The square rang with applause, laughter, the scrape of mugs against barrels, the sharp jangle of coins hurled at the stage. Joseph bowed low, Pietje flapping furiously on his shoulder, the bird screeching, 'Fool! Fool! Pretty fool!' to the delight of the crowd. He straightened, grinning wide, but the expression felt brittle on his face. His heart still hammered with more than performance.
He had seen her.
Not the row of masked faces, not the coins flying through the air, but her. The girl in the fur-lined cloak, mask silk-bright in the torchlight, eyes wide as if she too had forgotten the world. For a heartbeat, she had looked only at him.
The torches spat smoke, drums still rattled, yet for Joseph the noise seemed to thin, hollowed by the memory of her gaze. He had played to countless crowds — jeers in Bruges, cheers in Ghent, even a bishop's laughter once in Utrecht — but never had an audience vanished into a single face. For that heartbeat, he had not been a fool in motley. He had been seen.
'You'll drown if you keep staring into shadows,' Isabelle hissed under her breath, sliding past, apron already heavy with coins. Her smile shone for the crowd, but her words pricked like a pin.
Joseph shook his head, forcing his grin to linger. The troupe swept into their bows, Joos staggering as Carnival felled by sausages once more, Rik fiddling a final flourish that set the children shrieking.
The crowd roared, still hungry for jest, still eager for more. Pietje squawked and bobbed, wings outstretched, until a dozen children squealed and leapt to touch his feathers. One boy managed to tug at Joseph's sleeve, demanding another trick, while a drunken sailor tried to seize the bird outright, laughing as though it were part of the act. Joseph twisted free, heart jolting as Pietje flapped in alarm.
'Back, you fools!' Rik cried, scraping a sharp chord that made the children scatter. Isabelle swept in with a laugh smooth as honey, coins already clinking into her apron as she pressed thanks and jokes with equal ease.
Still they came — hands slapping shoulders, shoving mugs into Joos's grip, a woman tugging at Sander's sleeve for another rhyme. The air grew thick with smoke and breath, the torches flaring low and red. For a moment Joseph thought they would be swallowed whole by the crush.
Then, at last, the surge began to thin. The applause ebbed, the shouts frayed into drunken cheer. The crowd pressed forward only to toss last coins before staggering away.
'Well played!' cried a man with ale foaming on his beard.
'That bird's a devil!' shouted another.
'Sing us more!' demanded a woman, grabbing at Rik's sleeve until he laughed himself free.
Joseph's blood still sang with the rhythm of the play, but beneath it ran a sharper current, urgent, insistent. He scanned the throng, searching for the glint of her mask. For a moment he thought he saw her — a dark braid, a flash of silk — but the crowd jostled, torches spat smoke, and she was gone.
Pietje clawed at his shoulder, unsettled by the crush. Joseph soothed him absently. His mind raced. He could not let her vanish, not after that look. He had no name, no place, only the certainty that if he did nothing, she would melt into Antwerp's night and be lost to him forever.
Sander appeared at his elbow, flushed with triumph, charcoal still smeared on his fingertips. 'They loved it! Every word caught! Did you hear how they jeered at Lent? I'll make sharper verses yet—'
'Give me that,' Joseph said suddenly, plucking the scrap of paper from Sander's hand. He snatched the stub of charcoal too, his fingers clumsy with urgency.
Sander blinked. 'What are you—'
'Just give me a moment.'
He ducked behind the wagon, crouching against the wheel as the others basked in the crowd's praise. The charcoal felt rough between his fingers as he scrawled across the paper. His hand shook, the words clumsy, but it was enough:
I saw you. I would see you again. — J
Too bare, too reckless — but there was no time to craft verses. No time for caution. He folded the paper tight, glanced up at the swirling throng. How could he hope to find her in this sea of masks?
And then he remembered: the mask itself. Silk, finer than most. Pale against her skin, almost glowing in the torchlight. If a boy could be swift, if he looked sharp—
Joseph's gaze darted to the edge of the crowd, where a ragged child lurked, bare feet black with mud, eyes watchful. A scavenger, one of dozens who haunted Carnival's edges, hoping for crumbs or coins.
'You,' Joseph called softly, beckoning. The boy hesitated, then crept closer, wary as a stray dog.
