Willem's inn still smelled of stale ale and stewing onions when the troupe spilled into the courtyard, dragging stools and benches to serve as their stage. The wagon leaned crooked against the wall, its paint chipped, its wheels crusted with mud, but today it was their rehearsal hall, their world.
'Again,' Isabelle snapped, her voice slicing through the morning haze. 'Rik, your bow drags — you'll turn a jig into a funeral march if you keep on so. Joos, wait for the rhyme before you caper. Sander, louder. If they can't hear you at the back of the square, you may as well be writing sonnets to the pigs.'
Rik sawed his fiddle in mock despair, rolling his eyes. 'Saints preserve us, the general has risen early today.'
'Better a general than a drunk,' Isabelle retorted. 'The crowd won't forgive sloppy work. We gave them laughter yesterday; if we falter now, they'll forget us before the bells ring.'
Bram leaned against the wagon, arms crossed, smirk curling his lips. He had appeared with the morning ale, as he often did, and somehow had not left since. 'She's right,' he said, though the mockery in his tone undercut the words. 'Carnival's a hungry beast. Keep its belly full with tricks and noise, or it eats you alive.'
'Spoken like a man who's never set foot on stage,' Rik muttered, plucking at his strings.
'Stage?' Bram drawled. 'I don't need a stage. The street's stage enough. Men show their true faces when they think no one's watching — not when they're paying to clap for fools.'
'And what's your trade, then?' Joos shot back. 'Leaning? You've turned it into an art, Bram.'
Laughter rippled through the troupe, though Isabelle didn't join. She tilted her head, studying Bram with the half-smile Joseph knew too well — weighing, testing, amused yet attentive. Bram, catching the look, only grinned wider, as though her scrutiny was a game he meant to win.
Joseph tightened his jaw. It was Carnival, and yet Bram seemed always at ease — half in their circle, half above it, watching with eyes that measured more than they revealed.
'Seen enough fools trip over sausages,' Bram added lazily, 'to know the difference between laughter and pity.'
Joos groaned. 'Not this again.'
'Enough,' Isabelle clapped her hands. 'We've little time before dusk, and Antwerp is fickle. One misstep and our purses will be as empty as yesterday's tankards.'
'Empty?' Joos puffed out his chest. 'Nonsense. Yesterday I earned us three extra coins just by juggling—' He snatched up a crust of bread and a pewter mug, tossing them into the air. The mug clattered to the ground, dousing his boots in stale ale.
Rik barked laughter. 'Saints preserve us, a true master of the art! Next he'll set the pigs to dance.'
Even Pietje joined in, wings flapping. 'Clumsy fool! Clumsy fool!'
The courtyard erupted, but Isabelle's eyes flashed. 'The crowd won't pay to see you drop tankards. They'll laugh at you, not with you. Try that in the square and I'll leave you to juggle in the gutter.'
Sander, charcoal smudged across his cheek, lifted his parchment. 'At least his rhyme is ready, Belle. Better than Rik's bow, which screeches like a goose every other bar.'
'A goose with style,' Rik retorted, scraping a flourish that made Pietje squawk louder still.
Joseph tried to listen, tried to focus on Rik's bow and Sander's verses, but his mind wandered — back to torchlight on stone walls, to a square gone silent when one gaze met another.
Katelijne.
The name itself was a spark. He had spoken it once, breathed it like a prayer, and the sound still clung to his lips. Her name belonged to a world far above his own — velvet halls, stained glass, polished chains of gold. Yet somehow she had given it to him, freely, as though lowering a rope into the pit where he stood.
His hand drifted to his doublet, where the handkerchief lay hidden. He thought of its tiny cross-stitches, neat as pearls, the faint perfume still caught in its weave. No tavern wench carried such a token. It was hers — proof he had not dreamed her, proof he had not imagined the fire in her eyes.
And yet, what was he doing with it? A scrap of silk could damn him more surely than a blade. Isabelle would sneer, Bram would laugh, and if anyone guessed whose hand had once held it, the whole city might turn its jeers on him. He was no match for her — only rhyme, motley, and a parrot that cursed priests. Nothing that could weigh against pearls and dowries.
Still, he could not let it go.
The cloth brushed his chest like a secret heartbeat.
'Joseph!' Isabelle's voice cracked like a whip. 'Your cue. Or do you mean to let Pietje squawk your verses for you?'
'Pretty fool! Fool! Fool!' the parrot shrieked, bobbing as if delighted with her scold. Rik screeched a fanfare, Joos toppled from his bench, even Willem's boy snorted with laughter.
