The bells of St. Andries tolled faint and heavy, carrying across the rooftops as twilight sank into night. Their iron voices seemed to still the air, so unlike the clamour of Carnival that battered Antwerp's other squares. Here, on the edge of the city, the sound was slower, solemn, and the quiet between the tolls pressed close.
The chapel crouched at the corner of a narrow square, its stone walls dark with age, its doorway set deep in shadow. A thin torch guttered in the wind by the gate, its light too feeble to push back the dark.
Katelijne paused at the edge of the square, cloak pulled close, her mask hiding little from the quickness of her breath. She had told her mother she was going to confession, and Margriet, weary after Carnival's pageantry, had waved her off with hardly a glance. Yet every step since had seemed loud enough to betray her.
Carnival's laughter still reached her, carried from distant streets — shrieks, pipes, the crack of a jug against stone. Here those sounds were dimmed, smothered by distance, as though she had stepped into another world. And perhaps she had.
The square was nearly deserted. A stray dog nosed through a heap of rubbish, a shutter banged, but no revellers lingered. She moved toward the chapel gate, each footstep loud against the cobbles. Her heart hammered as if it meant to leap free of her chest.
A figure shifted in the shadows.
'You came.'
Joseph's voice, low but unmistakable.
He stepped into the torchlight, cloak drawn close, the parrot absent for once. His curls caught a glimmer of flame, but what struck her more was his smile — not the wide, reckless grin of the fool, but smaller, almost uncertain. A private smile, just for her.
'I shouldn't have,' Katelijne whispered, though her feet held fast.
'Nor I,' he said, laughing softly as if at himself. 'But here we are.'
For a long breath they stood in silence, studying one another — she masked, he half-veiled in shadow. The city roared beyond, yet here it felt as though the whole world had hushed.
'I thought I imagined it,' Katelijne said, words spilling before she could stop them. 'When you looked at me in the square. That you saw me.'
'I did,' Joseph answered simply. There was no flourish in him now, no jest. Only truth, spoken as if it had waited on his tongue all his life. 'And you saw me too. Not the fool, not the parrot. Me.'
Her throat tightened. How long had she wanted someone to look at her like that? Not as Jeroen De Wael's daughter, not as Floris's promised bride, but as herself.
'I liked your play,' she said quickly, before silence could swallow them. 'The parrot — the way he cried against the fish and sausages…' She gave a breath of laughter. 'I couldn't stop myself laughing.'
Joseph's grin flickered wider, warmed by relief. 'Then Pietje's done his part. He's the clever one of us. Folk remember the bird long after they forget the man who carried him.'
'That isn't true,' she said softly. 'I remembered you.'
His eyes shone in the torchlight, astonished and grateful, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks.
From the far street came a burst of drunken laughter, followed by a woman's cry — not of delight but of protest. Katelijne flinched, clutching her cloak tighter.
'If we are seen—' she began.
'We won't be,' Joseph said quickly, though his own gaze darted to the shadows. He lowered his voice. 'I would not risk you. I only wanted to thank you — for answering. For trusting me, even this much.'
'It is folly,' she whispered.
'Aye,' Joseph said, his crooked smile returning. 'But Carnival is folly, isn't it? A few days when the world turns upside down. And sometimes, in folly, we find truth.'
The words struck her — dangerous, reckless, but tempting. Floris's boasts, her father's proud speeches — none of them had sounded like this. Joseph's words were meant only for her.
She drew a breath. 'If this is truth, then tell me your name. Not the fool's name, not what they call you from the crowd. Yours.'
For a heartbeat he hesitated. Then he stepped closer, the torchlight catching in his eyes. 'Joseph.'
Her lips parted. She had not expected him to yield so easily.
Joseph tilted his head, smile crooked. 'And yours? Don't tell me — I can see it already. It begins with a K, doesn't it?'
Her hand rose to the edge of her mask. 'And if it does?'
