The night air stung Joseph's cheeks as he left St. Andries behind, alleys winding like veins through the dark. His cloak clung damp at the collar, but he hardly felt it. What echoed in him was not the bells nor the wind, but her voice.
'Katelijne.'
He had whispered it back like a prayer, tasting the strangeness of it on his tongue, afraid even the night might overhear. To give a name in Carnival was no small thing. Names bound tighter than oaths. He knew it was folly, dangerous as any jest turned sour — and yet he felt unmoored, lighter, as if the whole city's torches burned only for them.
The square lay almost silent now, the chapel torch guttering in the wind. Joseph turned back once, half certain he'd imagined her altogether. Then his boot struck a loose cobble, pitching him forward. He bent to steady himself— and there it was.
A handkerchief, snagged on the stone as if the night itself had set a token in his path. He bent, scarcely daring to touch it. This was no coarse rag of a sailor or apprentice, but soft, fine cloth — the kind carried in halls he had only glimpsed from the street. Along its edge ran careful stitches in the colour of pomegranate seeds, tiny crosses so neat they might have been strung from pearls. In one corner, faint but certain, a single letter curled: K.
His breath caught. It was proof — fragile as a thread, but proof all the same — that she was not a dream conjured by torchlight. That she had been there, flesh and breath, close enough to drop what no player could ever hope to own.
His breath caught. He lifted it carefully, as though it might dissolve at his touch. A faint scent lingered — rosewater, or some other perfume from halls he had only glimpsed from the street. It was hers. He knew it with a certainty that sent a shiver down his spine.
For a heartbeat he only stood there, the square deserted, the cloth warm in his palm. Fool that he was, he wanted to press it to his lips, proof that she was no dream conjured by Carnival's torches.
But unease threaded the thrill. A handkerchief so finely made did not belong in his world. If Isabelle saw it, she would sneer and shred it with words sharper than knives. If others saw it, they might guess more than he dared admit.
Still, he could not leave it. It was all he had of her, a token more dangerous than coin.
Joseph drew a long breath and forced his feet away from the chapel, back toward Willem's inn. Yet each step felt heavier for the weight of the handkerchief tucked against his heart.
By the time he reached the inn, quiet had given way to raucous noise. Lanterns burned in the courtyard, laughter spilling from the windows. Sailors and merchants shouted over one another, the air thick with ale, sweat, and stewing meat. Their wagon stood in its corner, shadowed but safe. Joseph lingered a moment, loath to step inside, to lose the night's fragile magic to smoke and din.
But he pushed through the door, the press of heat and voices closing around him.
He found Isabelle in the back corner.
She sat with Bram — Willem's thickset companion, broad of shoulder and loud of mouth. His arm sprawled across the back of her chair, his cup lifted mid-tale, voice booming enough to turn heads. Isabelle leaned close, laughter bright, her cheeks flushed from wine.
Joseph's stomach tightened. Isabelle rarely laughed so easily. Her smiles were usually measured, sharp as blades, calculated to win coin or favour. But here she looked softened, almost girlish, her hand resting on the table as Bram leaned close, his voice pitched low. Carnival's wildness seemed to have seeped into her, loosening what she usually kept bound so tight.
Bram's arm sprawled comfortably along the back of her chair, a gesture of claim that made Joseph's teeth grind. The man was thickset, broad-shouldered, steady as a dockyard piling — and too sure of himself by half. Apprentices at nearby tables watched with open curiosity, whispering behind their mugs.
Isabelle tilted her head toward Bram as though she were weighing his words, but Joseph knew that look: the gleam in her eyes that meant she was reckoning, even as she laughed. Yet something in her posture unsettled him. For once it wasn't clear who was measuring whom.
He strode over, voice low but hard. 'You've had enough.'
Isabelle tilted her head, still smiling as she swirled her cup. 'Don't start, brother. It's Carnival. Everyone drinks.'
'Not like this,' Joseph snapped. His gaze slid to Bram. 'And not with him.'
Bram grinned, teeth flashing. 'Your sister knows good company, Joseph. More than I can say for you — sulking in alleys while the city dances.'
Joseph bristled. 'Company? You'll think she's yours by morning.'
Isabelle's laugh faltered. She set her cup down with a clatter. 'And you don't? Tell me — who was she?' Her eyes, sharper now, pinned him. 'The girl in silk who stared back at you. Don't think I didn't see.'
