Morning found Antwerp already restless, Carnival stirring the streets to fresh clamour. Masked figures jostled between carts piled with ribbons and painted gourds, bells jingled from every corner, and the air carried a muddle of scents — frying batter, hot wine spiced with cloves, and the sour tang of ale spilled and left to freeze overnight. The sweetness turned Katelijne's stomach; the sourness caught in her throat.
Here and there lay the remnants of the night before — a discarded mask trodden into the gutter, wilted garlands swept into heaps, puddles of sour wine staining the cobbles. A broken tambourine leaned against a doorway, its skin ripped, while two apprentices bickered over who had lost it. Above, washing lines hung limp between crooked windows, now tangled with stray ribbons that fluttered weakly in the winter breeze.
She moved among it all with heavy eyes, the splendour of the previous night still pressing on her. She ought to feel proud — Floris had bent low over her hand, his smile broad, his voice pitched for all to hear. Her parents had glowed with satisfaction. Yet the memory sat uneasily, more burden than triumph, and unease clung as tightly as the frost. Everywhere she turned the city shouted with joy, but in her chest the echoes rang hollow.
She tugged her mask lower over her nose, her fingers brushing the fine silk that lent her a taste of freedom, a hint of mischief. 'It's… intoxicating,' she murmured, letting her eyes sweep across the crowd. 'Like stepping into another world.'
Edwin, beside her, adjusted his own mask, the black leather snug across his brow. He followed the surge of bodies with careful steps, satchel at his side, eyes sharp. 'Remember this freedom is only a guise,' he said, voice low. 'Crowds like these can turn from delight to danger in a heartbeat. Keep your wits, Katelijne.'
She leaned closer, the edge of her cloak brushing his arm. 'Oh, but it's worth the risk. Look at them! The colour, the music… it's alive, Edwin. You feel it too, don't you?'
He allowed a wry smile, shaking his head. 'I feel it. I also feel how quickly it can sweep you away.'
A stall caught Katelijne's attention, its wares piled high: sugared nuts, crisp pastries, and steaming bowls of something rich and brown. The vendor called out over the clamour, his voice rising above the clash of a hurdy-gurdy nearby. Behind him, a boy stoked coals until sparks spat upward, while a woman in a red shawl darted between customers with paper cones of roasted chestnuts.
The scent made Katelijne's stomach rumble. 'Let's get something to eat,' she suggested, tugging at Edwin's sleeve. 'Even a morsel will make us braver.'
Edwin raised an eyebrow but followed her. They bought a small loaf of warm bread, breaking it into pieces to share. The vendor pressed a tin cup into Edwin's hand, steam curling from the spiced butter beer he had poured. Katelijne laughed at the froth spilling over the edge as she took a careful sip. The warmth and sweetness made her cheeks glow, the world around them a blur of movement and colour.
A small figure suddenly shuffled out from the edge of the crowd. A boy, no more than eight, thin as a reed, his patched coat hanging loose on his frame, held out a trembling hand.
'Please, a coin… just one,' he whispered, eyes wide beneath a sooty face.
The stall owner, a burly man with flour on his apron, scowled from behind his counter. 'Begone, brat!' he barked. 'This is no place for the likes of you! Go find work or vanish!'
The boy flinched, retreating a step, and then Katelijne stirred. She leaned forward, tugging lightly at Edwin's sleeve. 'Wait,' she said, her voice soft but firm. Before he could reply, she drew a few coins from her pouch and pressed them into the boy's palm.
'Here,' she said gently. 'Get yourself something warm.'
The boy's eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face. He glanced at the stall owner, who muttered something under his breath but made no move to intervene. Clutching the coins like treasure, the boy scuttled back to the stall, and moments later returned with a small loaf of bread and a cup of warm buttered beer. He held it out to her with a shy smile.
'Thank you, miss,' he whispered, voice barely carrying above the din of the crowd.
With bellies lightly filled, the siblings wandered through a narrower street and found themselves in a small square.
