still that Nella believes she could be one of the stained-glass saints, fallen from the church’s pane.

Succumbing to the sensation of being measured and found not entirely whole, Nella is powerless to resist the stare. This time, however, the woman’s gaze glides over Otto, Cornelia and Marin, even Dhana – taking all five into her understanding. Nella lifts her hand in greeting and Marin’s voice interrupts her. ‘She’s too old to be out.’

‘What?’ Nella says, dropping her hand.

‘The dog,’ says Marin, bending over, trying to move Dhana, from where the animal has placed her rump firmly on the floor. Dhana refuses to budge, whining, her snout up in the direction of the woman, her claws clattering the stone. ‘What on earth is wrong with her?’ Marin straightens, massaging the base of her spine. ‘She was fine a minute ago.’

Nella looks back to where the woman is sitting, but all she sees is an empty chair. ‘Where did she go?’

‘Who?’ asks Cornelia.

Despite the light from the sun, the church seems very cold. The hubbub rises and falls and rises again, the people continue to mill, and the woman’s chair remains untaken. Dhana starts to bark.

‘Nothing,’ says Nella. ‘Be quiet, Dhana, you’re in a house of God.’

Cornelia giggles. ‘You’re both too loud,’ Marin says. ‘Please remember that people are always watching.’

‘I know they are,’ says Nella, but Marin has moved away.

True to Calvinist form, the pulpit is in the middle of the nave, where the murmuring crowd congregates in clusters. ‘Like flies upon a piece of meat,’ says Marin disapprovingly, as they catch up with her, gliding with slow dignity up the nave. ‘We shall not sit in the crowd. God’s word reaches far. They don’t need to clamber like four-year-olds to see Pastor Pellicorne.’

‘The more they try to look holy the less I am convinced,’ says Otto.

A tiny smile forms in the corner of Marin’s mouth, dying quickly as Agnes and Frans Meermans come into view.

Billowing a cloud of intense, flowery fragrance, Agnes swims in her great skirts across the freezing grave-slabs. ‘They’ve brought the savage,’ she whispers in earshot to her husband, her eyes riveted on Otto.

‘Seigneur and Madame Meermans,’ Marin says, retrieving her psalter from a pouch at her waist, passing it from palm to palm as if she’s weighing it up as a missile. The women curtsey. Frans Meermans bows, watching Marin’s slender fingers move nervously over her well-worn leather book.

‘Where is your brother?’ asks Agnes. ‘The Day of Judgement—’

‘Johannes is working. He offers thanks to God a different way today,’ Marin replies. Meermans snorts. ‘It is quite true, Seigneur.’

‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘The bourse is known to be a haven for the godly.’

‘There was an oversight at the Guild of Silversmiths,’ Marin says, ignoring his tone. ‘My brother meant to invite you to eat with us, but so many duties distract his mind.’ She pauses. ‘You must come and dine at our house.’

Meermans sniffs. ‘We don’t need—’

‘We are honoured, Madame Brandt,’ Agnes interrupts, her dark eyes sly with undisclosed excitement. ‘Though should not his wife be issuing this invitation?’

Nella feels her cheeks go red. ‘Dine with us tomorrow,’ Marin says, her voice tight.

‘Tomorrow?’ Nella is unable to help herself. It seems unlike Marin to be so hasty. ‘But—’

‘And do bring a sugar loaf. We will taste it and toast your fortune to come.’

‘You wish to taste our Carib treasure?’ Agnes buries her chin in her ostentatious fur collar, jet irises boring into Marin.

Marin smiles, and Nella notices how attractive she is when she does so, even if it is pretend.

‘I do,’ says Marin. ‘Very much.’

‘Agnes,’ says Meermans, and his wife’s name becomes a note of caution. ‘Let us take our place.’

‘We will come tomorrow,’ Agnes adds, ‘and will bring such sweetness the like of which you’ve never tasted.’

They drift off, calling greetings, waving and nodding as they go.

‘I could kill him,’ Marin murmurs, her eyes on their retreating backs. Nella wonders whom she means. ‘Carib treasure my eye. Why did Johannes ever agree to this?’

‘But don’t we need it, Madame?’ Cornelia murmurs. ‘You said so yourself—’

Marin snaps her head round. ‘Don’t parrot me my own words, girl. Listening at doors – you know nothing. Just make sure there’s a decent supper tomorrow.’

Cornelia shrinks back, bending down to busy herself with the dog, her face a mask of hurt pride. Marin rubs her temples, eyes closed in pain. ‘Are you quite well?’ Nella asks, feeling the need to intervene.

Marin looks at her. ‘Quite well.’