The Miniaturist(62)

But her frustration melts into delight, for before her inside is a collection of tiny cakes and pastries. Pufferts and cross-hatched waffles, tiny gingerbread people, olie-koecken dusted with white powder, round and moreish in appearance. They look as if they have been made of real pastry, yet when Nella touches them, they are hard and unforgiving. She finds another message, written on the paper beneath them:

DON’T LET SWEET WEAPONS STRAY



Nella looks up at the windows of the house. ‘Sweet weapons?’ she cries, pushing her own, pleading note underneath the miniaturist’s door. The morning light shifts over the panes, concealing the miniaturist’s secrets. Nella looks down at these inedible delicacies, almost tempted to hurl them into the nearest canal. What does the woman mean by these? No war was ever won, Nella thinks, with an arsenal of sugared treats.





The Empty Space


When Nella returns to the house, Cornelia is waiting for her at the door.

‘What is it?’ Nella asks, seeing the stricken look on the maid’s face.

‘The Seigneur’ Cornelia whispers. ‘He’s back from Venice. He’s already asking where Rezeki is.’

‘What?’ Nella feels the quality of the air thicken, and a nub of fear lodges itself in her throat. She pictures Rezeki’s bloodstained body waiting in the cellar – and Johannes, unaware, waiting for the tip-tip sound of her shapely paws.

‘It has to be you who tells him, Madame,’ Cornelia pleads. ‘I cannot.’

Nella closes the front door quietly, scanning the floor, relieved there is no more blood to be seen. Cornelia has mopped and mopped, dousing the tiles in vinegar and lemon juice, a bath of boiling water and lye over the stains. Yet upstairs in the cabinet house, it wasn’t possible to rub away the cross-like mark on Rezeki’s miniature head.

‘But why me, Cornelia?’ she asks.

‘You’re strong, Madame. It’s better coming from you.’

Nella doesn’t feel strong. She feels ill-prepared, daunted by the story she will have to tell. All I needed was a bit more time to sweeten this truth to some sort of a lie, she thinks. How does anyone start such a conversation?

Johannes is standing in the centre of the salon, his gaze resting on the hollowed picture frame propped against the painted mural that stretches round the walls. He has brought two rugs back with him, thick weaves with mathematical patterns. They already have twenty, thirty of these tapestries, Nella thinks. What is the point of more? The room is freezing, and he is still in his travelling cloak.

To her surprise, Johannes’ eyes light up. Her husband actually seems pleased to see her.

‘Johannes,’ she says. ‘You are home safely. Was Venice – enjoyable?’ She hears Jack’s crooked Dutch in her ear – more fresh fish.

Johannes sniffs the air, wrinkling his nose at the lingering scent of vinegar wafting in from the hall. Nella prays that Cornelia’s bubbling kitchen pots will soon overwhelm it.

‘Venice was Venice,’ he says. ‘Venetians talk a lot. And there was too much dancing for my knees.’

To her astonishment, he takes her in a huge embrace. Nella’s head only reaches Johannes’ breastbone, and he presses her ear to where she feels the thump of his heart. As he digs his chin onto the top of her head, she finds the awkward hold an unexpected comfort. She has never touched this much of Johannes before. Her feet begin to lift off the floor as if she’s clinging to a raft. As she closes her eyes, Rezeki’s bloodied face rises into view, and no amount of scrunching her eyelids will make it go away.

‘I am glad to see you, Nella,’ he says before putting her down. ‘Why is there no fire in this room? Otto!’ he calls.

‘And I am glad too, Johannes,’ she replies, her mind reaching for words that simply slip away every time they feel her coming. ‘I – shall we sit?’

He collapses into a chair with a sigh, and Nella finds herself still standing.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, and she thinks the concern in his voice will break her.

‘Nothing, Johannes. There’s – I – Agnes was angry with me,’ she blurts. She cannot do it – she cannot say the words. It is easier to choose the subject of Agnes Meermans over news of his beloved dog.

Johannes’ expression clouds. ‘And why was Agnes angry?’

‘I – saw her at the Old Church. She says that all their sugar is still in the warehouse. That it might start to crystallize.’

Johannes draws his hand down the side of his face. ‘She had no right to speak to you like that.’

Otto appears at the threshold of the salon, carrying a basket of peat. He hovers, barely able to look up.

‘Ah, the fire,’ says Johannes. ‘Come in, Otto, and make us warm.’

‘Seigneur. Welcome home.’

‘What’s Cornelia cooking?’

‘Pig-liver pudding with barley, Seigneur.’

‘My favourite for December! I wonder what I’ve done to deserve it.’ Johannes smiles, sniffing the air again, running his hand over the empty frame. ‘What happened here? This was one of my favourites.’

Otto seems almost grey in the half-light, and Johannes looks at him shrewdly.

‘An accident,’ says Nella.

‘I see. Well, pile up the kindling, Otto. My feet are so cold they might fall off.’