The alley stank of rot and river mud. A line of sagging warehouses slouched against the quay, their shutters warped, their brickwork slick with moss. Bram led the way through the puddles, cloak flaring, boasting that the place ahead would "do for now."
It was near dark when they reached it — an old tannery by the look and smell of it, walls mottled with damp, roof half-fallen in. A crooked sign swung from one hinge above the door, the paint long eaten away.
'Here we are,' Bram declared, kicking the door open with theatrical pride. 'Our new quarters. Better than the street, eh?'
The stench hit like a blow: wet hides, mildew, and stagnant water. Rik gagged and muttered a curse. Joos prodded a heap of straw with his boot and watched a rat bolt into the shadows.
'Even the vermin are leaving,' he said.
Isabelle brushed past them, forcing brightness. 'It's shelter. A roof, of sorts. We'll make it work.' She found a lantern on a beam, coaxed a flame, and held it aloft. The light showed walls warped and blackened, floorboards slick where the rain had crept in.
Joseph stood in the doorway, silent. He could still hear Willem's voice from that morning — the slam of a mug, the shout to clear out before the debt collectors broke down his door. The troupe had laughed then, as if it were all another jest. But standing here, in the reek and ruin, he felt the laughter die for good.
Pietje shifted on his shoulder, feathers puffed, and croaked, 'Fools! Fools!'
Rik chuckled bleakly. 'For once, the bird speaks truth.'
Bram only grinned wider. 'It's nothing a fire and a bit of spirit can't mend. You'll see.'
But Joseph saw already — the cracks not just in the roof, but in them all.
By the time they'd cleared a corner of the floor and coaxed a small fire into life, tempers were fraying. The warmth barely reached beyond their knees, and smoke curled low, stinging eyes.
Rik was the first to speak what everyone thought. 'This isn't shelter, it's a midden. Bram, you said you had us set up for something decent. Did the landlord's men chase you out too?'
Bram threw him a look. 'You'd rather sleep under the bridge? Willem's debt is his mess, not mine.'
'Yet it was your deal that brought them there,' Joseph said quietly. The others fell still.
Bram gave a bark of laughter. 'You'd blame me for the world's ills next. I got you paid work, didn't I?'
Joseph met his eye. 'Paid? We've yet to see the coin. You promised shares. Willem says the debt men came for you, not him.'
The air thickened. Isabelle straightened, her voice cutting through. 'Enough. We're here, we're safe for now. The money will come.'
'Will it?' Rik said darkly. 'Because it looks to me like someone already collected.'
Bram stood, shadows sharpening the lines of his face. 'You think I'd cheat you? After all I've done to keep us fed?'
'You've kept yourself fed,' Joseph snapped. 'The rest of us have had scraps.'
For a heartbeat, only the fire hissed. Then Isabelle rose too, her tone sharp as steel. 'Enough! Bram's done what he could. You think your fine merchant's girl will feed us better? Maybe she'll take you in, fool's hat and all.'
The words hit harder than any blow.
Joseph's jaw tightened. 'Don't speak her name.'
'Then stop acting like she's salvation,' Isabelle shot back. 'She'll ruin you, Joseph. And when she does, you'll have no one left.'
The silence that followed burned hotter than the fire.
Pietje broke it, squawking low: 'Fools, fools.'
Joseph rose slowly. 'Maybe he's right.'
He turned from the fire before anyone could stop him. The cold hit like a slap, clean and bracing after the stifling air inside. Pietje shifted uneasily on his shoulder, feathers ruffling as the door fell shut behind them.
The alley beyond was slick with frost, the roofs sagging under soot and age. Somewhere distant, church bells tolled the hour. Joseph stood still for a moment, breathing the silence in, feeling the heat of his anger settle into something colder.
Behind him came Bram's voice, muffled through the warped door — a laugh, forced. Then Isabelle's sharper tone: a hiss of warning, or regret; he couldn't tell. The sound twisted in his gut.
