The Swan reeked of ale and wet wool, a jumble of elbows and tankards pressed too close beneath the low beams. Smoke from the hearth hung thick enough to chew, and every laugh came out hoarse with drink. Joseph stood on a battered table near the fire, cap in hand, the parrot perched on his shoulder, doing his best to hold the room.
'Once there was a miller,' he began, pitching his voice above the din, 'who tried to grind more than grain and found himself ground instead!'
The crowd barked laughter, half genuine, half at the rhyme itself. Pietje squawked at the punchline — perfectly timed, as always — and the noise swelled. A man slammed his mug in approval.
It wasn't a bad night's take, not for a single fool without his troupe. Willem's inn was a memory now — the Swan belonged to sharper men, men who'd smile at you while fingering the purse at their belt. But coin was coin, and Joseph needed enough to eat, to pay for a bed, to keep the promise of another meeting.
He bowed, spun, mimed a merchant counting his ledgers with exaggerated solemnity. The laughter rolled again. Still, beneath it, he could feel a tension he couldn't place — a corner table where three men spoke too low for the noise to drown them, where one gold chain caught the firelight in a way he'd seen before.
Joseph's voice faltered only a breath before he forced the grin back on. He couldn't afford distraction — not now, not tonight. Not when Katelijne would be waiting.
He leapt from the table, cap extended, voice bright: 'Generosity, good sirs! Carnival's nearly done, and a fool's purse empties faster than his wine!'
Coins clinked. Not enough — but enough to keep him there a little too long.
When the crowd thinned, Joseph ducked behind the counter to let the noise ebb from his skull. Pietje picked at a crumb on his sleeve, muttering nonsense that made more sense than most tavern talk.
At the far end of the room, the three merchants still lingered. Their clothes were too fine for the Swan — embroidered cuffs hidden under their cloaks, boots with polished heels — the kind of men who talked loudly only when they thought no one was listening.
Joseph crouched near the back wall, pretending to gather props from his satchel.
'—told you De Wael caught it,' one of them said. His voice was low, tight with irritation.
'Caught what?' another demanded.
'The discrepancy. Floris was careless — slipped the wrong figure through. Now the old man's sniffing at the books. Hendrik's furious.'
Joseph froze. The names struck like stones — De Wael. Floris.
'He'll smooth it,' the first man said after a moment. 'Blamed it on a clerk, said he'd repay it himself. But if word spreads—'
'It won't,' the third interrupted, sharper. 'No one crosses van den Berg without losing their place. Floris knows how to keep mouths shut. Especially among fools who think they're friends of his house.'
Their laughter came, low and knowing.
Joseph's stomach turned. He pressed himself back against the wall, bile rising. So it was true — the talk of bad ledgers, the deceit behind the smooth tongue and polished chain.
He'd known Floris for what he was the moment he'd seen him, yet to hear it spoken so plain made his fists ache.
Pietje tilted his head, croaked softly, 'Fool's gold, fool's gold.'
'Aye,' Joseph whispered. 'And it'll cost more than coin before it's done.'
The tavern's candles had guttered low by the time Joseph slipped out into the street. His share of the night's coin was pitiful, but he hardly noticed. The words he'd overheard still churned in his skull — Floris, De Wael, the books. Each phrase carried the weight of a secret that shouldn't have been spoken aloud.
He turned down the alley toward St. Andries, where Katelijne was meant to meet him. The night air cut sharp, the moon silvering the cobbles. Pietje shifted restlessly beneath his cloak, muttering scraps of their act — "Here comes the fool, here comes the king!" — as if to fill the silence.
'Quiet now,' Joseph murmured. His pulse quickened the closer he came to the chapel's wall.
But the square was empty. No flicker of movement near the shadows, no whisper of her step. The bench where she'd once waited — the same spot where he'd first dared to speak her name — stood bare under the cold light.
He waited.
The wind pressed against the shutters, carrying the faint music of Carnival still echoing from the upper streets. He told himself she'd come, that perhaps Edwin had delayed her, that she could not slip away as easily as before. He counted his breaths, the minutes, the chiming of a distant bell.
