The inn sagged beneath the weight of Carnival's fifth night. Smoke curled from the hearth, mingling with the sour tang of ale and the fat of roasted onions. Willem shouted orders from behind the bar, slamming tankards onto the boards, while Rik sawed a tune in the corner, his fiddle string stretched thin and sour. Joos had long since slumped onto the bench, his padded belly still stuffed under his motley, head wobbling like a goose too full of grain.
Joseph pushed through the doorway, shrugging off the night air. The room was thick with warmth, but not comfort. His limbs buzzed with the aftertaste of failure — the jeers, the apple rind striking the boards, the sneer of the crowd. He rubbed the back of his neck as though he might scrub the memory away.
Isabelle was waiting for him. She sat at a table near the wall, back straight, eyes sharp. A purse of coins lay spread before her, each piece stacked and ordered, as if by their neatness she might undo the disorder of the stage. Across from her, Bram leaned against a beam, cup dangling loose in one hand, his grin small but steady.
'Well, brother,' Isabelle said as Joseph approached. Her voice was too smooth. 'Shall we count tonight a triumph? The crowd loved you so much they chanted your name. "Pretty fool, pretty fool"—such affection!'
Bram chuckled, low in his throat. 'Affection of a kind. Antwerp has a sharp wit. They like their fools roasted, not coddled.'
Joseph stiffened, but said nothing. He slid onto the bench opposite Isabelle, the wood creaking under his weight. Rik's fiddle stumbled into silence, and the inn seemed to hush for a beat, waiting.
⸻
'You mock,' Joseph said at last, his voice low, 'but one stumble does not ruin a man.'
'One stumble?' Isabelle's brow arched. 'You missed two cues and turned a crowd hungry for laughter into jackals baying for blood. Do you think Antwerp forgets? They will carry your blunder on their tongues long after your cleverest rhyme is lost.'
Her words struck harder than the jeers had. But this time Joseph caught the tremor beneath them — not triumph, but fear.
'I'll do better tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow?' Isabelle leaned forward, coins glinting in the lamplight. 'Tomorrow you'll blunder worse, unless you cut the sickness from you. I see it in your eyes. You weren't looking at the crowd tonight. You were looking for her.'
Joseph flinched, though he tried to mask it. 'Leave her out of this.'
'Why should I?' Isabelle's smile was thin as a blade, but her eyes shone too bright, her voice too taut. 'Your merchant doll won't save you, Joseph. She'll ruin you faster than hunger ever did. Those girls are bred for parlours and ledgers, not wagon yards. One glimpse of the muck we live in and she'll turn away, nose wrinkled, pearls rattling. And when she does, it will be you left bleeding.'
'You don't know her.' His voice cracked sharp against the table. 'She isn't like that. She—' He stopped, swallowing hard. 'She saw me, Isabelle. Not the motley, not the fool, not the parrot. Me.'
For a moment the words hung raw in the air. Bram only raised his cup, eyes glittering. 'Now that,' he murmured, 'is folly worth a wager.'
⸻
Isabelle's hand closed over the coins, fist tight. 'She saw you? What does that mean, brother? Did she see you when I sold my shawl in Haarlem to buy your boots? Did she see you in Amsterdam when I dragged you out of the alderman's hands before they flogged you for mocking their coats? Did she see you last winter when we ate turnips half-rotted with frost while you coughed blood into the straw?'
Her voice trembled, just once, before she drove it back into iron. 'No. She wasn't there, Joseph. I was. I carried you through every lean year. I patched your wounds, I kept you alive. And now you'd risk all that for a glance from a girl who has never known hunger?'
Joseph met her gaze, defiant. 'Those things are past. You kept us alive, aye, but you cannot keep us chained to misery forever. Katelijne—' He broke off, his chest heaving.
'Katelijne,' Isabelle repeated, voice dripping with scorn but eyes glistening with something closer to grief. 'Listen to yourself. You give her name more weight than your own. She will never choose you, Joseph. She will marry a man with ships, with guild ties, with a father who bellows at tables until the city bends. And if she dallies with you now, it will be you who pays the price, not her. I will not watch Antwerp grind you to pieces.'
