The alley to Willem's inn smelled of spilled ale and wet ash, the kind of sour tang that clung to stone. Katelijne kept her hood low and her pace even, counting doors the way Edwin had taught her when they were children sneaking to the quay: left past the cooper's yard, right by the tallow-merchant's shutter, stop where the gutter widens. Her breath smoked in the cold. Beneath her cloak, her borrowed jerkin rustled against linen. Every step felt too loud.
She paused under the crooked eave. Laughter swelled within — a thump of tankards, a scrape of stool legs, a jig hammered thin on a fiddle. Someone whooped. For one ridiculous moment she pictured herself turning back, slipping home through quieter lanes, letting this mad idea die as if it had never been born.
The door pushed inward from the other side. Warmth rushed at her; so did noise. A sailor lurched past with a grin split wide, then stumbled into the night, still singing. Katelijne hesitated on the threshold, the crush and stink and blaze of the room pressing like a wave.
'Here.' A hand, gentle but sure, caught her elbow and drew her clear of the door. Joseph. He had come from the shadow beside the hearth, his cloak thrown back, hair lit in threads by firelight. In this place he seemed larger, steadier — the room fitted him, as if it had been built around his stride.
'You're safe,' he murmured, leaning close so his words could find her through the din. 'Keep near me.'
She nodded, unable to trust her voice. The inn was a world she had only ever watched from the outside: men bent over dice, apprentices shouting at a joke as if to drown the day's work, serving girls darting quick as swallows with brimming jugs. Smoke drifted beneath the rafters in a low blue river. Pietje snored somewhere in the rafters, a soft wheeze between the bursts of laughter.
Joseph slid them along the wall. Once, a broad shoulder knocked hers; he shifted, taking the jolt in her place with an easy lift of his arm that shielded her. She felt her breath steady.
'Upstairs,' he said. 'Isabelle's waiting.'
He steered her to a narrow stair half-hidden behind a hanging of faded tapestry. The roar of the room dulled a little as they climbed. On the landing, she risked a look back. The inn sprawled below like a forge — smoke, heat, sparks of laughter — and for the first time she felt not only fear but a quick leap of exhilaration.
'Ready?' Joseph asked softly.
No. Yes.
She lifted her chin. 'Take me to her.'
The chamber upstairs was small, its beams low enough that Joseph ducked as he entered. A single rushlight guttered in an iron sconce, throwing more shadow than glow. Isabelle stood waiting by the window, arms folded, her silhouette sharp against the faint wash of moonlight.
Her gaze landed on Katelijne at once. No greeting, no smile. Just a long, measuring look, as if weighing a bolt of cloth for flaws.
'So,' Isabelle said at last, voice low but cutting. 'The fine merchant's daughter.' She stepped forward, skirts brushing the rushes, and tilted her head. 'I half thought Joseph had conjured you out of Carnival smoke.'
Heat flared in Katelijne's cheeks. She forced herself to meet that stare, though her pulse jumped. 'I came as he asked.'
'As he begged, you mean.' Isabelle's mouth curved, not kindly. She circled once, close enough that Katelijne caught the smell of smoke in her hair, the tang of wine on her breath. Fingers quick as a tailor's darted to tug back Katelijne's hood. The cap beneath was plain, borrowed, but Isabelle still gave a sharp laugh.
'Soft hands, skin like cream, eyes wide as any lamb's. You'll stand out even in rags.' She flicked her fingers at Joseph without looking at him. 'This is your folly, not mine. If she stumbles, she takes you down with her.'
Joseph bristled, but Katelijne spoke first, her voice steadier than she felt. 'I won't stumble.'
For a heartbeat silence held. Then Isabelle's gaze shifted, sharper still — and grudging. 'We'll see.' She turned toward the chest by the wall, kneeling to rummage through it. Out came a jumble of cloth: patched skirts smelling faintly of woodsmoke, a cap with a tear hastily mended, a jerkin stiff with wear. She shook them out, one by one, then held up a bodice streaked with faded dye.
'Here. Try this. It'll make a beggar of you quicker than prayer.'
She thrust the garment into Katelijne's hands. The fabric was coarse, heavy with other people's sweat. Katelijne's stomach knotted — yet she clutched it tight, knowing this was the price of entry.
Isabelle straightened, watching. Her smile was a blade. 'Let's see if the lady can truly pass for a fool.'
Katelijne carried the bundle behind the screen that wobbled in the corner of the room. The rushlight cast her shadow tall and thin across the boards. Her fingers shook as she loosened her cloak and gown, sliding them down in folds of velvet and linen until they lay pooled at her feet.
