The house knew before she did.
By midmorning, the air had a polish to it — beeswax bright on the stair rail, fresh rushes strewn and sweet, the big hearth stacked higher than was needful. The silver was polished until it threw coins of light across the hall; a footman carried in the good goblets wrapped in linen as if they were fragile saints' bones. Someone had set a posy of winter rosemary by the door. Rosemary for remembrance. Katelijne caught the scent and felt her stomach tighten.
'Keep your shoulders back,' Margriet murmured, passing brisk as a sparrow in a new ribbon. Her cheeks were already high with colour, her hands fluttering from mantel to cushion and back again. 'When important men enter a house, the house must know how to greet them.'
Important men. As if the walls themselves were to curtsy.
Katelijne smoothed the fold of her sleeve, the rosary Floris had given her cool at her wrist. Outside, somewhere beyond the canal, Carnival's last tatters still drifted — a distant pipe, a snatch of rough song. Inside, the De Wael hall settled into the hush that comes before judgment.
The knock landed like a gavel.
The steward opened the door; the winter air rushed in, along with Hendrik van den Berg's voice, already booming its welcome to itself. He filled the threshold in fur and shadow, laughter too loud for the hour. Behind him came Floris, neat as a painting: chain bright, beard trimmed, smile measured for polite rooms. He bowed, and even his bow seemed rehearsed to please an audience.
'Mevrouw De Wael,' Hendrik trumpeted, sweeping off his hat without softening a single edge. 'Master Jeroen. Antwerp smiles on your house today.'
Jeroen stepped forward from the study doorway, composed, courteous, a ledger's caution in his eyes. He offered their guests the warmth of the fire and the best chairs, and in the same breath measured them, as he measured bolts of cloth and barrels on the quay.
Margriet beamed so hard it seemed to pull the room toward her. 'You honour us,' she breathed, though it sounded as if the honour might rightfully belong to them for noticing.
Katelijne curtsied. Floris's glance lit on her like a seal set to hot wax. The rosemary's scent rose again, sharp as a pin. The house had been made ready; now, she understood, so had she.
They did not sit long before Hendrik set the rhythm of the room, his voice booming over the crackle of the fire. Servants brought spiced wine and platters of dried figs, though the food seemed only a stage for his pronouncements. He carved the silence as he might a capon, leaving little for anyone else to taste.
'Antwerp thrives because its men grasp fortune, not because they wait for it to knock,' he declared, goblet raised. 'And fortune knocks here today, Jeroen De Wael. Loudly.'
Her father inclined his head, careful, cautious. 'It is always welcome when trade and kinship strengthen the city.'
Floris leaned forward then, his voice smoother than his father's, pitched to charm rather than thunder. 'Master De Wael, I would speak plain. My household and yours have long stood in neighbourly regard. We share guilds, we share fairs, we share Antwerp's burdens and its triumphs. I would see us bound more closely still.'
Margriet clasped her hands, eyes bright. Even Lady De Wael straightened, her gaze flicking toward Katelijne, though she kept her face composed.
'My son has the means,' Hendrik said bluntly. 'And he has the will. Your daughter is comely, well-schooled, dutiful. What more needs weighing? We propose a match, sir. Floris to Katelijne. Let the houses be joined.'
The words struck with the certainty of contracts already signed. Katelijne's breath caught, though no one looked at her. They looked only at her father, as if she were an entry on a page to be tallied.
Jeroen rested his hand on the arm of his chair, fingers drumming once. He was not quick to answer. 'A proposal of such weight deserves gravity,' he said at last. 'I would not treat my daughter as coin in a purse, to be passed without thought.'
Hendrik gave a short laugh, though irritation shadowed it. 'Gravity, yes, but not delay. Antwerp's markets do not reward hesitation.'
Floris's gaze lingered on Katelijne then, softening. He smiled as if to assure her, though the smile felt heavy as the rosary on her wrist. 'I will cherish her,' he said, voice low, measured for ears around the fire as much as for her. 'I will place her at my side, as a jewel for Antwerp to see. My word on it.'
Margriet's sigh was audible, dream-struck. Lady De Wael lowered her gaze to her lap.
