Morning light slanted across Antwerp's rooftops, bright but brittle after the night's frenzy. The market was already awake, spilling colour and noise into the square. Fishmongers bawled their wares beside baskets of writhing eels, the reek of brine and scales strong enough to turn her stomach. Carts heaped with root vegetables crowded the cobbles, turnip tops still clotted with earth, while stalls of fruit gleamed like jewels against the winter light. A woman hawked hot chestnuts from an iron pan, the scent sharp and sweet, her tongs snapping like castanets to snare wandering children. Everywhere came the clash of voices — haggling, calling, laughing too loudly after the night's drink. It was almost enough to drown the rush of Katelijne's own heartbeat. She kept her cloak drawn close, the little slip of parchment hidden deep in her sleeve. Its weight seemed heavier than any jewel she had ever worn.
Beside her, Margriet swept forward with brisk purpose, her voice spilling without pause. 'Not those red onions — they'll turn by tomorrow. And the cabbages? Half-rotted. People think they can cheat us just because we look prosperous.' Then, without missing a beat: 'But Floris — did you see how fine he looked at the Ball? The cut of his doublet, the jewels on his chain? He carries himself like a man born to honour a family name. You will be proud beside him, my girl.'
Katelijne murmured agreement where she must — 'Yes, Mama,' or 'Of course' — but her thoughts were far from onions or Floris's broad smile. Every step beside her mother felt like walking a rope stretched thin over a gulf. To slip, to be seen, to be questioned — it could undo everything. And yet the danger thrilled her.
For once she was not just the dutiful daughter of Jeroen De Wael, following her parents' plans as carefully laid as accounts in a ledger. She was daring something on her own.
The thought of him burned beneath her skin: the fool who was no fool at all, whose eyes had found hers through torchlight and laughter as though the mask she wore meant nothing. She was desperate to see him again, though she scarcely knew why. He was no match, no prospect, nothing her parents would ever consider — yet his glance had unsettled her more than all Floris's grand words and her father's proud speeches.
But what was she risking? She knew the answer: her family's trust, her reputation, perhaps even her future. The careful path ahead of her — marriage, security, a name honoured in Antwerp — could vanish if this secret slipped free. One note could unmake it all.
'And these turnips!' Margriet went on, thrusting a bunch into her basket. 'Fresh enough, I suppose. But Floris's mother — such taste! Those pearl ear-drops, the fur-lined sleeves… you'll be welcome in every hall of Antwerp once you're wed.'
Katelijne blinked, dragged suddenly back from her thoughts. For a heartbeat she could not answer, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Margriet's eyes narrowed. 'You're pale. You look as though you've hardly slept. Are you unwell?'
'No, Mama,' Katelijne said quickly, forcing a smile. 'It's just the crowd. The noise.'
Margriet gave a brisk nod, though her gaze lingered a moment longer before she turned back to haggle with the stallholder.
Katelijne's eyes slid past her mother, to the edges of the square. A pair of masked men loitered in the shadow of a tavern door, their painted grins more leer than jest. Further on, a woman in a feathered hood stumbled into a gutter, laughter twisting into a shriek as a drunkard pawed at her sleeve. Carnival's remnants still prowled, even in daylight — the masks brighter than the faces beneath them.
She looked away, heart thudding. Her mother's words should have filled her with pride. Floris was handsome, attentive, and by every measure of the world she knew, a good match. She wanted to be glad, to mirror the glow in Margriet's eyes. Instead she felt only the weight of the note pressing against her arm — a dangerous, foolish secret that outshone onions, pearls, and Floris alike.
Still, her fingers brushed the parchment, and the shiver that ran through her was not only fear. It was exhilaration, sharper than any silks or jewels had ever given her.
Beside her, Margriet was already deep in talk with a fishmonger, voice brisk as she haggled over the weight of herrings. The market churned around them — hawkers crying wares, beggars tugging at sleeves, children darting like minnows through the crowd. The noise, the bustle, the sheer life of it all — today it was her shield. No one here looked twice at a cloaked girl slipping a step aside.
And that was when Katelijne knew: she would dare it. The thought pulsed fierce and certain through her, even as she fell back into step beside her mother.
Margriet strode on, brisk and commanding, her purse clinking at her waist. 'Not those apples, girl, they'll bruise before we reach home. And mind you keep close — Carnival crowds are full of pickpockets.'
'Yes, Mama,' Katelijne murmured, though her thoughts were far from apples. The parchment hidden in her sleeve seemed to press harder against her skin, every heartbeat urging her toward the risk she had chosen.
Her gaze snagged on a knot of urchins near a cart piled with oranges. One darted forward, bold as a magpie, snatching for a fruit before the stall holder cuffed him back. The rest scattered in a burst of laughter. Among them she spotted one boy who lingered — thin as a reed, coat patched to rags, eyes quick and bright as a crow's.
Her mother was still bartering, gloved hand brandishing a turnip like a sceptre. Katelijne's moment had come.
She edged toward the child, lowering her voice beneath the market's din. 'Do you know the player with the parrot?'
The boy's eyes narrowed, sharp and suspicious. For a moment she thought he might bolt. Then his grin flashed, gap-toothed. 'Everyone knows the bird, miss. Loud as a bell, that one.'
Her hand shook as she drew the folded parchment from her sleeve. The words she had scrawled were simple, hurried:
Tonight. After dusk. St. Andries. K.
She pressed the note into his grubby palm along with a coin. 'Find him. He'll be in the Grote Markt, or the inns nearby. Tall, dark hair, the parrot always on his shoulder. Give it to him, and no one else.'
The boy weighed the coin, suspicion lingering. 'And if I do?'
'He'll pay you more when he reads it,' she said quickly, her throat tight. 'But no one must see. No one.'
For a heartbeat she feared he would laugh at her — a merchant's daughter whispering after fools in motley. But the boy's quick eyes only glinted, sharp as a crow's. He turned the coin over in his fingers with practised ease before slipping it into his mouth, safe as a magpie hides its prize. The note vanished just as swiftly, tucked inside his ragged coat. With a nimble twist of his shoulders he was gone, darting through the crowd in a slantwise path only street-children seemed to know, slipping under arms and between skirts until even his patched cap was lost from view.
Katelijne's stomach clenched. That slip of parchment — her foolish daring, her very name marked by its initial — now travelled in the hands of a stranger who owed her nothing but a coin. She smoothed her skirts, forcing herself to stand steady, though her knees trembled beneath them.
Katelijne's breath caught. The note was gone, carried into a world of masks and strangers she barely understood. She smoothed her skirts, forcing herself to stand steady.
But as the boy slipped into the alley behind the orange cart, she glimpsed shapes moving in the shadows there — men hunched against the wall, their masks askew, their laughter sharp with drink. One kicked a stray dog, sending it yelping into the gutter. Another raised a wineskin and bellowed. For an instant Katelijne imagined her message falling into their hands instead, and terror prickled cold down her spine.
She turned back quickly, just as Margriet declared victory over the turnip.
No one had noticed. At least, she prayed no one had.
Her palm still tingled with the warmth of the parchment. Somewhere in the market, a ragged boy was carrying her message — her folly — into hands she longed and dreaded to see again.
'Katelijne!' Margriet's voice rang sharp across the crowd. 'Don't dawdle. The poulterer's next, before he sells the best hens.'
'Coming, Mama,' she said quickly, slipping back to her side.
And as she followed, nodding when spoken to, she felt it settle over her like a secret cloak: Carnival was no longer something she watched. She was inside it now, for better or worse.