The steward swung the doors wide, and the van den Bergs' house seemed to engulf her at once. Light and music poured out in a tide: violins and flutes swelling as sumptuous as any cathedral choir, the air thick with colour and perfume. Behind her, faint through the walls, Carnival still prowled — the muffled thrum of drums, a drunken shout, laughter edged with menace — but here all was gold and brilliance, as if the world outside had been shut away.
Katelijne followed her parents across the marble threshold, the weight of her gown tugging at her shoulders. The hall soared with carved beams and painted saints glimmering in the candle haze, their eyes half-veiled by smoke. Tables groaned under silver dishes, bowls of sugared fruits, and meats glazed to a glistening sheen.
Floris was waiting — tall, resplendent, his doublet stiff with embroidery, a jewelled chain heavy on his chest. He bent low over Katelijne's hand, smile broad and unshakable. By any measure he was handsome: golden hair neatly curled, shoulders squared, his whole bearing that of a young man destined to prosper. Many girls in Antwerp would have envied her at that moment.
And yet, as his lips brushed her gloved hand, Katelijne felt none of the quickness she had known that afternoon, when a fool's grin had found hers in the crowd. Floris's smile dazzled, but it did not spark.
'Katelijne,' he said, pitched so all could hear. 'Antwerp has no star that burns brighter than you tonight.'
Her cheeks flamed, though she wished they would not. From the corner of her eye she caught her mother's pleased nod, her father's faint smile.
Floris's parents swept forward — Mevrouw van den Berg, rings flashing on every finger, her husband portly but stately in fur-trimmed robes. They lavished praise on Jeroen's dignity and Margriet's beauty, then turned to Katelijne, admiring her gown, her poise, her eyes.
'Our son could wish for no finer companion,' Mevrouw van den Berg declared with a flourish, as though sealing the match before them all.
Margriet's lips curved in triumph. Even Jeroen gave a grunt of satisfaction as their hosts ushered them onward through a blaze of chandeliers and rustling silks. Servants guided them to long tables laid with silver and crystal, where Antwerp's finest clustered in careful ranks of nods and smiles.
Floris's sisters swept into Katelijne's path, gowns gleaming with brocade, their hair piled high with pearls. Both were near her age, though they wore their years with a practised air, every gesture rehearsed for a hall such as this.
'So this is Katelijne,' the elder said, her eyes travelling from head to hem with slow precision, as though weighing fabric and figure alike. 'Floris has spoken of you.'
'Has he?' the younger added with a sly tilt, her smile edged like a blade. 'Endlessly, it seems. We were beginning to wonder if you were a saint stepped down from the cathedral windows.'
Their laughter chimed too brightly, carrying just far enough for nearby girls to hear. Katelijne dipped a curtsey, her cheeks warming.
'A saint indeed,' the elder went on, lowering her voice just a little. 'Though saints are often tested. And there are many tonight who would not mind setting a little trial before you.' Her glance flicked toward a knot of girls across the hall — gowns vivid, fans fluttering like wings, their eyes sharp with appraisal.
'So many pretty faces,' the younger added smoothly, 'each eager to catch our brother's smile. You'll find no shortage of… competition.' Her lips curved in a knowing smirk, though her tone was honeyed enough to pass for sisterly banter.
Katelijne's stomach tightened. The hall seemed suddenly crowded with gazes, each glance sharper than the last, measuring her not as herself but as Floris's prize.
The sisters' laughter rang out again, bright as bells, before they drifted aside with murmured courtesies, leaving Katelijne to smooth her skirts and steady her breath.
Around them, other young women lingered in clusters — daughters of merchants and guildmasters, each polished and painted, their eyes sliding toward Floris whenever he moved. Fans fluttered like wings, and Katelijne caught more than one glance, sharp with envy, when Floris bent his head near hers.
Everywhere she looked, he drew eyes. His laughter carried, his compliments scattered like coins on a crowd. He was Antwerp's golden bachelor, and every daughter seemed gathered to claim him.
But Katelijne felt no triumph in their envy. Only the press of expectation, like a crown lowered heavy on her brow.