Joseph flushed. 'Sorry. I'll keep it straight.'
'See that you do,' Isabelle snapped, eyes narrowing as if she might pry his secrets loose. Then she clapped her hands. 'Again. No slack, no slop. Antwerp forgets fools quickly.'
Sander leaned over, charcoal-stained fingers smudging his notes. 'You're mooning, Joseph. Like a lad at his first May fair. Careful — if your eyes glaze any further, Rik will be strutting in motley before nightfall.'
'Better me than him,' Rik called, scraping a flourish. 'At least I can keep time.'
'And I can juggle turnips,' Joos added proudly. 'That's more than you can say for yourself, brother fool.'
The courtyard roared again, elbows and laughter flying. Joseph forced a grin, heat creeping up his neck.
'Leave him,' Joos said at last, mock solemn. 'A man's allowed to dream, even if it's folly. Carnival feeds on folly.'
'Folly feeds on hunger,' Isabelle shot back, sharp as glass. 'Dreams don't keep the pot filled. Forget your lines again, Joseph, and you'll dream on an empty belly while Antwerp jeers our names.'
Her words stung. Joseph clenched his fists, biting back a retort. Better to let it pass — Isabelle always won.
Bram's chuckle rumbled low. 'Don't bite so hard, Belle. A man can chase a dream and still play his part. Can't you, Joseph?' His grin carried too much knowing.
Joseph turned away, scratching Pietje's neck until the bird bobbed and muttered nonsense.
The rehearsal dragged on. Isabelle drove them mercilessly — sharper rhymes, cleaner steps, louder flourishes. By midday the bells tolled and their voices were hoarse, legs aching.
At last she relented. 'Eat. Rest your throats. We go again before dusk.'
The troupe collapsed onto stools. Rik poured ale, Joos stretched till his joints cracked, Sander scribbled even as he chewed.
Joseph lingered at the edge, cup in hand but untouched. The noise blurred, drowned beneath the thrum of his own thoughts.
What if she didn't come? What if the note had never reached her? Or worse — what if it had, and she regretted it already?
His fingers brushed the handkerchief. Fool. A girl cloaked in silks, her family's honour heavy on her shoulders — she would not risk it twice. He was a wanderer with nothing but motley and jest. What could he offer?
And yet he remembered her eyes, bright as torchlight, alive with something more than duty. He had felt it, as surely as he had ever felt a crowd's laughter rise around him.
'Joseph!' Rik called. 'You fasting for Lent already?'
Laughter followed. Joseph managed a smile, lifted his cup, and drank. The ale was flat, but it steadied him.
The afternoon waned. Carnival swelled beyond the walls — drums rolling, bells clanging, voices spilling over the rooftops. The troupe busied themselves with last touches: polishing lines, patching motley, tightening bowstrings. Isabelle prowled sharp-eyed among them. Bram lingered too, each sly comment met with her half-smile.
Joseph mended a loose thread on Pietje's perch, but his mind was elsewhere. The hours crawled, each toll of the bell heavier than the last, pulling him closer to nightfall, closer to St. Andries.
When at last the lamps were lit, Isabelle clapped her hands. 'Enough. Save the rest for the stage.'
The troupe scattered — some to ale, some to sleep, some into Carnival's chaos.
Joseph lingered, watching shadows stretch across the cobbles.
He told himself again it was folly. That she would not come. That he was a fool to even hope.
But when the bells rang for vespers, low and solemn, he found his feet already carrying him away from the inn, down the narrow alleys, toward the chapel at the edge of the square.
Pietje squawked once from the wagon, as if calling him back.
Joseph did not turn.
The yard's glow faded quickly behind him. Antwerp's lanes closed in, narrow and crooked, the cobbles slick beneath his boots. Here the air smelled of horses and smoke, and further on, of the Scheldt itself — cold and metallic, the river's breath rising through the gaps between houses. Carnival still prowled at the city's heart, its drums a faint throb, its shouts and pipes carrying like echoes along the rooftops. Yet here, in the backstreets, the noise thinned into whispers: a door slamming, a drunkard coughing, a dog's bark cut short.
He pulled his cloak tighter. The inn had been all heat and noise, firelight bouncing on walls, laughter ringing in his ears. This was different — the night sharp and watchful, shadows crouched at every turn. Each step took him further from the comfort of bread and ale, deeper into a city that might swallow him whole.
Still he walked on. The cold bit at his cheeks, but beneath his doublet the handkerchief lay warm against his chest, urging him forward. Every toll of the bell seemed to draw him nearer, each echo a reminder that the chapel waited — and perhaps she did too.