The Miniaturist(85)

‘Please.’

Arnoud removes a loaf from the Surinam side, and also a loaf marked with the three crosses of Amsterdam. From his pocket he produces a sharp little knife, and with an expert flick he takes a solid shaving off each cone. Breaking them in two, he hands half to Hanna. As they put the Surinam sample on their tongues, their eyes meet.

What are they saying to each other, with no words? A conversation is certainly taking place. They do the same with the Amsterdam sample, dissolving in their mouths and communing in silence. Whatever its true purpose, marriage is certainly a funny thing, Nella thinks. Who would have paired elegant Hanna with a round puffert of a man like Arnoud Maakvrede? She wishes Johannes were here. A man of many languages, he would understand the traders’ silence. The image of him in that cell is too much, and Nella buries it, trying to focus on the sugar.

‘There are one thousand five hundred loaves here,’ she says. ‘Seven hundred and fifty were refined in Surinam. The rest have been refined here in the city. We are looking to sell them all.’

‘I thought Brandt traded from the east?’

‘He does. But a Surinam plantation had excess stock and wanted to keep it in the republic. We have other people coming to see it later today,’ she lies. ‘They are very keen.’

Hanna delicately wipes the corner of her mouth. ‘How much for the Amsterdam lot?’

Nella pretends to consider. ‘Thirty thousand,’ she says.

Hanna’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘Impossible,’ says Arnoud.

‘It is, I’m afraid,’ Hanna says. ‘We simply do not have that kind of money.’

‘Prosperous enough,’ murmurs Arnoud. ‘But not stupid.’

‘We are makers of cakes, not sellers of sugar,’ Hanna says, frowning at him. ‘There may be no guild in our way, but as pastry bakers we’re still subject to the whims of the burgomasters and their hatred of papist gingerbread idols.’

‘It is excellent sugar, as I’m sure you can tell. Its quality alone will guarantee it sells. The craving craze shows no sign of abating – marzipan, cakes, waffles,’ Nella says. She watches Arnoud as he thinks, staring at the cones rising to the roof. ‘Your reputation would certainly increase,’ she adds. ‘I can only imagine what other doors such sugar might open.’

Nella isn’t certain, but she thinks Hanna is hiding a smile. It is very unlikely they have thirty thousand guilders to spare, although you never know in this city. It is a preposterous sum – but what can she do? Marin said to name a high price, for Arnoud to feel he’s comfortably clambering down. They need their cut, Agnes needs hers. Nella begins to feel desperate.

‘We’ll give you nine thousand,’ Arnoud says.

‘I cannot let you take all this sugar for nine thousand.’

‘Very well. We will take a hundred Amsterdam loaves for nine hundred guilders and let you know how it sells. If we make a profit, we will come back for more.’

Nella tries to think quickly, as fast as Arnoud. He wants one cone for nine guilders, but she needs to be selling each one nearer to twenty. He came prepared, she thinks. ‘Too low, Seigneur. Three thousand five hundred,’ she says.

Arnoud laughs. ‘One thousand one hundred,’ he replies.

‘Two thousand.’

He twists his lip. ‘One thousand five.’

‘Very well, Seigneur Maakvrede. But I have two other interested parties coming to see it this afternoon. I can give you three days to make your decision on the rest, but if they offer higher then your chance is gone.’

‘Done,’ he replies, folding his arms, looking impressed. He seems happy; it is the first time she has seen him smile. ‘For a hundred loaves.’

Nella’s head spins. She’s not done as well as she hoped, but at least some of their stock is to be circulated – and in Amsterdam, where words are water, all it takes is one platter of delicious buns. She puts a Surinam loaf in a basket for Cornelia to experiment with drying them out.

Arnoud gives Nella one thousand five hundred guilders in crisp notes. It feels exhilarating to touch them – a sense of potential, a life raft made of paper. One thousand must go straight to Agnes and Meermans on the Prinsengracht, a sweetener to try and stop them testifying against Johannes. The other five hundred must bribe Jack Philips. They will have to think about saving anything for themselves later.

Hanna begins loading a basket with the loaves. ‘How is Cornelia?’ she asks.

She’s frightened, Nella wants to say. She’s tethering herself to her kitchen. She had left the maid in a frenzy, yanking open the tight globe of a savoy cabbage, shredding scallions and leeks. ‘She’s well, thank you, Madame Maakvrede.’

‘Some shrink, whilst others grow,’ Arnoud remarks, shaking his head at the mountain of cones.

Hanna squeezes Nella’s hand. ‘We will sell this sugar, and return,’ she says. ‘Of that I will make sure.’



Nella hurries home just as it starts to rain, feeling as if the guilder notes in her pocket are banners of small triumph. It’s a beginning, and Nella trusts Hanna Maakvrede. Whilst it will not be pleasant to pay a visit to Agnes and Frans Meermans on the Prinsengracht, performance is all. She will tuck her real self away as Marin does. There is a chance that the sight of some money might soften Frans Meermans’ oddly hardened heart, or waken Agnes’ long-dormant generous spirit. Can they really want Johannes dead? To desire another’s end – how much misery must you have stored inside yourself?