The Miniaturist(56)

It is his boots she sees first. Softest calfskin leather, by now a little scuffed. The sight of them slides her stomach. Horrified, she watches Jack Philips, fevered-looking, the malice written on his face, stride across the hallway tiles.





Cracks


They face each other. Jack is unshaven, underfed, his skin is dull where once it seemed so lustrous. Purple smudges smear the lower curve of his staring eyes. But he still has a presence, in his leather coat, those boots now broken in. The last time Nella saw Jack this close he was topless, slicked in her husband’s sweat, and the memory of it makes her breathless.

Cornelia rushes up from the kitchen stairs and tries to push him through the front door.

‘Wait, I’ve got something for you, Madame,’ Jack cries, holding his hands up, the innocent. Nella remembers his strange English accent, his inability to cling to the roll and strut of Dutch. He reaches under his jacket and Cornelia tenses like a cat. ‘I’m back on deliveries,’ he says.

‘What? You’re supposed to be guarding our sugar,’ says Nella. ‘Johannes said—’

‘Oh, you squeal like a mouse.’

He stands with his hand outstretched, as if the parcel he’s offering will gloss his insult. The package is smaller than the last – but there it is – the unmistakeable black ink sign of the sun. Nella snatches it from him, not wanting his fingers anywhere near it.

Cornelia scurries upstairs, her face white with fear. ‘I need to see him,’ Jack says. ‘Is he returned? Johannes, are you here?’ he calls down the passage towards the study door.

Upstairs, a door clicks open and Nella hears Cornelia’s hissed whispering.

‘Is it true he’s gone to Venice?’ Jack says. ‘Typical.’

Nella blushes, perceiving the intimacy between the men, something she’s denied. ‘He exchanges our Dam Square for the Rialto,’ Jack grins. ‘More fresh fish.’ He approaches her, a lulling insistence in his voice. ‘Did you believe him, when he said he was going there to work?’

‘How dare you come—’

‘I know more about him than you ever will, Madame. No one works in Venice. Milan, maybe. But Venice is dark canals and courtesans, and boys like moths, flying to the brightest flame.’

Nella’s own body feels light, hypnotized by Jack’s voice. He might have been a good actor, in his own language. Her heart feels the size of a pea bouncing around inside her ribs.

‘What’s happening here?’ Marin’s voice rings with authority from the top of the staircase. ‘Why is the front door still open?’

Jack steps into the light at the sound of her, opening his arms wide. He is really so beautiful, Nella thinks. So wild. She cannot take her eyes off him. ‘Petronella, close the door,’ Marin orders.

‘I don’t want to be locked in—’

‘Just close it, Petronella. Now.’

Her hand trembling, Nella shuts the front door. The hallway becomes a half-lit arena – for what exactly, she cannot bear to think. She wonders if Johannes is glad to be away from this rough boy, or whether he misses his mesmeric presence, that jumping voice. A sound of something being gutted makes Nella turn.

Jack has plunged a long and narrow dagger through the canvas of a still life. Its profusion of flowers and insects flaps open like a wound, the petals hanging awkwardly. Cornelia, standing on the stairs behind Marin, utters a nauseous moan.

‘Stop that!’ Nella shrieks. Control your voice, she thinks – he’s right. You’re a mouse. You’re not the mistress of this house. Her stomach swills, her mouth goes dry. ‘Otto,’ she tries to call, but her voice is not much more than a whisper.

‘Mr Philips!’

The ice in Marin’s voice, in contrast, slides all the way down the stairs, making Jack freeze. Clearly Jack is not the only actor in the room. Marin transforms herself, focused entirely on this dark-haired boy entering her realm.

‘How many times have I told you to keep away?’ she asks. Her words echo, multiplying the menace of her presence.

Jack backs into the middle of the floor and Marin comes to stand at the bottom of the staircase, ignoring the painting entirely. He lets the dagger hang loose in his hand, and spits onto the floor.

‘Clean that up,’ she says.

Jack brandishes the dagger in front of her body. ‘Your brother would f*ck a dog if the price was right.’

‘Mr Philips—’

‘They say he gives it to you too – that he’s the only man who will.’

Marin holds up her hand. ‘What a tired old insult,’ she says, bringing her open palm closer and closer to the tip of his dagger’s blade. Jack backs away slightly, but there is no more than an inch between the sharp tip of his weapon and Marin’s flesh. ‘How brave are you, really, Jack?’ she wheedles. ‘Do you dare draw my blood? Is that what you want to do?’

Jack grips the dagger tighter and when Marin places her palm directly on the tip, he swings the blade away. ‘Bitch,’ he says. ‘He told me I couldn’t work for him any more. And whose decision was that?’

‘Come, Jack,’ Marin says, her voice quiet and reasonable. ‘We’ve been here before. Stop being such a child, and tell me what it will cost to make you go away.’

‘Oh, I don’t want your money. I’m here to show what happens when you meddle.’ With a cry Jack lifts the dagger towards himself, and almost before Nella can register it, Marin shoots out her hand and slaps him on the cheek. He drops his arms and stares at her, agog.