Joseph's face burned, but his voice steadied. 'Better ruin with her than safety without. Better one word of truth than a thousand lies spun for coin.'
⸻
Bram leaned forward then, grin widening. 'Ah, but here's the heart of it. Truth or coin. Safety or folly. Shall we see which your lady prefers?'
Joseph turned on him. 'And what would you know of her?'
'Nothing,' Bram said easily. He tipped his cup, ale spilling across the boards. 'But I've known many like her. Silk skins, soft hands, eyes full of curiosity until the mud stains their shoes. If your lady is different, let her prove it.'
Joseph's fists curled, but Isabelle's eyes gleamed. She leaned in, voice low, sharp, but trembling at its edges. 'Yes. Let her prove it.'
Joseph frowned. 'What are you saying?'
'Bring her to us,' Isabelle said. 'Not in her pearls, not in her father's cloak. Bring her into our world. There's a dance tomorrow — a barn outside the city, smoke thick, floor packed with every beggar and labourer Antwerp has to spare. Let her stand there, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of us. Let her taste the air we breathe.'
'That's madness,' Joseph said. 'She could never—'
'She could,' Isabelle cut him off. Her gaze was fierce, almost triumphant. 'If she dares. If she cares. Dress her as one of us — motley, wool, mud on her boots. If she walks among us unseen, then I will believe she is different. If she will not, then she is nothing more than I say: a merchant's daughter playing at danger until her father calls her home.'
For a beat her hand wavered over the coins, fingers trembling. Then she clenched them hard. 'Better you lose her now than lose yourself later. Better my anger tonight than your ruin tomorrow.'
Bram laughed outright, the sound rich with mockery. 'Now there's a wager worth watching. A merchant's daughter in a barn dance? Saints preserve us — Antwerp would faint with laughter.'
'Or roar with it,' Isabelle said, never taking her eyes from Joseph.
⸻
Joseph's breath came shallow. His heart lurched at the thought: Katelijne in disguise, slipping into the rough joy of the barn, her hand brushing his in the crush of dancers. It was impossible. Dangerous. Yet the image glowed, hot and unshakable.
'You're asking too much,' he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
'Am I?' Isabelle's voice softened then, almost pleading, though her face stayed hard. 'If she means half what you say, she'll come. If she doesn't, better you learn it now, before Antwerp chews you to bone. I cannot protect you forever, Joseph. But I'll not stand by and watch you walk blind into ruin.'
The coins clinked as she swept them into her apron, final as a judge's gavel.
Bram raised his cup once more, eyes never leaving Joseph. 'Well, fool, will you take the wager? Or will you keep your silk doll hidden in her cage, safe from muck and laughter?'
Joseph said nothing. The fire hissed in the hearth, smoke curling upward. Rik's bow faltered, Joos snored, Willem cursed at a sailor spilling ale. But all Joseph heard was the hammering of his own pulse.
He turned the thought over, heavy as the handkerchief tucked at his chest. Isabelle's challenge could break Katelijne — expose her, ruin her, cast them both into scorn.
And yet… he could not resist the chance.
He stared into the smoke, jaw tight, heart torn between ruin and truth.
'We'll see,' he murmured at last.
Isabelle's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, but behind the steel a shadow of fear flickered — fear not for herself, but for him.
Bram chuckled, finishing his cup.
And Joseph, alone with his thoughts, knew the choice had already been made.
Isabelle tipped her head, a smile tugging at her lips though her eyes stayed sharp. 'So bring her, Joseph. Let your merchant's dove trade her pearls for motley, her silks for rags. If she can laugh with us, dance with us, then perhaps she's worth all this fire in you.'
Bram leaned lazily against the wagon's wheel, grin sly as a knife. 'A fine wager. I almost hope she comes — the city could use a little sport. Imagine Antwerp's jewel tripping in the mud beside us.'
The laughter in the inn faltered, unease pricking through the air. Joseph pressed a hand to his chest, the handkerchief burning there like a secret flame. He had no answer for either of them — not yet. Only the certainty that, whatever the cost, he would not turn back.