The square swelled with people long before dusk. Banners snapped from every gable, torches burned in lines around the makeshift stage, and the smell of hot wine and frying fish thickened the air. This was no passing crowd that might pause for a jest and move on. Half of Antwerp seemed pressed into the Grote Markt, waiting to be entertained.
'This is it,' Rik muttered, flexing his fingers on the bow. 'Bigger than Haarlem, bigger than Amsterdam even.' His grin faltered. 'We'd best not botch it.'
'Then don't,' Isabelle said sharply. She stood in the wings, arms crossed, her gaze sweeping over them like a captain before battle. 'Tight, fast, no fumbling. Antwerp is watching. Fail here and they'll not forgive it.'
Her words found their mark. Joos tugged at his padded belly with a grimace, Sander fumbled the scrap of verses he'd been rehearsing all afternoon, and Joseph—Joseph only nodded, though his mind was elsewhere.
Katelijne.
He clenched his jaw, forcing the thought aside. This was no time for folly. The crowd waited, restless. He could feel their hunger, sharp as knives.
The drumroll began. Rik's fiddle leapt into a jig, and Joos staggered forward as Carnival, belly stuffed, sausages draped round his neck. The crowd laughed at once, the roar of it swelling against the stage.
'Feast and folly!' Joos bellowed, goose leg high. 'Down with Lent, up with wine!'
The parrot squawked from Joseph's shoulder. 'Fool! Fool!'
The laughter rose higher, cheers echoing from the square. Relief fluttered through Joseph's chest. Pietje never failed them.
But then it was his turn. He sprang forward, arms wide, his jest ready — but the words snagged in his throat. He saw not the crowd but her, torchlight on her face, her name still hot on his tongue.
'Come on, brother,' Rik hissed behind him.
Joseph stumbled through the line, voice flat, the rhythm broken. The crowd wavered. A few chuckled politely, but the edge of their eagerness dulled.
A woman near the front frowned, folding her arms. Two apprentices whispered and pointed. From the wings Isabelle's glare struck like a knife. Joseph swallowed, tried again, but the line came late, dragging the whole scene off-beat. Pietje squawked wildly, wings beating against his shoulder, but the bird's mockery only deepened the unease.
Lent swept in with her wooden fish, striking the boards for order. Sander's verse picked up the slack, clever rhymes spilling smooth. For a moment the play righted itself. Rik flung his bow into a furious reel, forcing the crowd back to laughter.
Then Joseph missed his cue again. His mouth moved too late, his tongue thick and clumsy. The silence that followed rang like a bell. A boy in the front sniggered. Someone whistled, shrill and mocking.
'Lost your tongue, fool?' a voice jeered. Another took it up: 'Pretty fool! Pretty fool!' — this time not Pietje but the crowd itself, cruel and delighted. The chant spread, laughter turning sharp as knives.
Joseph's face burned. He lunged for his line, blurting it out, but the words tumbled awkward and flat. A rind of apple struck the stage with a wet smack, sliding to his feet. Another followed — a crust, a bone. The jeers thickened, bitter as smoke.
He faltered, breath ragged. Rik shouldered forward, bow sawing louder, while Joos juggled sausages in desperate distraction. Sander rattled through another rhyme, voice hoarse. The crowd's laughter turned back — some at the antics, some still at Joseph — but the damage was done. The heat of their hunger had cooled to scorn.
⸻
The inn was quieter than usual when they returned. Even Willem's smile could not mask the weight in the air. The tavern's usual roar of dice and cups seemed muted, as if Antwerp itself had heard the jeers and carried them back here.
He clapped Joseph on the shoulder, harder than kindness required. 'A word,' Willem said, steering him toward the corner by the hearth.
Joseph braced himself.
'Antwerp likes a jest,' Willem began, his voice low but edged, 'but Antwerp remembers a stumble longer than a laugh. Tonight the crowd wanted blood. You gave them a glimpse of weakness, and they'll not forget it.'
Joseph stared at the flagstones, heat crawling up his neck.
Willem went on. 'You've got talent, boy — more than half the buffoons who scrape a living in these streets. But talent means nothing if your head is elsewhere. Antwerp's a hard city. Dreamers starve here.'
