The night pressed colder than the last, wind slicing down Antwerp's alleys as though Carnival itself had teeth. Katelijne walked quickly, boots scuffing the cobbles, her heart drumming as loud as any drum in the distant squares. She had chosen a different disguise tonight: her brother's old cloak, hood pulled low, a cap shadowing her brow. Beneath it her gown was hidden, replaced by a plain jerkin and breeches borrowed from the laundry. In the dark she might pass for a boy, one of the hundreds who slipped through Carnival's shadows.
And yet the disguise did little to steady her nerves. Every step felt watched. More than once she glanced behind her, certain she caught the scrape of another's boots, the flicker of a figure that vanished when she turned.
She lengthened her stride.
The torchlight from the main square flared suddenly, spilling into the alley as a masked figure reeled out. He was tall, cloaked in stripes of yellow and black velvet, his head crowned with a snarling tiger mask. Wild hair, red as flame, spilled from beneath it. His eyes glittered through the slits, sharp and avid.
'Lost, little rabbit?' His voice was a drawl thick with drink. He reached out, claws painted on his gloves catching the torchlight. 'Carnival is no place to wander alone. Better come with me — I'll keep you safe.'
Katelijne froze, pulse hammering. The mask leered closer. She managed to shake her head, backing a step.
'No?' the tiger purred. 'Then perhaps just a kiss for luck.'
Her breath caught, but before he could lunge nearer, a roar of laughter from further down the street drew his attention. Other masked revels spilled into view, shouting his name. He straightened, flashing her one last leer before staggering away toward them, the tiger mask bobbing in the torchlight.
Katelijne pressed against the wall until he was gone. Her hands shook as she tugged the cap lower. Foolishness. She had thought herself daring, cloaking herself in another shape. But Carnival was dangerous as well as liberating, and her heartbeat still raced from the nearness of his hand.
She was late. She hurried, boots splashing through puddles, praying Joseph had not already left.
The square of St. Andries lay nearly empty when she reached it, the chapel crouched in shadow at its far edge. A single torch sputtered near the gate, its flame bending sideways in the wind.
He stood there.
Joseph had drawn his cloak tight, shoulders tense, as if braced against disappointment. When she appeared from the alley, his head jerked up. For a heartbeat he only stared, and then he shook his head with a half-broken laugh.
'I thought you'd never come. Fool that I am, waiting here like a dog for scraps.'
'Forgive me,' Katelijne whispered, breathless, still shaken from the tiger's leer. 'I was delayed.'
The quaver in her voice betrayed her. His gaze sharpened. 'Someone troubled you?'
She shook her head too quickly. 'Just… Carnival.'
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. 'Tell me.'
The words were not a command, but they steadied her all the same. She swallowed. 'A man — a mask. He likely thought me someone else.'
His jaw tightened, though his tone stayed gentle. 'You should not have to walk alone among such beasts.'
Katelijne's throat ached at the warmth in his words. Floris would have scoffed, perhaps laughed at her alarm. Joseph's anger was quiet, protective. It eased the last of her fear.
'I nearly left,' he admitted, softer now. 'Told myself it was madness to think you would risk this again. But still I hoped. And now… here you are.'
Her chest tightened. 'I shouldn't have come. I know that. But… I wanted to.' The admission slipped out before she could catch it, raw and unpolished as breath.
His smile was small, almost disbelieving, but it warmed the space between them. 'And I thought you'd never return. That I was a fool for hoping.'
She lowered her gaze, then lifted it again, tugging the cap back so the torchlight brushed her features. For once she didn't want to hide.
'Tell me who you are,' she whispered.
And he did — quietly, without flourish. Of his parents' death, the road with Isabelle, the ragtag troupe that had become his family. His voice held no boast, no polish, only truth.
