The stands rose above the street like a wooden cliff, tier on tier of benches groaning under the crush of bodies. The common folk were packed shoulder to shoulder, breath rising in pale clouds, stamping their feet for warmth as they jostled for a view. Children perched on their fathers' backs, their shrill cries cutting across the deeper roar of the crowd.
Near the centre, a section had been cordoned off with silk ropes and draped in cloth. Here the city's well-to-do gathered with space enough to breathe, their furs drawn close against the late-winter chill, jewels winking in the pale sun. The boards beneath them creaked no less than the commons', but the air of order, of superiority, held firm.
It was here Katelijne De Wael, with her mother and brother, took her seat. The roar of the multitude rose in waves — laughter, cries, vendors hawking chestnuts and honey cakes. The air was a muddle of scents: chestnuts sweet as sugar, perfume sharp as vinegar where too much had been dabbed, the briny tang of pickled herrings passed hand to hand, and — strongest of all — the greasy smoke of sausages hissing over braziers, their fat spitting into the cold air. Beneath it all lingered the bite of frost, clinging even as the press of people gave off its own warmth.
She smoothed her skirts, heart thrumming in time with the distant drums gathering out of sight. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tried to still her hands.
'Still fussing?' Edwin groaned, slumping beside her. 'You've looked into that mirror a dozen times today.'
'It's Carnival,' Katelijne said evenly, folding her hands in her lap. 'Everyone dresses finer than usual.'
'Finer?' Edwin snorted. 'I don't see how your hair can be finer than it was this morning. Unless you mean to braid each strand separately.'
Katelijne pressed her lips together. Only her brother could find irritation in a feast day.
He tugged at his cuffs, restless as a dog straining its leash. 'All this waiting. And for what? Father strutting about in his robe like a peacock?'
'Hush,' their mother murmured without looking at them. Her eyes were fixed on the street, gloved hand tapping the railing in anticipation.
Katelijne ignored Edwin and turned her gaze across the way, where the first of the guilds came into view, banners rippling overhead. The goldsmiths marched with measured pride, chains of office flashing in the winter sun. The beat of the drums steadied with their pace, and the crowd roared approval, stamping so hard the whole stand shook.
Then she saw him: her father among them, head held high, his merchant's gown rich but sober, every inch the dignified master of his trade. Katelijne's chest swelled with pride despite herself.
'There, children,' her mother said, gloved hand tightening on the railing. 'Your father shows the city what a De Wael stands for. Remember it.'
The next wave of excitement swept the stands as another flag unfurled — the dyers' guild. At its head strode Floris van den Berg, tall and broad-shouldered, the great banner of his guild billowing above him. He bore it as though it were a knight's standard, chin lifted, eyes sweeping the crowd until they fixed on her.
Sniggers rippled through the benches at his theatrical bearing, but Katelijne's mother only sighed with satisfaction. 'Such presence,' she breathed. 'A De Wael could ask for no finer match.'
Heat rose to Katelijne's cheeks as Floris raised a jaunty hand — to her, and to half the city watching. She ducked her head, mortified, while Edwin barked a laugh.
'God save us,' he muttered. 'If he preens any harder, he'll trip on his own boots.'
A blast of trumpets cut across them, sparing her reply. The crowd surged with cheers, a wave of sound rolling down the street. Katelijne leaned forward, irritation swept away in the swell of excitement.
Soldiers followed in gleaming helms, boots pounding in unison, muskets shouldered. They drew whistles and mocking jeers in equal measure, for Carnival made fools of captains as well as kings.
'Always the same,' Edwin muttered, though his eyes stayed fixed on the spectacle.
Jugglers came next, tossing balls and knives that flashed like sparks in the pale sun. One knife spun so close to a barrel that a boy yelped and ducked, earning a roar of laughter from those nearby. The jugglers only grinned wider, adding oranges to the mix until fruit and steel blurred together in the air. Children squealed and scrambled higher, mittened hands clapping in time with the rhythm. Painted banners of saints and devils swayed overhead — saints in solemn glory, devils with tongues wagging scarlet, their faces grotesque yet oddly merry.
