The Miniaturist(92)

How obsessed he is with his guilders, how careless of everything else. Nella’s blood heats the ropes of her temper; they smoke and snap apart. ‘I’ve seen Agnes’ sugar loaves,’ she says. ‘Your borrowed glory. They’re not all rotten – but you are, and so’s your wife. Marin made a lucky escape when she decided to turn you down.’

At this, he staggers back.

‘And I believe, Seigneur,’ she says, ‘I know, that even if Johannes had sold every one of those loaves by now – you would still be happy to see him drown.’

‘How dare you. You’re nothing but a little—’

‘Keep those guilders,’ she says and turns away, calling to the skies. ‘And may the miniaturist hound both of you to Hell.’





Arrival


From the Stadhuis, she sets off quickly in the direction of the Kalverstraat, but running footsteps and Cornelia’s cry stop her in her tracks. ‘Madame, Madame!’

‘Cornelia? I found Meermans—’

‘Did you tell him about Madame Marin?’ Cornelia, stricken, looks up and down the street. She appears green in the dim rainy light, her hands bunched together as if clutching a sprig of invisible flowers.

‘No.’ Nella feels suddenly exhausted. ‘I traded with him. Guilders for a life.’

Cornelia’s face falls. ‘But did you persuade him to stop testifying?’

‘I gave him a thousand guilders as a start for his precious sugar crystals. I cannot promise it will change anything, Cornelia. I’ve tried. He’s done something to the miniaturist, he sent the burgomasters there. I don’t know if she’s—’

‘You must come home.’

‘But—’

‘Now. There’s something happening to Madame Marin’s heart.’



‘Feel it,’ says Marin, waddling out of the gloom as soon as the two women arrive and close the heavy door. ‘My heart’s beating so fast.’

Nella puts her fingers to Marin’s neck and feels the pulse jumping, surging through. Marin gasps, reaching out for her.

‘What is it?’

‘The pain,’ she wheezes. ‘It’s breaking me apart.’

‘Pain?’ says Cornelia, horrified. ‘You said no pain had started.’

Marin moans. On her skirts, liquid soaks the dark wool, down towards the hem in an expanding circle.

‘Upstairs,’ says Nella, trying to sound calm, but her own heart is thumping. ‘We’ll go to my room. It’s nearer the kitchen to fetch water.’

‘Is it my time?’ Marin asks, her voice high with fear.

‘I think it might be. We have to fetch a midwife.’

‘No.’

‘We can buy her silence.’

‘With what, Petronella? You’re not the only one who looks in Johannes’ chest.’

‘Please, Marin. We have enough to pay her! Be calm.’

‘I don’t want anyone here but you and Cornelia.’ Marin grips Nella’s hand, as if clinging to it will make everything all right. ‘Women do this all the time, Petronella. No one but you can see.’

‘I’ll fetch hot water,’ Cornelia says, rushing down to the working kitchen. Nella notices Blankaart’s book is open on a chair.

‘You do know what to do, Petronella?’

‘I’ll try.’ Nella was four when Carel was born, nine when Arabella was dragged out of their mother. She remembers the screaming, the panting, the lowing like a cow let loose in the house. The sheets stained red, piled up later in the garden, ready for the pyre. The weak light on her mother’s clammy face, the look of marvel on her father’s. There were the others of course, the children who didn’t make it. She’d been older then. Nella closes her eyes, trying to remember what the mid-wives did, trying to forget those little corpses.

‘Good,’ says Marin, but she looks pale.

‘When the pain was bad,’ Nella says, ‘my mother paced.’

For two hours, Marin paces upstairs, groaning when the rolls of thunder break inside her. Nella goes to the window, thinking of Johannes on his pallet of straw, of Jack, performing his way out of a locked box, of Meermans with his rain-spattered pride and guilders, of Agnes waiting for a message from the Kalverstraat. Where is the miniaturist now? In the corner of Nella’s eye, the cabinet house lives behind its yellow curtains, full of puppets held in time. Your cabinet will remain unfinished, Madame.

Outside, the rain has intensified; January rain, cold and unrelenting. There is a dog scuffle, the blur of a tawny cat. A sharp stench suddenly fills the room and Nella turns from the window to see the look of pure horror on Marin’s face, staring at the pile of hot, bloody faeces at her feet.

‘Oh God,’ Marin says, covering her face with her hands. Nella guides her back towards the bed. ‘My body is not my own. I am—’

‘Think no more of it. This is a good sign.’

‘But what’s happening? I’m falling apart. There’ll be nothing left of me once the baby’s here.’

Nella wipes away the mess, and puts the soiled towel into a bucket with a lid. When she turns round, Marin is curled up on her side. ‘This is not how I imagined it would be,’ she says, her face buried in the cushions.