Still, she did not come.
Pietje gave a low whistle. 'Gone, gone,' he croaked.
Joseph sank onto the step, fingers knotting in his cloak. Anger warred with dread. Had she chosen not to come — or had something kept her from him? The thought of Floris's name on those merchants' tongues came back like a curse.
He stood at last, the cold biting through his boots. 'Then I'll find you myself,' he said under his breath.
The river wind whipped his cloak as he turned back toward the city, the empty square behind him echoing with all that might have been.
The morning air off the Scheldt bit like iron. Joseph sat on a crate outside the old warehouse, his cloak pulled tight, watching the river slap against the pilings. The gulls screamed overhead, scavenging among the fish barrels, and somewhere upriver a bell tolled the slow start of trade.
He hadn't slept — only drifted between thoughts until dawn, the same bitter knot twisting tighter in his chest. Floris's name still rang in his head, that smug laughter from the night before, talk of ledgers and coin skimmed clean.
He dug a pebble from the dirt and flicked it into the water. Pietje, perched on a post, tilted his head.
'What now, fool?' the bird croaked.
Joseph almost laughed. 'Good question.'
Footsteps scuffed behind him. Isabelle emerged from the warehouse, hair pinned hastily, cloak thrown over her shoulders. She looked pale, tired — but when her eyes met his, the usual fire sparked.
'So this is where you've been hiding,' she said. 'Bram's gone. Packed what he could and slipped off before dawn. The landlord says he left a tab longer than a priest's sermon.'
Joseph gave a short, grim smile. 'That sounds like him.'
'You should be glad. Less shouting, fewer boasts.' She hesitated, then folded her arms. 'What are you doing back here?'
He glanced toward the river. 'Thinking how deep trouble runs in this city. I heard something last night — about Floris van den Berg. He's been bleeding the De Wael accounts for months. Hidden charges, false tallies. Katelijne's family will be ruined if it keeps on.'
Isabelle's expression shifted — mockery fading, replaced by something sharper. 'You're sure?'
'As sure as I am of my own name.'
She stepped closer. 'Then tell her, Joseph. She deserves the truth, even if it comes from a fool.'
He met her eyes, surprised by the steadiness in her voice. For a heartbeat, they stood silent, the river's murmur between them.
'I will,' he said quietly. 'Tonight.'
'Good,' Isabelle said, turning back toward the warehouse. 'Then make it worth the risk.'
Joseph watched her go, the wind snapping at his cloak, and knew she was right.
When Isabelle's footsteps faded, the silence closed in, broken only by the slap of the tide against the wharf. Joseph stood for a long time, staring at the grey current, the weight of everything pressing against his ribs.
He had meant to meet Katelijne last night. The thought still stung like a burn. He pictured her waiting — cloak drawn tight, scanning the street, believing he had simply forgotten or lost interest. The memory made him sick with shame.
'Fool,' Pietje croaked from the post, as if echoing his thoughts.
Joseph ran a hand through his hair. 'Aye. The worst kind.'
He paced the boards, breath steaming in the cold air. He wanted nothing more than to see her face, to tell her the truth — that he'd been trapped in the tavern, forced to play for his supper until the doors were locked, that he'd fought his way out too late. To tell her he hadn't chosen absence; it had been wrested from him.
And now, with what he knew of Floris, he had to reach her before the man's deceit sank her family entirely.
He grabbed a scrap of parchment from his satchel — the back of an old bill of sale — and scratched a few quick lines with the stub of a quill:
I did not fail you by choice. The truth was barred behind walls and locks. I must see you — for your sake, not mine. Tonight, at St. Andries.
He folded the note, sealing it with a drop of wax melted from a candle stub. A ragged boy lingered by the fish crates, kicking at a rope coil. Joseph called him over and pressed a copper into his palm.
'To the De Wael house,' he said. 'Give this to the girl with the pale hair. No one else.'
The boy nodded, darting off down the lane.
Joseph watched him vanish into the city mist, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite the weight in his chest. Tonight, he swore, he would make it right — for her, and for everything still worth saving.