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"This is Peebo," Nella says. "My parakeet."
"So I see," says the woman, gazing down at her. "Or hear. I take it you have not brought any more beasts?"
"I have a little dog, but he's at home—"
"Good. It would mess in our rooms. Scratch the wood. Those small ones are an affectation of the French and Spanish," the woman observes. "As frivolous as their owners."
"And they look like rats," calls a second voice from somewhere in the hall.
The woman frowns, briefly closing her eyes, and Nella takes her in, wondering who else is watching this exchange. I must be younger than her by ten years, she thinks, though her skin's so smooth. As the woman moves past Nella toward the doorframe, there is a grace in her movements, self-aware and unapologetic. She casts a brief, approving glance at the neat shoes by the door and then stares into the cage, her lips pressed tight together. Peebo's feathers have puffed in fear.
Nella decides to distract her by joining hands in greeting, but the woman flinches at the touch.
"Strong bones for seventeen," the woman says.
"I'm Nella," she replies, retracting her hand. "And I'm eighteen."
"I know who you are."
"My real name is Petronella, but everyone at home calls me—"
"I heard the first time."
"Are you the housekeeper?" Nella asks. A giggle is badly stifled in the hallway shadows. The woman ignores it, looking out into the pearlescent dusk. "Is Johannes here? I'm his new wife." The woman still says nothing. "We signed our marriage a month ago, in Assendelft,"
Nella persists. It seems there is nothing else to do but to persist.
"My brother is not in the house."
"Your brother?"
Another giggle from the darkness. The woman looks straight into Nella's eyes. "I am Marin Brandt," she says, as if Nella should understand. Marin's gaze may be hard, but Nella can hear the precision faltering in her voice. "He's not here," Marin continues. "We thought he'd be. But he's not."
"Where is he, then?"
Marin looks out toward the sky again. Her left hand fronds the air, and from the shadows near the staircase two figures appear. "Otto," she says.
A man comes toward them and Nella swallows, pressing her cold feet upon the floor.
Otto's skin is dark, dark brown everywhere, his neck coming out from the collar, his wrists and hands from his sleeves—all unending, dark brown skin. His high cheeks, his chin, his wide brow, every inch. Nella has never seen such a man in her life.
Marin seems to be watching her to see what she will do. The look in Otto's large eyes makes no acknowledgment of Nella's ill-concealed fascination. He bows to her and she curtsies, chewing her lip till the taste of blood reminds her to be calm. Nella sees how his skin glows like a polished nut, how his black hair springs straight up from his scalp. It is a cloud of soft wool, not flat and greasy like other men's. "I—" she says.
Peebo begins to chirp. Otto puts his hands out, a pair of pattens resting on his broad palms. "For your feet," he says.
His accent is Amsterdam—but he rolls the words, making them warm and liquid. Nella takes the pattens from him and her fingers brush his skin. Clumsily she slips the raised shoes onto her feet. They are too big, but she doesn't dare say it, and at least they lift her soles off the chilly marble. She'll tighten the leather straps later, upstairs—if she ever gets there, if they ever let her past this hall.
"Otto is my brother's manservant," says Marin, her eyes still fixed on Nella. "And here is Cornelia, our maid. She will look after you."
Cornelia steps forward. She is a little older than Nella, perhaps twenty, twenty-one—and slightly taller. Cornelia pins her with an unfriendly grin, her blue eyes moving over the new bride, seeing the tremor in Nella's hands. Nella smiles, burnt by the maid's curiosity, struggling to say some piece of empty thanks. She is half grateful, half ashamed when Marin cuts her off.
From The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton. Copyright 2014 Jessie Burton. Excerpted by permission of Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
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