His gaze slid past Joseph to the rest of the troupe. Rik was tuning his bow in silence, Joos gnawed at a crust without a word, and even Isabelle, usually brimming with sharp retorts, sat stiff-backed with her coins spread on the table like a barricade.
'And mind this,' Willem added, his voice quieter still. 'Nobles and guild sons don't mix with fools. Not on stage, not off it. Keep your feet where they belong.'
Joseph's throat tightened. He forced the words out: 'I know my place.'
'See that you do,' Willem said. His tone softened, but the warning lingered. 'For your troupe's sake, if not your own.'
Willem left him then, crossing to shout at a drunken sailor about spilled ale. Joseph remained in the corner, shoulders heavy. Around him the inn creaked and murmured, but every sound carried the echo of the crowd's jeers — sharp, merciless, unforgettable.
⸻
Later, in the wagon-yard, Isabelle cornered him. The coins from the night's takings clinked in her apron, but her eyes were darker than any purse.
'What in God's name was that?' she demanded, stepping into his path. 'Forgetting your lines? Letting the crowd jeer you like a green boy?'
Joseph rubbed a hand across his face. 'It was one mistake.'
'One mistake in a city like this, and we'll be finished.' She advanced, voice lowering but no less fierce. 'Do you think Antwerp forgives? Willem was right — they'll remember your stumble long after they forget your jests. And I'll not have the troupe ruined because your head's chasing shadows.'
Her gaze raked him, sharp as a blade. 'Don't think I haven't seen you. Watching the stands. Letting your eyes wander. That girl—'
'Leave her out of this.' The words leapt out, sharp, too quick.
Her eyes narrowed. 'So there is a her.'
Joseph's silence was answer enough.
She hissed a breath, fury tightening her features. 'Do you remember Haarlem? When we were near starving, when I sold my own shawl to pay for your boots? Do you remember Amsterdam, when the alderman's men would have dragged you off for mocking their coats if I hadn't pulled you away? I've protected you since we were children, Joseph. I've kept you alive when no one else would. And now you'd throw it all away for a pair of bright eyes behind a mask?'
Her voice cracked — only for a heartbeat, but he heard it. Then she straightened, anger hardening into iron. 'She's not for you. Willem said it plain: nobles don't mix with fools. If you chase her, you'll drag us all down. You'll drag me down.'
Her words cut deeper than the crowd's jeers.
'I know,' he said quietly.
For a moment she faltered, her breath trembling. But the softness passed as quick as it came. She drew herself up, apron snapping as she gathered the coins. 'You'll not see her again. Swear it.'
Joseph stared past her, to the handkerchief hidden in his doublet. The faint scent of rosewater still clung there. Guilt gnawed, but he forced the lie.
'I won't,' he said.
Isabelle studied him a long moment, suspicion sharp in her gaze. At last she turned, sweeping the coins into her apron with brisk fingers. 'See that you keep your word. Antwerp is no place for folly. Forget her — or she'll be the death of us both.'
Joseph said nothing. His chest felt hollow, scraped raw.
But when he lay down that night, the handkerchief pressed against his heart, and the lie burned hotter than truth.
Sleep would not come. He lay in the wagon loft, staring at the beams above, the murmur of Carnival still drifting faint through the shutters. Each laugh from the street felt like a reminder of the crowd's scorn, each rattle of coin in Willem's strongbox like a measure of how quickly fortune could turn.
Yet louder than all of it was her voice. Katelijne — whispering his name as if it meant something more than motley and jest. He felt the warmth of her hand still lingering against his, the shimmer in her eyes when she had spoken that single word: free.
Isabelle's warnings pressed hard. Willem's too. Fools who reached above their place were ground underfoot. Antwerp remembered failure, and the city was merciless to dreamers.
And still…
He turned the handkerchief in his palm, the stitches catching faint moonlight. He could no more forget her than he could forget hunger or cold. She had given him her name, her time, her gaze that cut through every mask he had ever worn.
No vow could hold against that. No warning could drive it out.
But beneath the memory of her touch lay another: the shadow he had glimpsed at the chapel's edge, a figure too still, too intent. Watching. Waiting. Perhaps only Carnival's tricks, or perhaps something darker.
Joseph swallowed, tucking the handkerchief tight against his chest. The thought should have chilled him — yet even with danger pressing close, one truth burned brighter.
Tomorrow, he swore silently, he would go to St. Andries. Whatever the cost.