Joseph woke late, the loft bright with winter sun that slipped through the cracks in the shutters. His back ached from straw too thin, his head thudded faintly with the memory of ale, yet for once he felt no heaviness. He lay still a moment, eyes half-closed, replaying the night: the music that had shaken the rafters, the swirl of dancers, the heat of Katelijne's hand in his, the taste of her lips.
A laugh rose unbidden. He pressed a fist to his mouth to smother it, but Pietje stirred on the rafter above and echoed back with a squawk.
'Dance, fool! Dance!' the parrot screeched, bobbing his head as though stamping time.
Joseph sat up, groaning, but his grin widened. 'Even you remember, eh? You should've tried the reel yourself.'
The bird tilted his head, eye bright with mockery. 'Pretty fool! Pretty fool!'
Joseph winced at the phrase, memory of the jeering crowd flaring for a heartbeat — but last night's joy smothered it quickly. He stretched, shaking straw from his doublet. Hunger gnawed at him; stale crust and weak beer awaited below. Yet even that felt lighter, as though the barn had filled him with warmth enough to last the day.
He leaned against the window ledge, gazing out at the city rooftops. Smoke curled into the pale sky, bells tolled faint in the distance, and in the alleys below children chased each other with Carnival masks still tied crooked over their faces. Antwerp was the same as it had always been — harsh, greedy, swift to laugh and quicker to scorn — but to Joseph it felt changed, or perhaps he did.
One kiss, one dance, and the whole world seemed to have shifted.
He shook his head at himself, laughing softly. Fool, indeed.
From below drifted voices, the scrape of benches, Rik's fiddle tuning to some bawdy fragment. Joseph's stomach growled. He shoved his boots on and headed for the stairs, still grinning.
Today, whatever else it brought, he would carry last night like a hidden coin in his pocket — a treasure none could take from him.
The inn was thick with the smell of last night's ale, the rushes damp beneath their boots. Rik was coaxing a tune from his fiddle, Joos stuffing down bread with one hand and shaking a dice cup with the other. Willem hovered near the door, already worrying about the day's business.
Bram sprawled at the centre of it all, boots up on a bench, tankard in hand. His voice rolled through the room like he owned it.
'So there I was,' he declared, 'trading verses with a brewer's wife stout enough to fell an ox. Promised her a rhyme for every jug of ale — and saints, she near wept with laughter. By the end she swore her husband would have us play indoors before long.'
Joos snorted crumbs. Rik shook his head but kept the bow moving.
Joseph leaned forward. 'Indoors? Where?'
Bram's grin widened. 'A hall, at least. Warm boards, fat purses in the crowd. Better than freezing our toes off in a muddy square.'
'And what did it cost us?' Joseph asked, sharper than he meant.
Bram waved the question away, tankard sloshing. 'Nothing worth your fretting. A promise here, a wink there. They're glad to have us. Antwerp's hungry for merriment after Carnival.'
Joseph frowned. 'And what fell into your own pocket, Bram? You never strike a bargain without keeping a coin back for yourself.'
The grin slipped, just for a moment. Then Bram leaned back, stretching as if Joseph's suspicion amused him. 'I put my tongue to work while the rest of you were snoring. If a coin or two found its way into my purse, I'd call that fair.'
'A coin or two,' Joseph pressed, 'or a purse heavy enough to drown your hand?'
The words rang louder than he intended. Rik's bow hit a sour note; Joos froze mid-chew. Even Willem turned from the door.
Isabelle set down her cup with a crack. 'Enough, Joseph.' Her eyes fixed on him, cool and sharp. 'Better a man who bargains and fills our bellies than one who moons over merchant daughters. At least Bram knows where loyalty lies.'
Heat burned up Joseph's neck. He opened his mouth, but Bram leaned across, smirk restored, and clapped him on the shoulder with mock brotherhood.
'Don't fret, fool. You'll see soon enough. A stage, a crowd, and coin in your purse — more than you'll ever win from a pretty smile.'
The room eased back into chatter, Rik picking up his tune again, Joos grumbling about lost dice. Yet Joseph caught Isabelle's gaze still on him. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just warning.
Later, when the others had drifted into their own noise — Rik fiddling at the hearth, Joos dozing with his mouth open, Bram swaggering off to charm a serving girl — Isabelle lingered at the table. She poured the last of the wine into her cup, her movements neat, deliberate.
Joseph shifted to rise, but her voice caught him before he could move.
'You ought to thank Bram,' she said, low, steady.