'Then I'll guess all the K-names in Antwerp until you stop me. Katrien? Katheline? No… you're sharper than that. Stronger. Katel—'
'Katelijne,' she whispered, cutting him off, the word slipping free before she could stop it.
The name lingered in the hush between them, fragile and daring at once. Joseph's grin softened, wonder stealing in as if she had handed him something far greater than a name.
The names seemed to hang in the air, fragile and binding at once, more dangerous than any kiss.
Another burst of laughter carried across the square, and she flinched, pulling her cloak tight again. Joseph stepped back into the chapel's shadow.
'And you?' she asked suddenly. 'Is it safe for you? To meet me? If anyone discovered—'
'Safe?' Joseph laughed softly, shaking his head. 'Nothing about this is safe. For you least of all.' He hesitated, then added, 'But I would come, even if it cost me dear.'
She drew a sharp breath. She ought to end it, to turn back, to leave him standing in the square. Floris's smile, her mother's words, her father's pride — all of it pressed heavy on her. But against it stood this single moment, fragile and bright as the torch's flame.
'I don't even know you,' she said, almost to herself.
'Then ask,' Joseph said. 'Ask me anything, and I'll answer true.'
Her lips parted, then closed again. She wanted to ask everything — where he came from, what he dreamed, why his eyes had caught hers when so many others had not. But the questions tangled in her throat.
At last she whispered, 'What do you want?'
His answer was quiet, unflinching. 'This. To stand here with you, even for a little while. To be seen by you.'
Her breath caught. She turned her face away, mask hiding what her eyes might betray.
A gust of wind guttered the torch, plunging them into sudden dark. The world shrank to the sound of their breathing. When the flame flared back, she found him watching her as if nothing else in the square existed.
'I won't keep you,' Joseph said finally, his voice roughened. He stepped back into shadow. 'But tomorrow… if you wish it, I'll be here.'
Katelijne's heart pounded. She should refuse. To let this go further was to court ruin. Yet when she opened her mouth, the word that slipped free was not no but:
'Tomorrow.'
Their eyes met once more, the silence fuller than any promise. Then a shout rang from the end of the street, jolting her back to herself.
She gathered her cloak, turned, and hurried away. Carnival's noise swelled again as she neared the busier streets, yet inside her the word beat like a drum.
Tomorrow.
⸻
She walked quickly, head bowed, though her mind whirled. The market quarter lay quieter now, its stalls shuttered, scraps of ribbon and wilted garlands littering the gutters. A drunk lurched past, muttering, and she pulled her cloak tighter, slipping by unseen.
Floris's face rose before her: broad smile, jewelled chain, voice pitched for the crowd. He was handsome, admired, already speaking of all the triumphs they would share. A future glittered with his certainty.
And yet tonight she had stood with a man who had asked her nothing but what she wanted. Who had looked at her not as a jewel to polish, not as a pawn to display, but as herself.
Her steps slowed. The weight of the note, now gone from her, still seemed to press against her skin. Guilt tugged sharp as thorns. Her parents had built every hope upon her marriage; Floris offered security, honour, pride. And she had risked it all for a jester with empty pockets and a vanished parrot.
A fool, she told herself. Yet her lips curved, traitorously, at the thought.
She reached her street — and froze.
From the shadows of a doorway stepped Edwin, mask pushed back, jaw set.
'Katelijne,' he said, voice low and strained. 'Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?'
Her heart lurched.
'You slipped from the house alone, into Carnival's night. Do you know what could have happened? Do you know what I saw just now?' His voice shook with fury, yet beneath it was something fiercer still — fear.
She tried to speak, but no words came.
Edwin stepped closer, lowering his voice. 'You are reckless. You cannot do this again.'
Katelijne's throat tightened. His words were meant to protect her, yet they pressed heavy as chains. She bowed her head, her mind still blazing with another's smile, another's promise.
Tomorrow.