The road back toward Willem's inn lay hushed beneath the winter stars. After the thunder of fiddles and the crush of the barn, the silence felt almost holy. The torches of Carnival were distant now, only a faint glow across the rooftops, the echo of drums carried on the night wind like a memory.
Joseph and Katelijne walked slowly, their steps unhurried, boots crunching on frost-hardened earth. She held her cloak tight, the rough hem brushing the ground, and every so often her hand grazed his sleeve. Each touch, accidental or not, sent a pulse racing through him sharper than the jig they had danced.
For once they did not need words. He stole glances at her face, half-hidden by the cap, and thought she had never looked so alive. Not the merchant's daughter weighed by pearls and propriety, not the girl guarded by her brother's sharp eyes, but someone freer, lighter. Carnival had stripped the masks from them both — and he feared how quickly dawn would put them back.
They reached a small bridge. Below, the Scheldt lapped black and sluggish, the reek of tar and fish rising with the tide. Joseph paused, leaning against the rail. Katelijne stopped too, her breath clouding in the cold.
'Tired?' she asked, voice low.
'Never,' he said, though his chest still heaved from the dancing. He smiled, but inside a dozen words crowded his throat — confessions, pleas, the wild thought of begging her never to go back. But he bit them down. Too much, too soon, and the night would shatter.
They walked on. When the lanterns of Willem's inn came into view, Joseph's heart twisted. The moment was almost gone. He could not bear to let it slip past without claiming some piece of it.
He stopped. She turned to him, puzzled, and before he could think better of it, he pulled her into his arms.
The kiss was different from the barn — no roar of fiddles, no crowd pressing around them. Only the quiet of the road, the faint hiss of the river, the smell of smoke clinging to their clothes. Her lips were soft, hesitant at first, then firmer, as though she too understood that silence needed filling. His hand found the curve of her back, her fingers pressed lightly against his jaw.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers, unwilling to let the space widen. Her eyes shone in the lantern glow, wide and uncertain, yet lit with the same hunger that left him trembling.
'If I never had another night,' he whispered, 'this one would be enough.'
Her breath caught, but before she could answer the door creaked open.
A spill of lamplight. Edwin stood in the frame.
His presence broke the moment sharper than steel. Katelijne stepped back at once, her face flushed.
'I'll change,' she murmured, hurrying past her brother into the inn.
Joseph remained, heart still hammering, caught under Edwin's steady gaze.
They faced one another in the yard, the air suddenly colder.
'She is safe,' Joseph said at last, forcing the words out. 'I gave my word.'
'Words,' Edwin returned, voice flat as stone. 'Antwerp is full of them. Oaths, promises, jests. They rot quickly.'
Joseph flinched, but held his ground. 'I don't trifle with her.'
'No?' Edwin's eyes narrowed. 'I saw you kiss her. That is no trifle.'
Joseph's throat tightened. He wanted to speak bold, to declare his love without shame, but caution pressed hard. Edwin was not the father — but his word could weigh nearly as much.
Instead he said, carefully, 'I know you care for her. You guard her. But she is not a child to be locked away. Tonight she laughed. She danced. Tell me you've seen her so alive before.'
Something flickered across Edwin's face — pride, worry, perhaps even agreement — but it was gone in an instant. 'Alive, yes. But fire burns as easily as it warms. What you are offering her, Joseph, is dangerous.'
Joseph drew a breath. 'So is silence.'
The words surprised even him. But they steadied him, and before Edwin could cut them down, he pressed on.
'I've heard of you,' he said. 'Your painting. She spoke of it.'
Edwin stiffened, as though struck.
Joseph leaned against the post, folding his arms, trying to soften his tone. 'There's a circle in Paris. Painters, sculptors, men who live for their craft. I've seen them barter in the markets — their pigments, their sketches. They are poor as crows, most of them, but the fire in their eyes… it's the same I saw in yours when you watched the Carnival floats pass. If ever you wished it, I could—'
'Paris.' Edwin spat the word like a challenge. 'Do you know what Paris would make of me? A merchant's son who cannot even finish his ledgers? My father would see me whipped before he let me waste a coin chasing such fancies.'
Joseph shook his head. 'It is not fancy. It is hunger. And hunger will devour you if you deny it. Smother it, and you'll choke on it every day you live.'
Edwin's jaw clenched. For a moment, Joseph thought he would turn away. But then he asked, very quietly, 'And if I fed it? If I followed it? What would it give me?'
Joseph looked him full in the eye. 'Not coin. Not comfort. But breath. You would breathe.'
The silence stretched. The candlelight at the window caught Edwin's profile, the stubborn tilt of his chin so like his sister's. Joseph's chest ached with a sudden, strange kinship — both of them straining against the weight of duty, both carrying a spark the world would rather stamp out.
Edwin's gaze sharpened again. 'And my sister? Where does she breathe in your dream?'
Joseph swallowed. He had not meant to speak so plain, but the truth pressed too hard. 'With me. If she chooses it. I… I love her.'
The words came raw, unvarnished. For a heartbeat the yard seemed to still.
Edwin's face hardened. 'My sister is not a thing to be taken by love's hunger. She is her own.'
'Yes,' Joseph said quickly, desperate. 'That is why I love her. She sees me — not the fool, not the parrot, not the ragged boy. Me.'
Edwin studied him long, the way a man might weigh a coin he half-suspects to be false. At last he said, low and measured, 'If you lie to her, if you draw her into ruin for your pride, I will not forgive it.'
Joseph forced himself not to look away. 'I will not lie to her.'
The door opened again. Katelijne stepped out, back in her own gown, hair smoothed, though her cheeks were still flushed. She glanced between them, sensing the taut air but not prying.
'We should go,' Edwin said.
Joseph nodded, throat thick. He dared not reach for her again.
They turned, brother and sister, walking back into the city. Joseph watched until the darkness swallowed them.
Only then did he sink against the post, his breath uneven. The yard felt emptier than it ever had, the inn's lanterns casting little warmth. He closed his eyes, Katelijne's kiss still burning on his lips — but Edwin's warning burning hotter in his chest.