Here Edwin slowed, his steps faltering. He glanced at her, then away again, as though weighing something. Finally he spoke, voice low.
'I don't belong in Father's counting house.'
Katelijne turned to him, startled. 'Edwin—'
'It's true,' he said, his jaw tight. 'I've no head for ledgers. I never did. You were always the one who made the numbers make sense for me. When I sit before a page of accounts, the columns blur. The weight of it presses until I can hardly breathe. And all the while I think of colours. Of light. Of how the world looks when it falls across canvas.'
She blinked at him. In the swirl of masks and noise, his words seemed to carve out a quiet pocket.
'I've been taking lessons,' Edwin admitted, softer now. 'In secret. My tutor says I have promise. That if I worked at it properly, I might even make something of it. And when I paint…' His face lit as he spoke, his eyes bright in a way she rarely saw. 'It's the only time I feel like myself. Not the son Father weighs against guild honour. Not a disappointment hidden behind fine clothes. Just me, with brush and colour.'
Katelijne watched him, moved by the sudden brightness in his voice. It was true: he looked transformed, as though speaking of painting had lifted years from his shoulders.
'But Father—' she began.
'Father wants a son to follow him,' Edwin cut in. His voice roughened. 'To keep the accounts, to guard the trade, to march with the guild in pride. I can't give him that. I try, but every time I fail, the disappointment grows sharper. He looks at me and sees weakness. And perhaps he is right.'
'No,' Katelijne said firmly, her hand brushing his arm. 'It isn't weakness to be yourself.'
He gave a weary smile. 'Try telling Father that.'
The silence stretched between them, heavy with what he had confessed. A masked harlequin bounded past with a cartwheel, children shrieking after him, but Katelijne barely noticed. Her brother's unhappiness weighed heavier than the Carnival noise.
Then her eyes caught on a bold woodcut poster nailed beside a tavern door. Rough but vivid, it showed a parrot perched on a player's shoulder, beak wide as if mid-cry. Beneath, block letters proclaimed:
A TROUPE OF PLAYERS AND THEIR TALKING BIRD
TO PERFORM THIS NIGHT IN THE GROTE MARKT
SONGS, JESTS, AND MIRTH FOR ALL
Her heart leapt. She caught Edwin's sleeve. 'Look! The troupe! From the parade yesterday! They're performing tonight — in the Grote Markt! Can we go? Please, Edwin?'
He stiffened, gaze sliding to the busy street. 'Too dangerous. Crowds like that at night, in masks and disguises… you don't know what you're asking.'
'I can help you!' she pressed, words tumbling out quick with excitement. 'I'll cover for you with your painting tutor, so you can have more lessons. Mama and Papa will never know. I'll make it work — just let us see them perform. Please, Edwin.'
He hesitated, jaw working. She had always been clever, protective, aware of the world in ways others weren't. Still… he shook his head. 'Katelijne, it's not just mischief.'
'We can wear masks. Who will even know we are there?'
'Even with masks, the crowds, there are risks.'
She bit her lip, not ready to relent. 'I know, but you love it as much as I do. The music, the laughter… the city itself seems to come alive for them. Don't you want to see it properly? To feel it?'
His eyes softened, a reluctant concession in their depths. He exhaled slowly.
'…One performance. We stay masked, we stay together, and we leave before the crowds swell too thick. No foolishness. Do you understand?'
Her grin broke wide, her mask doing nothing to hide it. 'Understood. And thank you, Eddie dearest.' She pressed her hand to her heart in mock solemnity.
He shook his head, though a flicker of warmth touched his eyes — the same spark she had seen when he spoke of painting. Yet even as he gave her this small freedom, she felt the weight of what he carried: a man caged in duty, granting her what he could not claim for himself.
Together they turned back toward the square, the crowd pressing close, the poster's parrot seeming almost to wink at them.
The Carnival roared around them, loud and unrestrained, promising freedom.
And for once, both siblings — bound by duty yet aching for more — let themselves lean toward it.