Joseph crouched, pressing the folded paper into his palm along with a silver. 'Find the girl with the pale silk mask. Fur-lined cloak. You'll know her by her eyes. Give her this, and only her. Understand?'
The boy's eyes gleamed at the sight of silver. He nodded quick, stuffing the coin into his mouth for safekeeping, the note clenched tight in his fist.
'And quiet,' Joseph added, his voice urgent. 'No one else. Just her.'
The boy darted off, slipping between legs, swift as smoke. Joseph straightened, breath sharp in his throat. What had he done? One note, one foolish scrap, could bring ruin if it fell into the wrong hands.
Isabelle's voice cut across his thoughts. 'What are you plotting now?' She stood with arms crossed, eyes sharp despite her smile for the last well-wisher pressing a coin into her apron.
'Nothing,' Joseph said too quickly.
Her gaze narrowed. 'I know that look. I told you — eyes on the crowd, not on some silk-skirt.'
'It's nothing,' he said again, forcing a laugh. 'Only the crowd's noise still in my head.'
Isabelle studied him, then shook her head with a sigh, turning to haggle with Willem over a promised supper. But Joseph felt the weight of her suspicion, heavy as a chain.
The troupe began to gather their things, Rik tucking away his fiddle, Joos complaining of bruises, Sander scribbling half-formed rhymes by torchlight. Around them the square began to shift, the crowd drifting toward taverns, the scaffold creaking as Carnival's heart turned to darker revels.
Carnival lurched into its darker hour. A brawl flared near the ale casks, two men grappling until friends dragged them apart. A woman sang off-key, her arm slung round a stranger's neck, while a thief darted past with a stolen loaf. The square reeked of sweat, smoke, and spilt beer, the torchlight painting every mask with grins too wide. The troupe's chatter blurred against it all. Joseph's gaze stayed fixed on the shifting tide, straining for one small face, one flicker of pale silk.
Minutes stretched, each one louder with doubt. The press of Carnival blurred at the edges, every laugh and jeer needling sharper beneath his skin. What if the boy had taken his coin and vanished? What if the note had slipped from his fist, trampled into the muck? Worse — what if it reached the wrong hands? Joseph saw it too clearly: the pale silk mask torn away — rich voices jeering, rough hands closing on his throat, Isabelle's face gone pale with fury.
Pietje shifted uneasily on his shoulder, feathers fluffed. A reveller in a fox mask leaned close, mocking, 'Tell us, fool — does your bird preach sermons or only curse?' He reached as though to snatch Pietje. Joseph jerked back, snapping, 'Hands off!' The man only laughed, staggering away, but Joseph's pulse hammered harder.
The troupe was gathering their things. Rik hummed scraps of tune, Joos groaned about his bruises, Isabelle bartered with Willem for their supper, her eyes flicking toward Joseph more than once. Every glance felt like a noose.
Joseph forced himself still, though his chest burned. He dared not ask, dared not betray himself — he could only wait.
And then, from the edge of the torchlight, he saw the boy again.
The child ducked between cloaked figures, then paused, glancing back. His hand brushed his mouth — coin safe, errand done.
Joseph's breath caught. He followed the boy's glance, and for an instant he thought he saw her — the pale silk mask, her cloak's fur glinting in the torchlight. She stood still amid the shifting throng, a fragile scrap of paper trembling in her hands.
She unfolded it, eyes flicking over the words. Even at this distance, Joseph felt the force of it, as if his own pulse beat inside her chest. Her fingers trembled. Then the crowd surged, torches flared, and she was gone, swallowed by the tide of bodies.
Pietje flapped, shrieking, 'Pretty fool! Fool! Fool!' Joos whooped, dragging Joseph toward Willem's inn, Rik scraping a jig on his fiddle as though the night itself demanded music.
Joseph forced laughter to join theirs, but his eyes still strained after the place where she had stood. For a heartbeat, she had read his words. For a heartbeat, she had known.
He felt it coil inside him — triumph and fear wound tight together. A note so slight it might dissolve in a puddle, yet it bound him now to a stranger whose world could never meet his own. The motley on his back, the bird on his shoulder, the laughter of the crowd — all of it seemed more fragile, more perilous, than it had an hour ago. And yet he would not have taken it back. Not for anything.
And it was enough to set the night burning — brighter, and far more dangerous, than before.