The Miniaturist(49)

Nella looks away towards the bridge. A flash of pale hair, she is sure of it. Her skin begins to prickle again, she feels her bowels go weak. Is it her? There is quite a crowd at this end of the Herengracht, crossing the bridge. Nella leans further out of the window. It is her – that shining head of hair, masked by the shoal of darker figures, moving fast against the cold.

‘Wait!’ Nella shouts from the window. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

Someone titters on the path. ‘Is she a lunatic?’ a woman asks. Nella feels the burn of this unjust and awful scrutiny.

But the pale hair has disappeared, leaving both unanswered questions ringing in the air.





Written in the Water


Nella rushes down the main staircase, the new, miniature Peebo jammed deep into her pocket. Her indoor pattens still on her feet, she heads for the front door, but the intensity of Marin’s and Johannes’ voices in the dining room stops her dead. She hovers, torn between going after the miniaturist and listening to the siblings’ storm.

‘You said you would go, Johannes, and you must.’ Marin’s voice is low and strangely raw. ‘I’ve ordered a barge to take you to the harbour. Cornelia has packed you a trunk.’

‘What? I’ll go in a couple of weeks,’ Johannes replies. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

‘It’s November, Johannes! Think of all the pastries and parties that require sugar this season. To go in December will be too late, and the warehouse damp will not be doing that sugar any good—’

‘What about the damp in my bones, hopping from boat to boat in this weather? You’ve no idea of the monotony of greasing palms, the exhaustion of speaking Italian, dinners with cardinals who can talk of nothing but the size of their Tuscan palaces.’

Marin sniffs. ‘You are correct, I do not. But all things considered, it would be – prudent for you – to be away.’

‘Prudent – why?’ Johannes’ voice warms with teasing. ‘What are you plotting when I’m not here?’

‘No plot, Johannes. I will collect my scattered thoughts. And so will Petronella.’

‘I’m tired, Marin. I’m nearly forty.’

‘You were the one who wanted to sell it abroad. And if you bothered to visit your wife’s bed – then in fifteen, sixteen years’ time, you could hand all this to your son. You could spend your dotage in a tavern, for all I care.’

‘What did you say? My son?’

Nella can almost taste the silence which follows. It falls between them, Johannes and Marin in the room and her outside it, like a dense blanket of snow a man might trip in and disappear. She rests her cheek against the wood, waiting. Was that longing she heard in her husband’s voice, or was it merely surprise? How correct had Agnes really been, that night at the silversmiths’? No sure bet, was Johannes’ reported view on heirs. If things can change, Nella thinks, running her fingers over the miniature bird in her pocket – then maybe that means people too.

‘Marin,’ Johannes sighs, breaking Nella’s thoughts, the snow of reverie melted. ‘These perfect lives you’d have us lead, plotted on maps that take us nowhere! In fifteen years I’ll probably be dead.’

‘Oh, I see our destinations clearly, brother. That is what pains me.’

‘If I go I must take Otto with me.’

‘We need Otto here,’ says Marin. ‘Just three women, and no man to lug the firewood? The ice is coming in.’

‘You want to run my business, but you can’t lift a log? In that case,’ Johannes sniffs, when Marin offers no rejoinder, ‘there is only one other assistant I could take.’

‘If you’re even considering—’

Nella barges into the room. It is the first time she has seen her husband since the moment in his office. An expression of pain flickers over Johannes’ face as he rises from his chair, awkwardly scraping its feet across the floor. ‘Nella,’ he asks, ‘were you—’

‘What’s that?’ Nella interrupts, pointing to where Marin is poring over a map.

‘De’Barbari’s map of Venice,’ says Marin, gazing at the petals of the periwinkle nestling by Nella’s ear.

‘Did you have any luck with your parakeet?’Johannes asks.

Nella jams her hand in her pocket. ‘No. I did not.’

‘Ah.’ He pauses, rubbing his chin in meditation, looking at her carefully. He glances at Marin. ‘I have decided I must go to Venice, to set up talks regarding Agnes’ sugar.’

‘Venice?’ Nella echoes. ‘Will you not be here at Christmas?’

‘I cannot guarantee it.’

‘Oh.’ To her surprise, Nella hears the feather-breath of disappointment in her voice. Marin looks up.

‘We thought it would be best,’ Johannes says.

‘For whom?’

‘For the sugar,’ he replies.

‘For all,’ says Marin.

As Marin intended, Johannes boards the VOC barge from outside the house. It will take him towards the docks, where he will board his ship. Standing on the threshold of the house, Nella shivers as he holds up a reluctant hand towards her. She mirrors him, her own palm facing the cold air, not waving, just held in goodbye.