The Miniaturist(67)

‘Marin?’ Nella says. ‘Did you know he was going to leave?’

Marin betrays a glint of dismay at her question. ‘He is a man of sense,’ she replies, looking away and smoothing down her skirt.

‘And was it you who told him to go?’ Nella presses. The oblique answers behind which Marin hides are infuriating.

‘It was the lesser of two evils,’ she says. ‘I may have suggested it, but I forced nobody.’

‘I know how your suggestions work.’

Cornelia stares in abject horror. ‘You sent him away, Madame? You said Jack wouldn’t report him.’

‘Jack is infinite in his capacity to surprise. He is opportunistic. Say he took a chance to attack us – Otto would have no trial, he’d have no chance to live.’

‘How much you love to pull all our strings, Marin! Trial or not, Otto could die out there.’

Cornelia stands up. ‘He is the Seigneur’s servant.’

‘Is he not my servant too?’ Marin hurls her slice of apple tart against the wall, narrowly missing Cornelia. The maid jumps as the tart explodes upon the oil mural of the countryside, its currants spattering like dark bullets over the painted sheep. ‘Have I not got his best interests at heart?’ Marin cries. ‘Johannes doesn’t care.’

‘He’s out looking for him now!’

‘Johannes loves no one but himself,’ she hisses. ‘And that’s why we are here.’ The currants slide down the mural and lie on the floor, and Marin moves slowly from the room as if weighed down by her clothes.



Christmas, like a poor relation to the promise it once held, shuffles past, with still no sign of Otto. The donations of food are sent to the orphanages, and Johannes buries Rezeki in the wintry, hibernating garden. ‘I’ve never seen the Seigneur like this before,’ Cornelia says to Nella, her face white with worry. ‘He even read a passage from the Bible. It was like he wasn’t there.’

Diminished and withdrawn, Johannes goes out daily, claiming he is making enquiries for his missing servant and working on the sale of the Meermanses’ sugar. Sometimes, Nella thinks she should tell Marin that it is still all in the warehouse, that Frans is furious – but there seems little either of them could do, and Marin’s mood is so unpredictable.

The spores on the miniature cone play on Nella’s mind, and she checks them daily, certain they will have spread. The cone remains frozen in time, however – and Nella clings to this, by now a full believer in the prophetic power of the miniaturist. I will fight to emerge, she thinks – but the problem is that Nella has no idea where she is emerging. A dead end, she supposes. The end of a sack, a mute and feeble existence.

Otto is no place she can picture him, and his absence is a question none of them can answer. So far, his doll reveals nothing, so Nella relies on the household’s speculation on his whereabouts. Marin is adamant for London, Johannes reckons Constantinople. Cornelia is convinced he is still on these shores. It is too much for her to accept that Otto would willingly stray far.

‘Better for him in a port city,’ Nella says. ‘In Assendelft, people would shut their doors on him.’

‘What, in this cold?’ says Cornelia.

‘I believe it,’ Marin says.

‘I can’t believe he agreed to leave,’ says Nella, staring at her, but Marin looks away. ‘It just doesn’t seem like him.’

‘You’ve been here twelve weeks, Petronella,’ Marin snaps. ‘A lifetime isn’t enough to know how a person will behave.’

Cornelia begins to slack on her vinegar and lemon juice cleans, her sweeping and polishing, her laundering, cleaning, brushing and beating. Nella sends her letter to Lucas Windelbreke in Bruges, and waits for a reply. The winter weather might slow the messenger, she thinks, but it seems like her only resort.

She decides she must ask Marin if Johannes has spoken to her about the sugar still lying in the warehouse. She finds her in the hallway, where Marin has taken to pacing, staring at the space in the salon where she argued with her brother. The candied walnuts have emerged from her room, and piled in a bowl on a side table, their half-shells glint like beetles. Nella looks at them in surprise; this is not like Marin, eating sugary fripperies in plain view. I suppose if I’d had a fight like that with Carel, she thinks, I’d eat my weight in marzipan.

‘Marin, I must ask you something,’ she says.

Marin winces, clutching her shawl about her.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘The walnuts,’ Marin replies. ‘I ate too many.’ She turns upstairs towards her room and the moment for discussion vanishes.

Cornelia and Nella spend hours in the kitchen, where it is warmest. One late afternoon, when Marin is asleep and Johannes is out, there is a hard and heavy knocking on the front door.

‘What if it’s the militia, coming for Toot? God save us,’ whispers Cornelia.

‘Well, they won’t find him here, will they?’ Nella would never admit her relief to Marin, but she is glad that Otto has disappeared. She imagines Jack in the middle of a gang, pointing an accusing finger.

The knocking doesn’t stop. ‘I’ll go,’ Nella says, trying to keep at least the illusion of control. This topsy-turvy house, she thinks, where the mistress is the first to greet the guests.