The Miniaturist(63)

Nella turns to see Marin, standing at the door. Her face is pinched, and she hesitates before she glides in, remaining near the wall.

‘How many loaves did you sell in Venice?’ Marin asks.

‘Make it a big fire, Otto.’

‘Brother, how many did we sell?’

From his seat, Johannes places the empty frame upright on his lap. His upper body is in the middle, and he gestures in the hollow. He picks a regent’s pose, self-satisfied and ridiculous. ‘It was as slow as I predicted it would be,’ he says. ‘It would have been better to go in the new year.’

‘Then perhaps you will light such a gigantic fire when the sugar is actually sold?’ Johannes’ ensuing silence appears to incense his sister. ‘The greedy will bring ruin to their households.’

‘Your welcomes are getting worse, Marin. You’re the one that pushed me out on a ship to Italy in the dead of winter. Do not speak to me of greed. And please, don’t keep quoting the Bible. It becomes tiresome, given your own doubtful piety.’

Marin laughs, a strange sound which cuts the air. ‘You are the constant provocator, not me,’ she says, her every word straining on a leash.

He pulls off his travelling cloak and throws it in a bundle. ‘And stop talking about this household as if it’s yours. It belongs to Petronella.’

These words shoot through the air towards Nella like a bolt of light, but Marin stares at him in disbelief. ‘Then Petronella may have it,’ she says.

As easy as that? Nella thinks, turning to her. It doesn’t seem possible; Marin cannot mean it.

‘I’ve wasted my whole life keeping yours smooth,’ Marin says, stepping towards her brother. ‘We’re nothing more than prisoners to your desire.’

Johannes sighs, holding his palms up to the fire to warm himself. ‘Prisoners?’ He turns to Otto, kneeling on the other side of the growing flames. ‘Otto, do you feel like a prisoner?’

Otto swallows, his voice barely a whisper. ‘No, Seigneur.’

‘Nella, do I keep you under lock and key?’

‘No, Johannes,’ Nella replies. Though, she thinks, those empty nights waiting for your visits have felt like prison enough. She wants to be up in her room right now, alone, buried under the coverlet.

‘This house is the only place any of us are free.’ Johannes leans over in his chair and puts his head in his hands. ‘And, Marin, you of all people cannot deny it.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Marin snaps. This argument feels well trodden to Nella, and like the fire, its heat is rising fast. ‘You are so selfish. It suits you to have me here, whilst you barely bother to hide the things you do.’

Johannes looks up at his sister. Nella sees how exhausted he is, face drawn, eyes dark. ‘You think it suits me, is that the tale you tell yourself?’ he says. ‘Marin, against the counsel of my soul, I married a child. And I did it for you.’

‘I’m not a child,’ Nella whispers, finally sinking into a chair under the force of his words. And yet, she does feel childish. Johannes has transformed her in a moment, and she wants her mother, someone to notice her pain, someone else to take Rezeki’s body away.

‘And nothing’s changed,’ Marin says, oblivious to Johannes’ plea. ‘The careless attitude to Meermans’ sugar, our future—’

Johannes kicks the empty frame and it splinters, skidding across the polished floor just as Cornelia enters, her sleeves rolled up, perspiration on her brow. Holding a tray of wine and bread, the maid stares at the broken frame and hovers by the door.

‘You’ve never had to compromise!’ Johannes says.

‘It’s all I’ve ever done. You think you can buy abstracts, Johannes. Silence, loyalty, people’s souls—’

‘You’d be surprised—’

‘So tell me – what happens when you’re actually caught? What happens when the burgomasters find out what you are?’

By the fire, Otto seems to choke on his breath.

‘I am too rich for the damned burgomasters,’ Johannes says.

‘No.’ Marin’s voice is hard. ‘No. You’ve not been paying attention. I am the one who looks twice at the ledger books. I am the one – and let me tell you, the story they tell is a sorry one indeed.’

Johannes stands from his chair, seeming to seize up inch by inch as Marin’s words plot upon him with thirty years of practised ease.

‘You always thought you were different, didn’t you, Marin – not marrying, interfering in my business. Do you really think, that because you have some maps of the East Indies up on your wall, some books on travelling, some rotten berries and a few animal skulls, that you know what life is like out there? What I do to keep you comfortable? You are the one who has no idea.’

Marin’s eyes bore into him. ‘I’ve got bad news for you,’ she says.

No, Nella thinks. Not like this. Otto drops a large piece of peat onto the floorboards. Its black crumbs spray onto the wood.

‘The burgomasters would scourge you for being a single woman if they could!’ Johannes cajoles, coming towards her. ‘The only thing you had to do, Marin – marry rich, marry well – oh, God, just to be married – you couldn’t even manage that. We tried, didn’t we? We tried to get you married, but all the guilders in Amsterdam turned out not to be enough—’