Joseph blinked. 'Thank him? For what — fleecing us before we've even played?'
Her eyes lifted, dark and level. 'For thinking ahead. For making certain we have a place to stand. He may line his own purse, yes, but he lines ours too. Better that than staking our hopes on a merchant's daughter who will vanish the moment her father clicks his fingers.'
Joseph stiffened. 'You think Katelijne—'
'I think she will choose pearls over motley,' Isabelle cut in. 'And if you cannot see that, then you are a fool twice over.'
The words stung, sharper for the quiet in which they were spoken. Around them the inn clattered on, but here at the table it felt as though the world had narrowed to the two of them.
Joseph leaned closer, keeping his own voice low. 'You weren't at the river. You didn't see her face. She came because she wanted to, not because of pearls, not because of her father's name. She laughed. She danced. She—'
'She played at being one of us,' Isabelle snapped. 'And play is all it was. You think she will dirty her hands forever? She will marry her merchant, and you will be a memory she hides like a smudge on her gown.'
Joseph's jaw tightened, words rising he couldn't shape.
For a moment Isabelle's expression softened, the steel in her voice bending but not breaking. 'I want you safe, Joseph. Safe, fed, alive. That is all. Dream if you must, but do not build your life on a dream that was never meant for you.'
She rose, gathering her skirts. Before she turned away, her hand brushed his shoulder — light, fleeting, almost tender. Then she was gone, her shadow slipping through the door into the yard.
Joseph sat back, throat tight, the wine before him gone cold. He wanted to argue, to shout, to swear she was wrong — but Isabelle's words clung close, like burrs he could not shake.
The inn quieted as the night wore on. Rik's fiddle softened to idle notes, Joos's snores thickened, and even Pietje muttered nonsense with drooping wings. Joseph lingered at the empty table, Isabelle's words still ringing in his ears.
Pearls over motley. A smudge on her gown.
He should have been angry. He wanted to be. Instead he only felt hollow, scraped raw.
And yet—
He closed his eyes, and there it was again: the barn's riot of music and smoke, the press of bodies stamping in wild joy. Katelijne's laughter rising sharp and bright above it all. The way she had spun until her cap slipped and her hair tumbled free, torchlight flashing through the loosened strands. Her hand in his, her lips against his—soft, certain, unguarded.
It had not felt like play. Not to him. Not to her, he swore it.
His chest ached with the memory. He pressed his palms flat to the table, as if to steady himself against the pull of it. The others might call it folly, a passing fancy doomed to break beneath the weight of her world and his. But for Joseph, it had been more real than any stage, any laugh wrung from a crowd.
For the first time in his life, he had felt seen. Not as the fool, not as Isabelle's younger brother, not as another hungry mouth to feed. Just—Joseph.
He let out a breath that shivered with both joy and fear.
Through the window, the last of Carnival's torches guttered in the streets. The night was thinning, shadows creeping back where fire had reigned. Joseph watched the smoke drift skyward, and he knew: this moment could not last. Isabelle was right about that much.
But even if it ended tomorrow, he could not regret it. He would not trade the memory of Katelijne's kiss for a lifetime of safety.
He pushed back from the table at last, the bench scraping loud in the silence. Above, the rafters groaned with the settling weight of sleep. Somewhere outside, a cock crowed too early, fooled by the lantern-glow of Carnival still smouldering in the streets.
Joseph climbed the stairs to the loft. He lay down on his pallet, Pietje shuffling closer for warmth. He did not close his eyes straightaway. He stared at the beams until they blurred, his chest full of something fierce and fragile both.
Joy. That was the truth of it. Joy, sharper than any sorrow Isabelle had warned of.
And if joy was folly, then let him be a fool.
The door creaked open before dawn had fully broken. Bram slipped in, hair damp with fog, a grin tugging at his mouth as if he carried secrets in his teeth.
'Rise, bright stars,' he drawled, tossing a small pouch onto the table. Coins clinked within. 'I've found us a stage for tomorrow night. A hall by the docks, full purse promised.'
Rik stirred, Joos groaned, and even Willem roused at the sound of coin. Only Joseph narrowed his eyes. Bram's stories were always too smooth, his bargains struck in shadows.
Isabelle scooped up the pouch, weighing it in her palm. 'Then we'll be ready,' she said, her voice brisk, decisive. She did not glance at Joseph, though he felt her warning linger still.
Bram winked, already reaching for the ale left from the night before. Joseph turned away, unease settling heavy in his gut. Joy might have carried him through the night, but morning brought shadows of its own.