The Miniaturist(82)

‘I know that, Marin, I know. And while I’m trying to save us, you’re spending money we simply do not have.’

The slap comes from nowhere, stinging Nella’s face.

‘I marvel how he could ever love you,’ Nella says. Hot and cruel, the words rush out before she can stop them.

‘He did,’ Marin says. ‘He does.’

‘We will have to hire a midwife,’ Nella says quietly. ‘I cannot bear the weight of this birth alone.’

Marin snorts. ‘You won’t be bearing any weight at all.’

‘Stop, stop,’ Cornelia pleads.

‘Marin, it’s the law—’

‘No. Absolutely not.’ Marin roughly pushes the end of the cradle; it rocks back and forth, its emptiness strangely antagonizing. ‘Do you know what else is the law, Petronella?’ Her cheeks are flushed, her hair has loosened from her cap. ‘A midwife has to write down the identity of the father. And if we don’t tell her, she’ll report our silence too.’ She stops the cradle, breathing heavily. ‘So like everything else, I will be dealing with this alone.’

Marin places her hand on her stomach, but this time she flinches, as if she’s touched a burning coal.



In the afternoon, Nella wanders slowly through the corridors. The quiet rooms make her feel as if there is no one in the house but her. The key to the warehouse still hangs round her neck, warmed by her skin, worth more to her than any silver necklace Johannes would have commissioned.

With a rope, Cornelia lugs the cradle up to Marin’s little cell. It waits expectantly, taking up most of the free space amongst the skulls and maps and feathers. The maid’s attitude towards Marin’s secret has been a rapid metamorphosis; now the baby is a marvel, a crucible in which all their problems will burn. Cornelia breathes his invisible presence, gulping it like fresh air whenever she can. She has started cleaning again, opening windows despite her hatred of the cold; beeswax on bedposts, floorboards and cupboards and windowsills, lavender oil burners, vinegar on the glass, lemon juice flicked on fresh sheets. Still, Nella supposes, it is better than her gloom.

In the back room on the ground floor, away from prying eyes on the canal path, Nella can hear Marin and Cornelia setting up a game of verkeerspel. She thinks of the little coriander-seed counters upstairs, the miniaturist’s exquisitely made wooden box, turning up like a miracle of chance. She has almost given up hoping that she will hear from Lucas Windelbreke in Bruges, a hundred and fifty miles away, on icy roads. My letter probably got lost, she thinks, creeping up to the door to spy on Marin and Cornelia.

‘My whale body,’ Marin sighs.

‘Your little Jonah,’ smiles the maid. Nella still feels bruised from their morning encounter. Marin is not dealing with everything alone, she thinks. Who went to the warehouse, the Stadhuis? But they haven’t time to fight this out. Time is the latest luxury to be in short supply.

What would Agnes say if she saw Marin now? Surely Frans Meermans had thought of this eventuality. All those times spent with Marin, hidden from his wife’s darting eyes. Didn’t either of them worry how Nature might take her course?

‘He’s kicking me,’ Marin says to Cornelia, looking down at her body. ‘When I stand in front of the looking glass sometimes I see within myself the imprint of a tiny foot. I’ve not seen such a thing before.’

Nella has – when her unborn younger siblings punched at the lining of their mother’s womb. But she will not say this, for Marin in her wonderment is rather wonderful.

‘I should like to see that,’ she says instead, entering the room.

‘If he does it again, I’ll let you know,’ Marin says. ‘Sometimes, it’s his hand. It looks like a kitten paw.’

‘Do you think it’s a boy?’ Nella asks.

‘I believe so,’ replies Marin, giving the bulge of her body a peremptory tap. Her fingers hover, as if they want to caress it. ‘I have been reading,’ she says, pointing to Blankaart’s Children’s Diseases resting on a table.

Cornelia bobs a curtsey and makes her exit. ‘It must be time soon,’ Nella says.

‘We’ll need hot water, cloths, a stick for me to hold my teeth upon,’ Marin replies.

Nella feels only pity. She remembers what Cornelia told of Marin’s mother. She barely survived after Madame Marin was born. Has Marin any idea of the blood that is to come, the rebellion of the body, the noises and hot fear? Marin seems determined to exert her formidable will on this baby, as if, like the hermetic creature inside her, she is unaffected by the world’s external tricks, as if she is immune to suffering.

‘I thought we could play a game,’ Marin says, lining up the verkeerspel counters like coins. ‘You go first.’

Nella takes this as a peace offering, and plays her first counter on the verkeerspel board. Marin assesses her move, contemplating the sole disc, shaking the dice like two teeth in the hollow of her fist. She worries her black token, unsure of where to place it.

‘Marin,’ Nella says. ‘You haven’t asked about the warehouse.’

Marin continues to stare at the board. Against her will, Nella feels her patience slipping away. ‘And you haven’t asked me about Johannes.’

Marin looks up. ‘What?’

‘They’re going – to – put him on the rack—’