He told her of winters spent huddled in barns, of summer fairs where laughter was as thin as the bread they earned. Of sheriffs who chased them from towns, and of nights when the only music was his sister's sharp tongue keeping fear at bay. He spoke of Pietje too, the parrot bought for a handful of coins at a market in Ghent, who had turned out to be sharper than half the men they'd ever played to.
'Isabelle kept us alive,' he said, his breath misting in the cold. 'She could turn a curse into coin, a scrap into supper. I only juggled and capered until folk forgot how thin we were.'
Katelijne listened, still as the chapel wall. His words carried no plea for pity, yet each one fell heavy as stones into water. She thought of her own house, with fires always lit, bread always laid fresh on the board, a father who could command silence with a glance. And here before her stood a man who had lived by laughter — laughter not always kind — and still smiled at her as though the world had given him enough.
'It sounds… lonely,' she said at last.
Joseph shrugged, the movement small. 'Lonely, perhaps. But when the crowd laughs — when they cheer, even just for a heartbeat — it feels as though we belong. That we matter.'
His eyes lifted to hers then, and she felt her chest tighten. No merchant, no suitor, no priest had ever spoken to her so plainly, as if nothing in the world mattered more than the truth between them.
In return, she told him hers. Katelijne de Wael. Daughter of a merchant, betrothed to Floris van den Berg. She spoke the words like confession, half expecting him to recoil.
But Joseph only looked at her steadily. 'And yet here you stand. Not beside Floris. Not in your father's hall. Here.'
Her fingers trembled at her side. 'Floris is everything I should want. Yet when he praises me I feel only… bound.'
'And when I spoke your name last night?'
The question undid her. She let out a breath she had not meant to speak. 'Free.'
The silence between them deepened, more dangerous than noise. He stepped closer, and this time when their hands brushed, neither drew back. His palm was warm, calloused, steadying.
Her breath tangled. For a heartbeat she feared he would hear the rush of it, as though her secret might betray itself in sound alone. His fingers lingered, then slowly curled around hers.
'Katelijne,' he said softly, testing the name as though it were fragile glass.
She swallowed, the sound loud in her ears. 'Joseph.'
The names hung there, naked and impossible. She almost laughed — not with joy, but with the madness of it. Names gave shape to things. They bound.
His gaze searched hers, torchlight flickering in the dark pools of his eyes. Then, with a hesitance that felt more daring than boldness, he raised his free hand to the edge of her mask.
'May I?' he asked.
Her throat closed. To be seen — truly seen — was a risk beyond all sense. And yet, she found herself nodding.
His fingers brushed her cheek as he lifted the mask. Cool air kissed her skin where the silk had pressed tight. She met his eyes, no longer shielded, and saw wonder flash there.
For a breath she trembled, then, before she could falter, she reached to him. Her hand found the edge of his own mask, shadows clinging to his face. He did not resist as she slipped it free.
The torch flared as if in witness, painting his features in gold and shadow. He looked younger than she had thought, weariness etched at the edges, laughter lines deepened by more than jest. A man, not a fool.
And in that moment she felt herself dissolve — no ledgers, no pearls, no bargains made in candlelit halls. Only this square, this torch, this boy whose eyes saw her as no one else ever had.
But then footsteps echoed at the alley's mouth. Heavy, deliberate.
Joseph's head snapped up, eyes narrowing toward the sound. 'Go,' he said quickly. 'Before we are seen.'
Her heart leapt to her throat. She pulled back, tugging her hood up once more. 'Tomorrow?' The word trembled out before she could stop it.
He nodded once. 'Tomorrow.'
She fled, skirts whispering beneath the cloak, boots striking the cobbles. Behind her, the footsteps followed — slower, steady, too steady.
She glanced once over her shoulder. A shadow lingered at the alley's mouth, tall, watching.
Edwin. She felt it more than saw it.
Katelijne quickened her pace, breath catching, until the familiar streets of the merchant quarter closed about her. Only then did she dare look back again.
The square was empty.
But her pulse still raced, the memory of his hand warm against hers, the echo of her brother's gaze colder still.