A ripple in the crowd broke the sisters' chatter. Floris was striding toward her, doublet flashing with gold thread, smile fixed and bright as the chandeliers. At once the other girls shifted, their laughter faltered, fans stilled. The sisters fell back with murmured excuses, eyes sharp as they retreated.
Floris claimed the space beside her as though it had always been his.
Soon they were swept to the long table, silver and crystal glittering in the blaze of candles. But Katelijne felt only the crush of heat and sound, the tide of boastful words. Floris leaned close, voice smooth as honey, eager to speak of trade, guild affairs, his father's dealings with Venetian merchants. His words glittered like the silver on the table, leaving no space to breathe. Every compliment felt rehearsed, heavy with show.
'Edwin,' Floris said suddenly, smile tightening as her brother approached. 'You honour us. I hadn't expected you here tonight.'
'Wouldn't miss it for the world,' Edwin replied evenly. 'It is good to see Antwerp's best families gathered. The city thrives when we stand side by side.'
The words seemed harmless, yet a hush rippled in the listening circle. Floris's jaw worked before his smile returned, bright but brittle.
'Indeed. Side by side. Though some of us stand a little taller.' His voice carried just far enough for others to hear, and their laughter rippled like glass breaking.
Katelijne's breath caught. She glanced at Edwin, who inclined his head with perfect composure, as if the jab had not struck him at all. But she saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hand tightened briefly at his side.
The hall moved on, music and chatter rising again, yet for Katelijne the air still crackled with what had passed. Beneath all the glitter and polish, she had glimpsed something harder, sharper.
The musicians struck up a pavane, slow and stately. Couples drifted to the cleared floor, gowns sweeping like waves of colour. Floris extended his hand, bowing low.
'Come, Katelijne. Let Antwerp see us together.'
Her stomach knotted. She placed her hand in his because she must, her mother's gaze sharp as a blade at her back.
As Floris led her through the stately steps, chandeliers flared overhead, jewels and silks dazzling in their light. Yet beneath the music Katelijne thought she still heard something else — faint, distant, as though the night itself mocked the splendour around her. A thrum of drums, a ragged cheer, laughter carried on the wind from Carnival's darker streets.
The walls of the van den Bergs' house kept it at bay, yet Katelijne felt it pressing close all the same — the world outside, masked and unrestrained, echoing against the polished floor where she now danced.
'They'll tire themselves by dawn,' Floris said with a chuckle, pitched for her ear alone. 'While we dance in warmth and splendour, they'll be tripping in the mud. That is Carnival's lesson, Katelijne — some are born to revel, others to rule.'
Later, Floris led her through a side door to a balcony above the street. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of smoke and wine from the press below. Carnival writhed in the torchlight — masks lurching, drums thudding faint from afar — while overhead the first firework cracked open, spilling gold across the rooftops.
'See how they swarm,' Floris said, standing close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her side. His voice was smooth, almost tender, yet it tightened when he looked down. 'Drunken beasts in painted masks. They call it freedom, but it is filth. Disorder. A city dragged low.'
Another firework burst red, its sparks hissing down into smoke.
'Carnival is dangerous, Katelijne. Girls are dragged into alleys, men stabbed over dice, priests mocked in the streets. You should not even look too long — it can soil you, even from here.'
Katelijne tried to keep her tone light, though her chest felt tight. 'And yet… there is joy in it too. Laughter, music, colour. Antwerp is alive tonight.'
'Alive?' Floris turned to her, smiling as though she had said something sweetly foolish. His smile dazzled, but his hand closed over hers with a pressure that was hard to mistake. 'A woman does not need to see the world's ugliness to know her place. You will not need to trouble yourself with such things once you are mistress of your own house. That I promise you.'
Another firework burst green above them, bathing his face in strange light. He bent slightly, his voice low but firm.
'All you need to know is that I will keep you safe. Always. From this chaos, from whatever threatens. No harm will touch you while you are mine.'
Katelijne smiled, because she must, because she knew her parents' eyes would be searching for her when they returned inside. Yet unease crawled in her chest, sharp as the sulphur of the fireworks.
Everyone said the danger was outside — in the alleys, among the masks and the drink. But as Floris's hand lingered on hers, she feared it was much closer.