Joseph's mouth dried. He forced a shrug. 'No one.'
'No one?' Isabelle leaned forward, breath warm with wine. 'You'd risk everything for a smile from no one? Let the crowd see your eyes wander — for no one?'
Bram chuckled, leaning back. 'Ah, so that's the game. Our Joseph chasing merchant daughters. Figures. Fools always tumble faster than they climb.'
'You know nothing of her,' Joseph said through his teeth.
'Oh, I know enough,' Isabelle shot back. 'She's rich. Safe in her fine house, with servants to stoke her fire and a mother to lace her gown. While you—' her voice caught, and for a breath it seemed she might soften, but the wine drove her on, sharper still — 'while you'll be scraping coin from mud tomorrow, same as always. And when she's done with you, she'll not even remember your name.'
Joseph's hands curled into fists. 'And Bram will? Do you think he'll remember you once his purse is spent?'
Bram's grin widened. 'Empty? Never. I know my worth. Do you?'
Joseph slammed his palm against the table, cups jumping. The inn's noise faltered before roaring back. 'Worth? You toy with men as though their coin will feed us forever. One day you'll find a man who toys back, Belle.'
Isabelle's smile chilled. Her voice dropped to a hiss. 'Maybe I already have.' She flicked her gaze to Bram, who lifted his cup in lazy salute.
Joseph reeled, anger and hurt tangling hot in his chest. He shoved his chair back, wood scraping. 'I won't watch this.'
'Then don't!' Isabelle spat, sharp even through her slur. 'Go chase your lady of silks and leave me to mine. But don't pretend your folly is nobler than mine. It isn't.'
'At least mine—' he bit back the words, but they burned still. At least mine feels true.
Bram stretched, smug as a cat in cream. 'At least she knows the rules of the game. You'd do well to learn them, fool, before they break you.'
Joseph's temper flared. He might have struck him, one blow to wipe away that smirk, but Isabelle caught his arm, grip fierce even in drink. Her eyes met his, glassy but steady.
'Don't,' she whispered. 'Not here. Not with him.'
For a long moment they held there, locked in anger, hurt, and something close to fear. Then Joseph tore free, turning on his heel and forcing his way back through the crowd.
Outside the cold hit like a slap. He leaned against the inn wall, dragging air into his lungs, the night air cutting sharper than any jest. For a moment he only stood there, letting the noise of the inn muffle behind the door, as though he were caught between two worlds — one of smoke, brawling sailors, and Isabelle's brittle laughter, the other of shadows, silence, and the echo of a name whispered in torchlight.
His hand went to his doublet. Slowly he drew out the handkerchief he had hidden there — Katelijne's handkerchief. Even in the dim yard it gleamed pale, softer than anything he had ever owned, stitched with tiny crosses neat as pearls. He brushed his thumb across the fabric, still faint with the sweetness of rosewater. A token so small, yet it felt heavier than all the coins in Isabelle's apron. Proof that she was real, that the night had not been a dream, and that he had something to lose now.
Inside, Isabelle's laughter rose again — brittle, bright, too loud. Bram's voice rumbled beside it, low and certain.
Joseph closed his eyes. The city roared around him, Carnival wild and reckless. But here, alone in the courtyard, he felt the cost of it pressing heavy on his shoulders — sister and stranger both tugging him in directions he could not follow without breaking.
When he opened his eyes again, a shadow shifted in the inn's doorway. Bram stood there, tankard in hand, leaning against the frame as though he owned it. The roar of the room spilled out around him, but Bram was silent, his grin gone, his gaze flat and calculating. For a heartbeat Joseph felt pinned, as if the man could see straight through his motley, through the pocket where the handkerchief lay hidden.
The silence between them stretched. Then Bram lifted his cup in slow mockery, drank deep, and turned back inside.
Joseph exhaled hard, shoulders tight. He tucked the handkerchief deeper against his chest, as though the cloth itself might shield him.
The night pressed colder, the bells tolling somewhere far off. He knew he stood on a knife's edge — Isabelle entangled with Bram, himself bound to a girl he should never have touched. Folly upon folly.
And yet one truth glowed steady as the torch at the gate: tomorrow he would go to St. Andries.