At the head of the table loomed Hendrik van den Berg, voice booming across the hall as though the feast itself existed only to echo him. He carved the meat with broad strokes, a goblet never far from his hand, his words rolling like cannon fire. The portraits of the van den Berg family, going back generations, glared down from the walls seemed to nod along with each pronouncement. Only the men, Katelijn noticed, their dark, heavy faces caught forever in oil and shadow, their eyes watchful, oppressive.
'Our fine city thrives because its men know their worth,' Hendrik declared, slapping the board so hard the goblets rattled. 'A household prospers when its women are silent and steady, minds fixed on hearth and cradle. A wife who obeys gives her husband strength enough to govern the world.'
Lady van den Berg lowered her eyes to her lap. Hendrik sniffed at the capon before him, then waved his knife toward the dish. 'Not roasted as it should be. Too dry by half. This house does not serve second-rate meat.'
Colour rose faintly in her cheeks, but she said nothing, only motioned to a servant to fetch more sauce. Margriet, seated proudly nearby, seemed not to notice. Her gaze drank in the silver plate, the carved chairs, the carpet thick as moss beneath her feet.
Across from her, Jeroen De Wael sat straighter, his manner courteous, his words careful. He thanked Lady van den Berg when the wine was poured, praised the cut of venison though it was tough, and never once let his eyes linger on the portraits overhead. His restraint was a clear contrast to Hendrik's booming voice — though even he seemed to stiffen at the roughness of his host's tongue.
'Tell me, young De Wael,' Hendrik said suddenly, his knife raised as though to pin Edwin across the table. 'You study under your father, do you not? Numbers, accounts, trade routes?'
Edwin straightened, every eye upon him. 'I do, sir. I keep ledgers for the warehouse and assist with the weighing of goods.'
'Hmph.' Hendrik leaned forward. 'Good training, yes. But Antwerp is no place for half-measures. Any man may tally a ledger; only a few can see where the tide of profit runs before it reaches the quay.' His gaze sharpened. 'Do you see it, boy? Or do you simply write what wiser men tell you?'
The question hung like smoke. Edwin's jaw tightened. 'I learn quickly. And I do not write blindly. My father trusts my hand with contracts. One day I will trade as he does.'
A ripple of tension passed around the board. Hendrik chuckled, though the sound carried little warmth. 'Confidence. Good. But remember — Antwerp rewards men who take, not men who wait.'
Before Edwin could answer, Floris leaned forward, goblet catching the candlelight. 'And some men are already taking,' he said smoothly. 'My father and I closed a spice contract only last month — pepper, cinnamon, nutmeg. Treasures from the Indies, not mere ledgers and parchment. That is the future, Master Edwin — bold trade that makes men take notice.'
His smile was fixed, but his eyes lingered on Katelijne as if daring her brother to match him.
Edwin held his tongue, though the muscle in his jaw twitched.
Margriet's laughter chimed, eager to smooth the air. 'How fine for Antwerp, when such boldness and prudence meet at one table.'
But Katelijne felt the undercurrent — Floris boasting, Edwin bristling, her father's quiet watchfulness. She folded her hands tighter in her lap, wishing the meal would end.
When she raised her eyes, Floris was still watching her. His tone softened, cutting against the harshness of his father. 'You need not doubt me, Katelijne. No one will cherish you more than I. Antwerp will see it — our households together, strong and steady, brighter than any lantern at Carnival.'
Margriet's smile deepened, drinking in the words as though they were sweet wine. Jeroen inclined his head politely, though his lips pressed thin.
Katelijne lowered her gaze to the rosary Floris had given her, its beads cold in her lap. Devotion, devotion, devotion — his words rang as heavily as his father's, yet no warmth reached her. Across the table Edwin's eyes caught hers, steady and unimpressed. He did not need to speak; his silence said enough.
At last Lady van den Berg dabbed her lips with her napkin and rose, her movements precise as clockwork. 'Shall we withdraw, my dear?' she said to Margriet. 'The gentlemen have matters of business to discuss, no doubt.'
