The Miniaturist(57)

‘Why are you so weak?’ Marin hisses, though Nella can see that she herself is trembling. ‘You can’t be trusted for one hour.’

Jack rubs his face, collecting himself. ‘You made him get rid of me.’

‘I did no such thing,’ Marin says. ‘Johannes is a free man and you chose to believe what he told you. That belonged to my father,’ she adds, pointing to the dagger.

‘Well, Johannes gave it to me.’

From her pocket, Marin produces a crumpled set of guilder notes. She hands them over, her fingers brushing his palm. ‘There’s nothing for you here,’ she says.

Jack pats the guilders thoughtfully. Without warning he pulls Marin towards him and kisses her hard on her mouth.

‘Oh, God,’ Nella whispers.

Both Cornelia and Nella move towards Marin, of one mind to pull them apart – but Marin puts her hand up as if to say, Keep away – this transaction must take place.

Cornelia stops, in horrified disbelief. Marin, rigid, does not put her arms around the boy, but the kiss seems to last for ever. Why is he doing this? thinks Nella – and why is Marin letting him? Yet a small part of her cannot help wondering how it must feel to be Marin in this moment: the touch of such a lovely mouth.

The front door swings open. Otto, returned from church, stops on the threshold, his whole body stupefied by the entwined figures of Marin and Jack. Something in him seems to snap – he rushes towards them – ‘He has a knife!’ Nella cries, but Otto doesn’t stop.

At Nella’s cry, Jack breaks away from Marin, who staggers back towards the main staircase. ‘The old hag tastes of fish,’ he sneers in Otto’s face.

‘Go,’ hisses Otto. ‘Before I kill you.’

Jack hops over to the front door. ‘You might dress up as a lord, but you’re nothing but a savage,’ he says.

‘Filth.’ Otto’s voice booms like Pastor Pellicorne’s.

Jack freezes. ‘What, boy? What did you say to me?’

Otto advances towards Jack. ‘Otto,’ Marin cries.

‘He’s going to get rid of you, savage,’ says Jack. ‘He knows you’ve done something and he’s going to—’

‘Toot! Keep away from him! Don’t be a fool.’

‘Someone close the door!’

‘—he says a nigger can’t be trusted.’

Otto lifts his fist. ‘No!’ screams Cornelia as Jack shrinks away.

But all Otto does is place his palm gently on Jack’s chest. An iron feather that pins, his hand rising and falling with the Englishman’s ragged breath. ‘You’re nothing to him, boy,’ Otto murmurs. ‘Now go.’

Otto removes his hand just as Rezeki bounds back into the hall, a shaft of the weak light from outside turning her the colour of a pale mushroom. She snarls at Jack, her ears flattening on the top of her skull. Crouching low to the tiles, she warns him off. ‘Rezeki!’ Otto calls. ‘Get away!’

The flash of panic in Jack’s eyes compels Nella. ‘Jack,’ she says. ‘Jack, I promise. I’ll tell Johannes you were—’

But Jack has driven his dagger into Rezeki’s skull.

It is as if they all are underwater, and no one can breathe. The blade rips with a sickening squeak through fur and flesh and Rezeki slumps to the floor.

A wail starts low, rising higher and higher, and Nella realizes it’s coming from Cornelia, staggering across the tiles towards Rezeki’s body.

Rezeki is beginning to choke. Jack has driven in the dagger so hard that Cornelia’s fingers cannot pull it out. Dark blood spreads in skirts of scarlet. Tender and trembling, Cornelia cradles the animal’s head. Rezeki’s breath rattles; a reddened tongue lolls from her gaping mouth. As the nerves twitch to stillness in the dog’s legs, Cornelia presses her tight, desperate to hold together her fading warmth. ‘She’s gone,’ Cornelia whispers. ‘His girl is dead.’

Otto closes the door and stands between Jack and the outside world, his body spread across the entrance. Jack wrenches his dagger from Rezeki’s head and more blood gushes on the tiles. ‘Move!’ he shouts, his head butting Otto in the chest, his blade aloft. They scuffle, there is a fumble – a moment – and then Jack staggers back. He looks down at himself with terror in his eyes.

Jack turns to Nella. His own dagger is sticking in the top of his upper chest, below the collarbone but near enough to the heart for danger. His hands flutter round the hilt. My God, Marin cries, far off. No, please God!

Jack totters like a foal, arms out, knees buckling, and as he sinks to the floor he hangs on Nella’s skirts. They kneel together on the black and white, his shirt beginning to bloom a festive red, and not even the earthy smell of mingled bloods can hide the tang of his urine.

‘Otto,’ Nella says, but her voice comes out like a cracked whisper. ‘What have you done?’

Jack pulls Nella close and she feels the solid heat of the knife handle pressed between their bodies. He weeps with pain into her ear. ‘I’m bleeding,’ he pleads. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘Jack—’

‘Get up,’ cries Marin. ‘Get up!’

‘Marin, he’s dying—’

‘Madame Nella,’ Jack murmurs in her ear, holding Nella tighter, as if gripping onto life.