Katelijne sat very still, the figs untouched before her. The sweetness in the air sickened her. Every syllable spoken bound her tighter, though not one had been hers.
The house still hummed faintly with Margriet's delight when the servant touched Katelijne's arm and murmured that her father wished to see her. She followed down the corridor, the echo of voices fading into silence. The study door closed with a dull thud, sealing her into the smell of wax and parchment, the faint tang of ink.
Jeroen stood by the hearth, not seated at his desk. His hands rested behind his back, his face half in shadow. For a long moment he regarded her without speaking, the weight of his gaze heavier than Floris's pomp.
'You know what was spoken,' he said at last.
Katelijne inclined her head, her throat dry. 'Yes, Father.'
'Hendrik wasted little time,' Jeroen went on, his tone wry though tempered. 'And Floris — well, he is eager. Perhaps too eager. Still, his offer is not without merit. His family's fortune is sound, their trade wide. A marriage between our houses would bind us to a strong name.'
The words pressed down like the ledgers he so often weighed — measured, practical, inescapable. Katelijne clenched her hands within her sleeves.
But inside, bile rose sharp. The memory of Floris's booming voice in the tavern was still raw — the woman sprawled across his lap, her gown fallen, his hand roaming bold as if the whole room existed only to witness his conquest. That vision clung stronger than pearls, stronger than rosaries pressed into her palms. How could she bind herself to a man who showed devotion in one breath and lechery in the next? The thought turned her stomach.
Jeroen's expression softened, the steel in his tone easing. 'But merit is not everything. A house can be rich and yet cold. A husband's name may carry weight, but his manner must also be borne day after day. Your mother sees only the chain of pearls, the halls you might walk. I would know if you can see the man who wears them.'
Her breath caught. Rarely did he speak so directly of her own choice.
'You would let me refuse?' she asked, startled.
He did not smile, but the corners of his mouth eased. 'Refusal is no light matter, Katelijne. It offends men who do not forgive easily. But worse than offence would be misery carried into marriage. A union soured by bitterness serves no one — not you, not our household, not Antwerp itself. If you cannot abide Floris, I would rather hear it now than when the vows are inked.'
She stared at him, words tangling in her chest. Floris's boasts echoed heavy and hollow — and behind them Joseph's laughter lingered like music.
'I will think on it,' she whispered.
Jeroen gave a slow nod. 'Do so. And when you answer, let it be your answer, not another's.'
He turned back toward the fire, the matter dismissed for now. Katelijne curtsied and slipped away, her heart hammering with everything she could not say.
Katelijne left the study with her father's words clanging in her head. If you cannot abide him… But how could she say why? To confess what she had seen would mean confessing where she had been — out at night, in a tavern, her reputation already undone.
The house buzzed with celebration. Margriet's laughter floated from the parlour, servants scurried with trays, as if the wedding were already set. Yet Katelijne felt only the hard twist of dread.
She climbed to her chamber and shut the door. Alone at last, she sat heavily on the bed and drew out the rosary. The pearls gleamed pale and cold, each bead heavy as a stone. Once they had seemed precious. Now they were shackles.
Floris's hand on another woman's back rose unbidden in her mind, the tavern heat, the careless roar of his laughter. She shoved the image away — only for another to take its place. The barn, the fiddles, Joseph's arms steadying her, his lips warm and unashamed. Her breath caught, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth as though she might still hold the moment there.
Her father had asked her to be sure. Yet how could she be sure of anything when her heart pulled one way and her family another?
Voices stirred in the corridor. Hastily she slipped the rosary beneath her pillow, hiding her defiance in folds of linen. When Margriet's knock came a moment later, Katelijne forced her voice steady.
'Yes, Mother. I am well.'
'Good.' Contentment laced her tone. 'You will see, my child — this is the beginning of everything.'
Her steps receded. Katelijne bowed her head, hands trembling. A beginning, yes — but not yet bound. She swore it in silence: she would find a way, however small, to keep hold of the joy she had tasted. The pearls might weigh heavy, but the memory of laughter and freedom was brighter still.