Margriet, cheeks warm with wine and admiration, rose at once, tugging lightly at Katelijne's sleeve. The sisters followed, skirts rustling, perfume trailing like smoke as they crossed into the parlour.
The room was close and heavy with velvet hangings and the same oppressive portraits glaring down from gilded frames, this time of women surrounded by their children. At the far side stood a pianola, its polished surface reflecting the candlelight. Lady van den Berg gestured toward it. 'My son admires music. Perhaps a piece, Katelijne?'
Her pulse thudded. She was no prodigy — only passable at the keyboard — yet she could not refuse. She smoothed her skirts and sat, her fingers stiff as she pressed the first notes. The tune stumbled, halting at points, but she forced it onward.
Behind her, Aleydis and Clara perched together on a settee, their voices pitched just high enough to carry.
'How charming,' Aleydis murmured, smile sweet as syrup. 'So much effort. One must admire perseverance — though not every woman is blessed with… talents that truly shine.'
Clara tilted her head, eyes narrowing. 'Indeed. Some ladies turn a room with nothing more than their grace. Elsje van der Meulen, for example — how gentlemen linger when she plays. And she is not half so…' Her gaze slid over Katelijne's hair and figure with deliberate pause. 'Distracting.'
Aleydis gave a laugh as brittle as glass. 'Our brother is quite taken, though. He's always had an eye for a pretty face.'
Margriet leaned forward, cheeks glowing, as though the remark were praise. 'Naturally. My daughter will bring him joy — beauty and virtue together.'
Katelijne's cheeks burned hotter than the candle flames. She pressed her fingers harder to the keys, though each note struck more out of time. Every word from the sisters needled, a reminder that to them she was not good enough — or worse, too pretty for their liking.
The melody stumbled again. Clara's whisper, though soft, cut across the room: 'Pretty dolls are easily broken.'
Margriet pretended not to hear, already praising the neatness of Katelijne's hands on the keyboard. But Katelijne's throat tightened, the rosary still cold at her wrist. Her thoughts fled the parlour, back to the chapel, to another voice that had spoken her name as though it meant something true.
The melody faltered into silence. Lady van den Berg gave a gracious nod, though her expression betrayed little more than relief at the piece's end. Aleydis and Clara exchanged another glance, smiles sweet and sharp as knives.
Margriet, undeterred, clapped softly. 'Exquisite, my child. Such neatness of hand.'
Katelijne rose, curtsying, though her face burned. The sisters' words lingered, their laughter a thorn she could not shake.
Conversation drifted to embroidery, to pearls, to the merits of velvet versus satin — talk that fluttered prettily but landed like stones. Katelijne smiled when expected, agreed when pressed, but her mind was far from the parlour.
When at last the hour grew late and the De Waels made their farewells, she walked with her mother through the lamplit streets, her brother close at hand. Edwin said little, yet once — when Margriet hurried ahead to call for the carriage — he caught her eye. His look was steady, cool, and full of things unspoken.
At home, the household settled to rest. Margriet retired glowing with satisfaction, Jeroen quietly thoughtful, Edwin tight-lipped.
Only Katelijne lay wakeful. In the dim glow of her chamber she reached beneath her pillow and drew out the folded scrap of parchment — Joseph's hand, hurried and clumsy, yet more precious than Floris's pearls or Hendrik's boasts.
Tomorrow, after dusk. St. Andries. J.
Her thumb traced the smudged letters. Tonight she had been paraded, measured, found wanting by sisters and father alike. Her future had been spoken of as though it already belonged to another man.
Yet here, in this single line, she was still herself. Still free enough to choose.
Her heart hammered. Time was slipping fast — soon her parents would press her hand into Floris's with ceremony and contract. But not yet.
Not yet.
She tucked the note close again, its weight a secret fire. Closing her eyes, she whispered into the dark — not Floris's name, not the prayers her mother would expect, but only one word.
'Joseph.'