The bodice Isabelle had thrust at her smelled of smoke and onions. Its seams were patched, one shoulder frayed to bare threads. When Katelijne pulled it on, the cloth scratched against her skin, stiff and unyielding where her gown would have flowed. The skirt was worse, a coarse wool with stains she could not name, hanging lopsided no matter how she tugged.
Her own shift peeked beneath the hem, fine linen out of place, mocking her. She bunched it higher, tucking it away, heart hammering as though each adjustment were a theft.
'Well?' Isabelle called. 'Have you drowned in motley already?'
Katelijne bit her lip and stepped out from behind the screen. The rushlight caught her first — a flicker of pale face above rags.
Isabelle tilted her head, eyes narrowing. Then she laughed, sharp and short. 'Saints save us. Look at her, Joseph — Antwerp's jewel, wrapped like a fishwife.'
Katelijne's cheeks burned. She wanted to flee back into her gown, into safety. But Joseph's eyes held her, wide with something she couldn't name — not mockery, not pity, but awe that tangled her breath.
'Turn,' Isabelle ordered.
Katelijne obeyed, skirts dragging against the rushes. The garments hung wrong, her shoulders too narrow for the jerkin, her waist swimming in the bodice. Still, when she looked down at her hands — bare now, stripped of gloves and jewels — they seemed less her own.
Isabelle moved closer, tugging the cap onto her head, twisting it so wisps of hair hid her face. She wiped a smudge of soot from the hearth and streaked it across Katelijne's cheek. The cold grit clung there, a mark that felt both shameful and liberating.
'Better,' Isabelle murmured, standing back. Her gaze was hard, but something flickered in it — recognition, perhaps, or reluctant approval. 'Almost no one would look twice.'
Katelijne drew a breath, the wool scratching her throat, the soot itching her skin. She did not feel herself — and that was the wonder of it.
For the first time she could imagine walking among strangers unseen.
A small shard of polished brass hung crooked on the wall, warped at the edges but bright enough to catch a face. Isabelle jerked her chin toward it. 'Go on. Look.'
Katelijne hesitated, then stepped closer.
The reflection that met her was both strange and startling. The cap flattened her hair, the soot blurred her cheekbones, and the patched bodice dragged her shoulders forward. Her own eyes peered back at her, wide and uncertain, but everything else belonged to someone else.
Not the daughter of Jeroen de Wael. Not Floris's future bride. Just a girl in rags.
She swallowed. 'I don't recognise myself.'
'Good,' Isabelle said crisply. She leaned one shoulder against the post, arms crossed. 'Recognition is the enemy of disguise. Tonight you're no merchant's doll. You're one of us. Walk with your head too high and they'll smell silk under the soot. Walk as though you belong, and no one will question.'
Katelijne touched her cheek, half in horror, half in wonder. She should have hated it — the smell of onions, the scratch of wool, the weight of grime. Yet there was a strange exhilaration in seeing herself so undone. She looked — free.
Behind her, Joseph shifted, the bench creaking under his weight. She caught his reflection too, hovering in the background, eyes fixed on her as though he were seeing her for the first time.
Their gazes met in the brass. Heat climbed her neck.
Isabelle's mouth curved in a knowing smirk. 'Careful, brother. You gape like a yokel at a fair. She'll start charging you for the pleasure of looking.'
Joseph tore his eyes away, muttering something too low to catch.
Katelijne's pulse thudded faster. She pressed her hands to her sides, grounding herself. This was only costume, only pretence. By dawn she would slip back into velvet and pearls, as though none of this had ever happened.
And yet… she could not deny the thrill that coiled inside her, fierce and new.
She drew herself up, squaring her shoulders in the mirror, and let the faintest smile touch her lips. 'Very well,' she said softly. 'Tonight I am no one.'
The room emptied slowly — Rik slinging his fiddle over his shoulder, Joos pocketing a half-stale crust, Sander muttering his verses. Bram was already at the door, grinning as if he'd been waiting only for this moment. Isabelle swept past Katelijne, tossing her a patched cloak that smelled faintly of smoke.
'Keep it close,' she said. 'Carnival's a fire — it warms, but it also burns. Best not to let it catch too much of you.'
Katelijne pulled the cloak tighter. Her heart thudded, each beat louder than the last.
Joseph lingered near the threshold, hand braced against the door. For an instant, his gaze met hers — quick, steady, full of a promise neither dared to speak aloud.
Then Isabelle pushed them all forward, laughter sharp against the night.
They spilled into the street. The February air was raw, carrying the thrum of drums and the crack of pipes from the city's heart. Lanterns bobbed in the distance, shadows swayed, voices called and answered.
The barn waited, somewhere beyond the alleys and the noise — and with it, the dance, the dare, the night she had chosen.
Katelijne drew a breath and followed.