Then the giants: wood and cloth tottering on hidden shoulders, painted faces leering and grimacing as though alive. Their shadows fell long and strange across the cobbles, drawing shrieks from children who darted after them, half-afraid and half-delighted. Perfume wafted from girls scattering rose petals, their laughter drifting behind them like ribbons. Drummers thundered past, the roll of their instruments pounding so deep Katelijne felt it in her chest, as though her own heartbeat had joined the rhythm. Tumblers cartwheeled the length of the street, their bodies blurring in motion, their shouts ringing clear above the din.
Noise, colour, the crush of humanity — it pressed close, and Katelijne's heart thrilled to it. For all her careful manners, Carnival seeped under her skin, tugging her toward laughter.
And then—
The actors.
A ramshackle wagon rattled forward, its wheels clattering loud against the cobbles. Once bright with motley paint, its sides were now dulled and flaking, colours faded to a muddied patchwork. Yet it rolled into the square with the swagger of a stage come to life. Players in gaudy, pieced-together costumes leapt and cavorted atop it, calling jests and flinging broad gestures to the eager crowd. One flourished a wooden ladle like a knight's sword, another bowed so low his cap nearly toppled off. Their laughter carried high above the drums, reckless and bright, each antic sparking fresh shrieks from the children who ran beside, reaching up as if a touch of motley might grant them luck.
Perched proudly on the shoulder of one — a parrot, feathers bright green, wings flapping as it screeched: 'Pretty fool! Pretty fool!'
The crowd shrieked with laughter.
Katelijne's lips parted in surprise. The bird bobbed and squawked again, head cocked as though it knew the jest it made of them all.
But it was not the parrot that held her.
It was the man beneath it.
He was tall, dark curls tumbling loose, a grin quick as lightning flashing across his face. Yet it was not his looks that caught her — it was the way he carried himself. He played with the crowd as though they were friends gathered round a hearth. He ducked to tickle a child's cheek with a feather, bowed so deeply to an old woman that she laughed till her shoulders shook, snatched a sausage from a passing tray only to toss it back with a flourish that drew another roar of delight. His laughter rang bright, and every gesture seemed to share it freely.
His clothes were patched, yet his bearing was bold. Something in him, some reckless spark, snared her in an instant.
The crowd adored him, children and adults alike shrieking at every flourish. Even Edwin's scowl cracked. 'Trust Antwerp to cheer loudest for fools,' he muttered. 'I suspect they'd rather be ruled by parrots and sausages than guild masters.'
'Perhaps they would be happier for it,' Katelijne said before she thought better.
Edwin gave her a sharp look, half surprised, half amused. 'Careful, sister. Speak such treason aloud and Father will make you copy ledgers until your hand drops off.'
She hid her smile, eyes never leaving the player.
He moved with easy grace, as though every jest belonged to him alone. When the wagon slowed, he leaned low over the side to clasp hands with a grubby-faced boy who looked ready to burst with joy. The moment was nothing — a flicker in the sweep of Carnival — but it stayed with her.
The drums rolled on, another guild shifting into view beyond, but the actors' wagon lingered where it had drawn up before their stand. The parrot flapped, the boy with the curls bowed extravagantly, and the crowd pressed tighter, eager for more.
Katelijne exhaled, only then realising she had been leaning forward. Her heart still beat quick, though she could not have said why.
She smoothed her skirts, gathering herself, and glanced sideways. Edwin was watching her with a knowing smirk.
'Well,' he drawled, 'our sister finds amusement at last. Who'd have guessed it would be a parrot's squawk — and a sausage trick — that pleased her?'
Katelijne flushed, but forced her voice steady. 'It was nothing — only a jest. Carnival is made for it.'
'A jest, indeed.' Edwin chuckled, shaking his head.
From the crowd below, a drunkard bellowed, 'Saints and sausages, that's Carnival for you!'
Edwin snorted. 'A fair summary.'
Katelijne pressed her lips together, but a smile tugged at her all the same. Saints and sausages indeed — holiness and folly, side by side.
Below, the wagon rattled to a stop just before their stand. The parrot flapped, the players jostled for space, and already the crowd pressed closer, hungry for more. Katelijne's heart beat faster, though she told herself it was only the drums, only the noise of Carnival.
But when she glanced again toward the street, the boy with the parrot was still there, laughter alive on his lips, as though the whole performance were meant for her alone.