The carriage rattled over the cobbles, lanterns swaying as it bore Katelijne and her family toward the van den Bergs' house. Carnival had changed with nightfall. The children with rattles and painted toys were gone, replaced by grown revellers cloaked and masked, their laughter roughened by wine. Figures swept past in disguise — animals, popes and nuns, devils with horns, angels with wings — each face hidden, every voice sharpened by mischief. Nothing and no one was quite what they seemed. Ribbons and confetti lay crushed into the mud, torches guttered in the damp, throwing monstrous shadows on the walls. From somewhere distant came the echo of drums, muffled now but still thrumming through the night.
Katelijne leaned closer to the window, half-drawn, half-afraid. The glass fogged beneath her breath. She could not tell who laughed and who jeered, which figures were harmless and which might lunge at the carriage wheels. A clown reeled past with a wineskin, blessing the horses in a priest's Latin that dissolved into a hiccup. Two women in feathered masks whirled hand in hand, skirts trailing slush, while a man in a goat's snout paused to howl at the moon, so eerily earnest she almost forgot the man within the beast.
The masks unsettled her — yet she could not look away. Carnival's darkness pressed close, full of secrets and freedoms she had never dared imagine.
Her father, Jeroen, cleared his throat, his merchant's gown still crisp from the day's pageantry. 'A fine showing, was it not? None held their heads higher than the cloth merchants.' He smoothed his beard, pride warm in his voice.
'Yes, Papa,' Katelijne murmured.
'We were so proud,' Margriet declared.
Opposite, Edwin lounged against the window, lamplight catching the corner of his smile. 'And yet the loudest cheer was for a fool felled by bread. I thought you'd choke trying not to laugh, Katelijne.'
She flushed. 'It was ridiculous.'
'Ridiculous, yes — but you laughed. So did I.' His grin widened. 'Better than another guild banner.'
Jeroen's brow darkened. 'Mock if you wish, but these processions remind Antwerp who keeps her strong. One day I hope you will march with your guild as I did — an honour earned, not idled away in the crowd.' His gaze fixed on Edwin, the kind of look that weighed and measured, searching for substance beneath the boyish smile.
'Of course,' Edwin said flatly — then muttered, just loud enough for Katelijne to hear, 'I'd sooner work a brush over canvas than copy another ledger.'
The words struck like a slap. Jeroen's lips pressed to a line, his hand tightening on the head of his cane. He did not rebuke Edwin outright — not here, not with Margriet and Katelijne listening — but the silence was punishment enough. It thickened the air until it felt hard to breathe. Pride and disappointment clashed in the space between them: Jeroen's vision of a dutiful son, and Edwin's restless refusal to fit the mould.
Katelijne sat very still. She knew her brother's heart was never in the counting house. Columns of figures and endless contracts left him restless and short-tempered; she had seen the way his shoulders sagged when summoned to copy ledgers, the way his eyes lit only when charcoal and paper were in his hands. He longed to paint — that much she knew — but to say so openly was unthinkable. Their father's pride lay in trade, in the weight of bales and the worth of cloth. To him, painting was a pastime, not a calling.
She nudged Edwin's boot, a plea for caution. He let his head fall back, eyes on the lantern.
Outside, the crush of revellers forced the horses to slow. Masks gleamed in the torchlight — beasts, bishops, devils. A man in a fish-head lurched toward the carriage, making a blessing so vast he nearly toppled into the wheel. A woman dressed as Lent — hooded, hollow-cheeked, a wooden herring swinging from her belt — rapped the bonnet and shouted about sin, her voice hoarse with drink. They vanished into the press as quickly as they had come.
The carriage shuddered to a halt. A striped beast shoved its snout through the window, breath hot with wine, growling for sport. Katelijne flinched until Edwin's arm came up between them.
'Enough!' he snapped.
The beast's companions hauled him away, laughing. The carriage rocked forward by inches, the wheels biting through ribbons and wilted garlands ground into the mud.
'Foolish drunks,' Margriet sniffed. 'Carnival loosens every wit.'
Katelijne pressed her palm to the glass. Part of her longed to step into that whirl where no one was quite themselves. She imagined a cloak and mask, becoming a girl with no name. But the thought faltered when she remembered the alley — the painted devil dragging a laughing woman until her laughter broke, the bottle shattering, the reek of ale like a blow. Carnival was both: jest and danger, song and snare.
And still, in her mind's eye: the shrieking parrot, and the young man beneath it, whose quick smile had seemed meant for her alone.
'It's hard to tell a fool from a devil tonight,' she murmured.
