Morning light slanted through the high windows of the De Wael household, clear but brittle after Carnival's revels. The rooms smelled faintly of wax and woodsmoke, though servants moved briskly, setting fresh loaves on the table and stoking fires against the February chill.
Katelijne sat by the hearth, embroidery hoop balanced on her lap. The needle slipped in her fingers, tangling the silk thread. Each stitch went astray, crooked where it should have been neat. She pricked her finger, a bright bead of blood welling up, and pressed it to her gown without thought. Her hands would not steady. Her thoughts would not still.
Margriet swept into the hall, skirts rustling, her maid in tow with a basket of greens. 'Child, you look ready to faint. Hold yourself properly — shoulders back, chin lifted. Anyone would think you'd been up half the night.' She set the basket down and began sorting the stems herself. 'No doubt Carnival has worn you out. But that is no excuse for sitting there like a laundress mooning over her tub.'
'Yes, Mama,' Katelijne murmured, though her shoulders hunched further.
'And look at that stitchwork. A merchant's daughter should be able to hold a needle straight.' Margriet sighed, then her tone shifted seamlessly. 'Floris will be here soon. We mustn't appear unready. He has such fine taste — did you notice how well his chain caught the candlelight at the Ball? That embroidery on his doublet must have cost more than a maid's wages for a year. You will be proud beside him, Katelijne.'
Katelijne bent her head, hiding her face. Proud beside him. Yes, that was what was expected. A secure match, wealth for wealth, honour for honour. And yet her thoughts strayed elsewhere — to torchlight in a square, to a boy's grin too honest to be a mask. If her mother guessed where she had gone last night, what she had done—
The door opened. Edwin entered, brushing the cold from his cloak. His gaze swept the room, then landed on his sister. It lingered too long. Katelijne forced her attention back to the needle, though the thread quivered in her hand.
'You're pale,' he said evenly, hanging his cloak on the peg. 'Strange, when you claim you slept so soundly.'
Her breath caught, but she made her voice light. 'The air is close in here, that is all.'
Edwin's brow furrowed as if he would press further, but before he could, the steward's voice rang out:
'Master Floris van den Berg.'
Floris entered as though the hall belonged to him. His doublet gleamed with fresh stitching, his boots polished so bright the firelight danced upon them. Across his breast lay a chain of gold links, heavy enough to weigh a man down. He carried a small carved box in both hands.
'Katelijne,' he said, bowing low before setting the box upon the table. 'A token, for the lady who outshone every star in Antwerp.'
Margriet's hands fluttered to her breast. 'How gallant! How thoughtful!'
Katelijne opened the box slowly. Nestled within lay a rosary — beads of polished jet strung with silver-gilt, a cross dangling at the end, its arms studded with tiny pearls. The workmanship was exquisite, each bead catching the light like a droplet of night.
'It belonged to my grandmother,' Floris said, his voice pitched to carry. 'A woman of great piety and of a name honoured in every guildhall. It pleases me to see it pass now to one who will bear it with equal grace.'
'Exquisite,' Margriet breathed. 'Truly, Floris, you honour us.'
Katelijne forced a smile, though the rosary felt cold and heavy in her hand. She murmured thanks, the words catching in her throat.
'It suits you,' Floris said, bowing again. 'The pearls glow brighter for resting against your skin. Antwerp will see what treasure I have won.' His fingers lingered as he laid the rosary across her palms.
Colour rose hot to her cheeks. Floris's words glittered like coins, but they did not warm her. Last night Joseph had spoken her name as if it were something new and precious. This morning Floris spoke as if she were already bought and bound.
At the edge of the room, Edwin's arms crossed. His voice was quiet, edged like steel. 'Easy to give away what costs you nothing. Generosity weighs lighter when it is another's heirloom.'
'Edwin!' Margriet snapped.
But Floris only laughed, though his eyes flickered sharp for a heartbeat. 'A man is judged by how he uses what he inherits. I use mine to honour beauty and virtue. Your sister has both.'
Margriet glowed at the compliment, already ushering Floris toward the hearth with a flutter of hands. 'At least sit a while — you must take wine, or a sweetmeat. Carnival is exhausting work for a gentleman of your station, all those calls, all those duties.'
Floris bowed slightly, his smile smooth as polished brass. 'You honour me, Mevrouw, but I cannot linger. My father requires me at the Exchange — Venetian traders wait on us even during Carnival. Our city thrives because its merchants never sleep.' His glance swept the hall as though measuring its worth, then returned to Katelijne. 'Still, I would not pass the day without laying my token at your daughter's hand.'
Margriet all but sighed, patting her hair as though the compliment brushed her too.
Katelijne lowered her gaze to the rosary, the pearls gleaming cold against her skin. Each bead caught the light like a drop of frozen dew, but the cross felt heavier than iron, a chain laid quietly across her palms.
'You honour me,' she murmured, voice steady though her chest tightened.
'Honour suits you,' Floris said, pleased with himself. 'Antwerp will see it in you, and in time you will be seen at my side in every hall that matters.'
At the edge of the room Edwin shifted, his arms folded, eyes shadowed. 'So certain of tomorrow, Floris? Careful — Carnival teaches us how quickly fortune turns.'
Floris only laughed, though a spark of irritation flickered behind his polished smile. 'And yet some things are certain. Order rests on men who keep their word — and women who uphold their place.' His bow was shallow but deliberate, his gaze lingering on Katelijne before he turned toward the door.
When the steward opened it for him, Floris adjusted his chain so it caught the light. 'I will return soon,' he promised, as if the household awaited nothing else.
Margriet bustled after him, cheeks glowing, calling thanks into the corridor.
Katelijne sat motionless, the rosary heavy across her lap. Edwin's glance brushed hers, cool and questioning. She bent her head, pretending to study the neat stitch of pearls, though all she felt was their weight pressing down, cold as iron.
Edwin lingered by the hearth, his eyes never leaving her. At last he spoke, voice low but firm.
'It is a fine gift,' he said. 'And yet you look as though it burns your hands.'
Katelijne glanced up, pulse quickening. 'You imagine things.'
'Do I?' He stepped closer, lowering his voice so the servants could not hear. 'Last night you went out alone. Don't deny it — I followed. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Carnival is no place for a girl to wander, not even masked. You could have been dragged into the shadows and no one the wiser.'
Her breath caught. Heat rushed to her cheeks, half from fear, half from defiance. 'I was careful.'
'Careful?' His brow furrowed, anger threaded with concern. 'You're reckless. You think a cloak and mask will protect you? I saw men brawling in the gutters, women chased through alleys. You don't know what waits when the torches gutter out.'
Katelijne tightened her grip on the rosary, its pearls biting into her palm. For a moment she almost promised never to do it again, to soothe the worry in his voice. But another voice rose in her memory — Joseph's, speaking her name as though it mattered.
She lifted her chin. 'Everyone has their secrets, Edwin.'
He stared at her, stricken by the quiet defiance in her tone. For a heartbeat he looked as though he might demand more, might shake the truth from her. Then his jaw hardened, and he turned away, cloak snapping at his heels.
Katelijne sagged back against the chair, her pulse racing. He knew. Not everything, not yet, but enough to set the ground trembling beneath her.
She clutched the rosary tighter, its beads hard and cold against her skin. Each pearl gleamed like a promise, but the silver links between them dragged heavy as chains, binding her to the path her family had chosen.
And yet in her mind lingered the memory of her name, spoken softly in the shadows of St. Andries — Joseph's voice, unadorned and certain. One bound her like iron, the other sparked like fire.
And tonight, she knew, she would follow the spark.