*CONTAINS SPOILERS*

There's definitely something to be said for the ambitiousness of this novel, and the fact that the authoress has been this widely published so young - all credit to her for that reputable achievement. However, the comparisons to Sarah Waters for me are totally unjustified and hyped, as yet. It's certainly an intriguing synopsis, with all the promise of secrecy and scandal mixed with the uncanny, perhaps supernatural; and yet, ironically, the miniaturist's motto: 'all and yet nothing' appears to sum up the juxtaposition of large ideas and overall, quite underwhelming plot revelations.

I may be being unfair because although I struggled with the first half, which was seemingly uneventful, I did enjoy the second half more, and in particular I thought the last two-hundred pages really picked up. However, it was precisely this that was also very dissatisfying. The hefty beginning appeared to be winding its way through a maze of mysterious and genuinely appealing, interconnecting subplots that one hopes eventually meet and form equivalently impressive outcomes, which it somewhat does and yet doesn't. An (almost) unexpected death; an execution; an illicit romance - they all seem to magnify the plot in the last few chapters, but forget almost entirely that for the most part, the reader has been focused on the mystery of the miniaturist, which now shrinks into the background as mere symbolism for what suddenly appears to be the main point of the story: Johannes and Marins' respective dishonour.

There is no anticipated confrontation with the miniaturist, no real development of her character despite the weight of the tension surrounding her, and I speculate upon rereading, that the elusive prologue is from the point of view of the miniaturist, and yet enlightens neither her purpose nor personality and therefore seems pointless. For example, why does she place the miniature house 'where she had always intended it to lie' - on Marin's grave, when all of her communications appeared to exist for Petronella's story?

And thus Petronella herself, (I eventually got irritated at the name 'Nella') seems to serve as her own puppet, hosting the real show of the Brandt siblings, and a household of which she plays little part. So she manages to sell a bit of sugar towards the end and comforts her husband in prison (albeit forgetting to bring him a clean shirt after he's been tortured...) - for a pronounced, contemporary feminist-historical fiction novel, I could think of far more meaningful, and inspiring heroines. Unlike some critics, in that respect, I didn't find it at all incredible that she would turn 'resourceful' or 'independent'. Yes, she would have been sheltered, given her upbringing and the time in which the novel is set, but to imply that she would instead have cowered under the cacophony of her bizarre marriage, and unwelcoming sister-in-law, is to undermine the heralding of such feminist claims upon her character anyway.

But rather than find issues with the credibility of her actions, I doubted the connection between Petronella and the miniaturist as a convincing enough foundation for the events that are unravelled in the actual story (which is what? I'm still unsure). Nella repeats towards the end that the miniaturist has 'given back' her life, or 'revealed it' to her, but what was really so obscure that she could not have worked out for herself? She witnesses her husband's 'rod' poking a boy's face pretty early on, and acknowledges therefore the impossibility of children, and yet when the miniaturist sends her a cot she regards it a 'taunt' rather than consider the two other women in the house. And since there are figurines of everyone, it is obviously not merely herself that is under surveillance (notwithstanding the fact she becomes aware of Madam Marin's false piety - she was clearly a minx from the off). What else is there to 'discover'? I suppose the only thing is the transformation of her original naivety into a fairly responsive woman. Yet this, again, is at odds with certain details of the story, such as her knowledge of the sugar Johannes so frustratingly dismisses - if it be strength and endurance she is learning surely she would react correspondingly to what becomes an increasingly evident issue? But her conversations with Johannes over it (or anything) are few and fruitless and maddening.

He, on the other hand - I have no idea. He's a fairly developed character, despite his evasiveness, intriguing, charming and intelligent, though exasperatingly thoughtless under the circumstances. If Marin and Nella - two women, uneducated in the arts of trading - could see from the ledger books and the ever-depleting money chest, that the sugar desperately needed selling, it is implausible to me that Johannes of the above description would be so ridiculous as to risk the financial future of his wife (for whom he bestowed respect and gratitude) and his sister (whom he did love), not least his beloved Otto, all because he 'saw the greed of Agnes and Frans Meermans, and it disgusted [him]. It makes no sense and he almost deserves to die for it.

But then again, not much of this novel made a lot of sense. Why did Rezeki's head show a red line after she'd been stabbed, and then went away when Johannes held it? Why did Jack kiss Marin in the hall? Why did Nella panic when Jack's miniature was thrown out into the road (as if something might happen to him) however there was no consequence when she broke off Agnes Meermans' hand? Why, for a relatively small cast of characters, were only a few of them convincing? (Cornelia and Marin were by far my favourites, although even Marin suffered bursts of affection and cutting spitefulness in sudden, unpersuasive shifts of mood). And probably the biggest question of all time: Why ON EARTH did Jack go as far as to testify that Johannes had RAPED him for apparently NO OTHER REASON than frustration at the injustice the two of them endured as homosexuals in the seventeenth century? EVEN JOHANNES DOES NOT FULLY QUESTION IT.

Consequentially, after reading the book I was a bit disappointed and confused, and after writing this review, am very angry and dissatisfied. The plot was not nearly as intricate as it promised, the characters were (in fairness) interesting, except, unfortunately, for Nella, and I think what could have been quite a successfully complex storyline was substituted for overdone, convoluted prose, often even cringy where perhaps Burton felt the need for variety or avoidance of repetition: 'Nella was four when Carel was born, nine when Arabella was dragged out of their mother'. 'nine when Arabella came' would have been fine.