The press of bodies shoved Katelijne sideways, torches smoking overhead, Edwin's hand firm on her arm. She let him steer her, though her pulse raced for another reason entirely. A ragged boy had darted from the crowd only moments before, pressing something into her gloved palm with a furtive glance, then vanishing again between boots and cloaks.
Edwin had seen. She felt the sharp turn of his head, the tension in the fingers gripping her sleeve.
'What was that?' he demanded, voice low but edged. 'What did the brat give you?'
'Nothing,' she said quickly, tucking her hand beneath her cloak. 'Only begged for a coin, I think. You saw how many of them run about tonight.'
But Edwin's gaze lingered, suspicious, the line of his jaw tight beneath his mask. She forced her step to match his, though her hand clenched tight around the folded scrap of paper, warm still from another's hand.
She dared a glance, shielding it within the darkness of her cloak. The words were hurried, clumsy, but they stole the breath from her chest all the same:
I saw you. I would see you again. — J
Her mouth went dry. She should have crumpled it, flung it into the gutter, ground it beneath her heel before Edwin could glimpse it. That would have been sensible, safe, the kind of thing her mother would have expected. But instead she closed her fingers tight, as if it were treasure. The parchment felt fragile and illicit against her palm, far more dangerous than Floris's polished compliments, which always landed like coins exchanged in public view.
'You're pale,' Edwin muttered, leaning close. His mask hid his eyes but not the sharp edge of his voice. 'Is it the crowd? We should leave before it turns ugly.'
'Yes,' she managed, forcing steadiness. 'It's nothing. Just the noise.'
He pressed closer, protective as ever, guiding her toward a side street where the crowd thinned. She tucked the note deep into her glove, heart hammering with every step. If he knew… if her father ever guessed…
At the first quiet corner she faltered, drawing a long breath of cold air. The smells of smoke and sweat clung still, but here the noise softened to a rumble.
'Sit here,' Edwin said suddenly, steering her to a low stone step beneath a shuttered stall. 'You look faint. I'll fetch us something to drink.'
Edwin hesitated a moment, scanning the alley's mouth where Carnival spilled past in ribbons of torchlight.
'Stay put,' he said more softly. 'There are plenty of folk about. You'll be safe enough here.' His hand squeezed her shoulder before he turned away, his figure swallowed into the crowd.
Safe. She clung to the word, though her heart knew better.
Katelijne did not argue. She sank onto the step, cloak pooling around her, the unfamiliar weight of Edwin's borrowed doublet stiff beneath it. Her hands trembled, not with weakness but with urgency. She slipped her glove off, hidden in the folds of her cloak, and read the note again by the flicker of torchlight.
She thought of his grin as the parrot shrieked, the boldness in his eyes when they caught hers. For that instant she had felt seen, not as her father's daughter, not as a pawn in some merchant bargain, but as herself. The thought was as frightening as it was intoxicating.
It was madness. To even answer him would be madness. He was a player, a fool in patched motley with a bird that mocked saints and aldermen alike. She was a merchant's daughter, promised to Floris, her future mapped out as carefully as her dowry accounts.
And yet—
From her purse she drew a slip of parchment, torn from the devotional booklet her mother had pressed into her hands that morning. On the blank back, she smudged words with the stub of charcoal she carried for sewing patterns:
Tomorrow, after dusk. The chapel of St. Andries. — K
She stared at it, heart hammering. Too much? Too little? She had no right to send anything at all. Her hand shook as though she had written a confession instead of a meeting place.
For a moment her thoughts swerved to Floris: tall, resplendent, his bow deep and his smile broad, pitched for all the hall to see. He was handsome, devoted, perhaps a little vain — but he was her family's choice, their hope for her future. And her parents, whatever their flaws, wanted the best for her. Her father's pride in her, her mother's careful guidance — could she betray them so lightly?
Her mind darted back further, to Edwin's boyhood lessons. How often she had leaned over his slate, whispering sums when he stumbled, coaxing numbers into sense. She had always been the steady one, the dutiful daughter. But tonight, her fingers closed around the note as though she were someone else entirely — reckless, bold, alive.
She closed her eyes, the charcoal-marked slip trembling in her hand. This is foolishness. Dangerous, reckless foolishness. You do not even know him.
The laughter of Carnival drifted down the alley, muffled by the walls. But another sound cut through it — a scuffle, a grunt, the crack of glass shattering. Katelijne stiffened.
From the shadows lurched two figures. A man in a horned mask, paint chalk-white against the dark, had a woman by the wrist, shoving her hard against the wall. She laughed at first — a drunken trill — but it snapped into a cry when he pressed closer, his painted grin leering inches from her face.
Katelijne froze on the step. She could not hear their words, only the struggle: the woman clawing, the man's weight pinning her, the bottle breaking at his feet. For a sickening moment she thought he would drag her down.
Then the woman wrenched free. Skirts tearing, she bolted toward the torchlight. The man lurched after her, cursing, before the crowd swallowed them both.
Silence pressed in. Katelijne sat rigid, breath shallow, stomach hollow with fear. She had seen men boastful with ale, quarrels at guild feasts — but never this. Violence had always been a tale told, never a sight before her eyes. For a heartbeat she had wanted to cry out, to strike him away, yet she had only sat frozen — a girl in silk gloves and borrowed courage.
The alley seemed blacker now, the laughter of Carnival edged with menace. Her note lay in her lap, smudged with charcoal. The world she longed toward was no ballroom hung with chandeliers. It was this: shadows where laughter could turn in a blink, where no father's name or mother's prayers would shield her.
Her lips pressed tight. Perhaps it was folly after all.
'Here.' Edwin's voice jolted her. He returned with two tin cups of spiced beer, steam curling into the cold air. He pressed one into her hands, his eyes narrowing. 'You're trembling. What happened?'
'Nothing,' she said quickly, forcing a smile. She hid the folded parchment back in her glove before he could notice. 'It was only the noise. I'll be well once we're home.'
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded, though doubt lingered in his gaze. 'We'll go, then. Carnival's not for us tonight.'
She sipped the beer, its sweetness coating her tongue, her hands still shaking. The note burned against her palm like a live coal.
Later, when they slipped back into their father's house, she pressed it once more to her lips, then tucked it beneath her pillow.
She ought to destroy it. She ought to forget the spark in that jester's eyes, forget the madness of even considering such a risk.
Sleep did not come easily. Katelijne lay stiff beneath her covers, listening to the faint rumble of drums drifting from the city, each beat reminding her of the folded scrap hidden beneath her pillow like a brand against her skin. Again and again she told herself she would tear it in two, slip from her bed and cast it into the hearth before dawn.
But when her eyes closed, she saw torchlight flickering on painted masks, felt the crush of the crowd, heard the mocking squawk of the parrot and the laughter that had tangled with her own. She remembered the bold flash of his grin — and just as sharply, the darker memory that followed: the alley, the drunken beast lunging with his painted snout, his growl too real, the fear that had scraped down her spine.
Carnival was both. Light and shadow. Laughter and danger. To answer him was to step into that world — the one her father warned against, the one her mother called wicked — and yet the world that pulled at her with the same force as the drums still throbbing faintly across the rooftops.
When at last the pale light crept through the shutters, the note was still there, smudged with charcoal and heavy with promise. She had not torn it. She had not burned it.
She could not.