'Better fools than bores,' Edwin said, his voice gentler. 'Tonight you'll have your fill of the latter. Floris with his endless boasting — carrying a banner as though leading an army, while half the crowd laughed at him.'
Margriet's look was sharp, her voice firm with conviction. 'Floris is a fine young man, from a family as respected as our own. We are fortunate to be invited. Opportunities such as these do not present themselves often.'
Her gaze slid to Edwin, pointed and deliberate. 'And you, my son, would do well to remember it. Not every gathering is for merriment. You should keep your eyes open tonight. There are daughters in this city whose families hold influence — a prudent match would serve you as much as diligence in your father's house.'
Edwin shifted against the leather seat, his smile gone tight. 'A prudent match,' he echoed, as if the words were sour on his tongue. His fingers drummed restlessly on the window frame, his eyes fixed on the blur of torches outside.
'Yes,' Margriet pressed, mistaking his silence for hesitation. 'A wife who brings dowry, connection, steadiness — that is what ensures a man's standing. It is no less your duty than mastering the ledger.'
'My duty,' Edwin said quietly, though there was no warmth in it. He did not look at her.
Katelijne watched him, heart twisting. She knew her brother too well to be fooled. He was not thinking of dowries or daughters, not weighing which girl at the van den Bergs' ball might carry favour. His thoughts belonged elsewhere — to the world he sketched in charcoal, to faces and light and colour that no ledger could capture. And to marriage… she had never once heard him speak of women with anything like longing. If anything, the prospect left him weary, as though it were yet another yoke set across his shoulders.
But Margriet sat back, satisfied she had spoken her piece. Jeroen gave no sign he had heard, his eyes trained forward, the muscle in his jaw working.
Only Edwin's hand, still drumming lightly against the glass, betrayed his unease.
'Fortunate indeed,' Jeroen said at last. 'Hendrik van den Berg has ships under three flags. Dyers, traders, factors in three cities. A prudent alliance.'
Edwin's smile bent at the edge.
'Do not sulk,' Margriet said, mistaking the meaning. 'We must all play our parts. Antwerp watches. So sit straighter, Edwin. And you, Katelijne — remember to hold your head high.'
The carriage rolled on. The streets widened, noise thinning as though checked at an invisible boundary. Timber gave way to stone, doorways to carved arches. Torches still burned, but here their flames steadied. Servants with lanterns waited at thresholds, guiding laughter inward rather than spilling it into the street.
Ahead, the van den Bergs' house rose tall, its windows blazing gold, music spilling into the night. An archway framed the door, carved with vines and little beasts whose faces glinted in the lamplight. The brass knocker gleamed.
Katelijne's stomach knotted. The carriage lamps caught her reflection — gown neat, hair sleek beneath her cap, face composed. A daughter trained. She tested her smile against the glass and watched it hold.
'Chin up,' Margriet murmured, squeezing her hand. 'We will be received graciously. You will be admired. Keep your steps small and neat.'
'Yes, Mama.'
'And do not forget,' Jeroen added more softly, 'to look pleased at whatever is placed before you. It does not serve us to be difficult among allies.'
The horses checked; the wheels crunched on gravel spread to hide the mud. A footman hurried forward with a lantern. Another reached for the door.
Before he could open it, shouts rose down the lane. A pack of masked revellers reeled into view, led by a fat-bellied Carnival with sausages strung about his neck and a thin Lent shaking a wooden fish.
'Meat for kings!' bawled Carnival.
'Fish for saints!' Lent rasped.
Their companions cheered, half-menace, half-mirth, as if they might swarm the steps. But a steward appeared, calm as stone. The revellers laughed, saluted, and stumbled on.
The footman opened the carriage. Cold air swept in with the faint scent of roses from some inner court. Margriet descended with a rustle of silk; Jeroen followed, steadying her hand. Edwin came next, expression blank.
Katelijne lingered a heartbeat, eyes still on the street — on masks that grinned and jeered, on torch smoke unraveling into the dark. For an instant she longed to remain there, to keep her eyes on the world that had made her laugh without thought.
'Daughter?' Jeroen's hand was steady, expectant.
She took it and stepped down.
The stone beneath her shoes felt different from the churned mud — firm, certain. Servants bowed them through the arch into the hall, where braziers glowed and beeswax masked the city's smoke. Light pooled on polished wood, shadows placed as carefully as the silver.
Katelijne's stomach knotted tighter. Margriet's hand was firm on hers, Edwin's shoulder brushed hers for a moment's solidarity, and her father adjusted his cuffs.
'Here we go,' Edwin murmured.
The steward swung the doors wide. Light, voices, and expectation rushed to swallow her whole.