He'd had enough of it — the games, the boasts, the half-truths spun into promises. They were meant to be a troupe, a family bound by survival. Now it felt like they were held together by nothing more than empty cups and smoke.
Pietje nipped gently at his ear, a nervous habit.
'Aye,' Joseph muttered. 'We'll find better company than this lot, won't we?'
The parrot croaked, 'Fool, fool,' but this time it almost sounded like agreement.
He crossed the yard, boots crunching over frozen straw, and pushed through the half-hung gate into the street. Lanterns burned low, their light catching on puddles of meltwater. The night smelled of tar, damp wool, and frying onions from some nearby cookpot. Antwerp after Carnival — stripped of its glitter, left raw.
At the end of the lane stood another inn, its sign swinging in the wind: The Leaping Pike. Music spilled faint from inside, a fiddle and pipe chasing one another through laughter. He hesitated.
It would be easier to go back — to patch things up, swallow pride, share the blame. But something inside him had shifted. He would not go back to scraps of loyalty and half-paid promises.
He squared his shoulders, reached for the latch, and stepped inside.
The room was warm, alive with noise and light. Travellers, sailors, a few craftsmen — rough, but not cruel. The innkeeper, a heavy man with a kindly eye, looked up from polishing mugs.
'Evening,' Joseph said. 'You need another pair of hands tonight?'
The man studied him a moment, then nodded. 'If you can keep up.'
Joseph smiled. 'Try me.'
The innkeeper shoved a tankard toward him. 'Start with this. The men at that corner drink faster than sense allows. Keep the ale moving, keep their tempers soft. Do that, and you'll earn your keep before the night's out.'
Joseph took the mug, feeling its warmth seep through his chilled fingers. The common room was crowded but not cruel — merchants slouched over dice, two sailors argued good-naturedly about tides, and a fiddler scraped a cheerful tune near the hearth. No jeering crowd, no wary glances. Just people looking to forget the cold.
He slid through the tables, serving and listening, letting the rhythm of the place wash over him. Pietje perched on a beam above, muttering fragments of song that made a few patrons laugh. The sound loosened the knot in Joseph's chest.
When he passed the counter again, the innkeeper nodded toward him. 'You've the look of a player about you,' he said. 'That lot you came in with before — Willem's crew, wasn't it? Heard there was trouble. Debt collectors at his door this morning.'
Joseph froze. 'They came for Willem?'
'For whoever owed coin under his roof. Said a man named Bram left the ledger thin and the drink unpaid.' The innkeeper wiped the counter with deliberate care. 'You keep company with him?'
'Not anymore,' Joseph said quietly.
The man studied him for a beat, then shrugged. 'Good. That one's got charm enough to buy trust and sell it again for a penny. Keep clear, and you'll do fine here. You've spirit — and the bird helps.'
He reached under the counter, produced a loaf end and a slice of cheese. 'Payment for the first hour.'
Joseph took it, surprised by the gesture. 'You're kind.'
'No,' said the innkeeper, turning back to his mugs. 'Just been a fool myself before. Learned to spot another.'
Joseph ate standing, watching the firelight ripple across the low ceiling. The ache of betrayal still lingered, but the warmth of bread and ale dulled its edge. Around him laughter swelled again — rough, honest, unpolished.
He thought of the troupe huddled back in the cold tannery, of Isabelle's silence, Bram's false grin. Perhaps he had lost a home tonight, but for the first time in days, he did not feel trapped.
When the last of the dice-players stumbled upstairs and the fiddler packed away his bow, the inn quieted to a low hum — the sigh of embers, the drip of spilled ale, the muffled murmur of men dreaming at their tables.
Joseph stayed by the hearth, the warmth licking his boots, Pietje asleep on his shoulder. His body ached from labour, his hands sticky with ale and soot, yet his mind refused rest.
He reached into his doublet and drew out the folded scrap of parchment — her reply to his note. Tonight. The chapel garden, after dusk.
He had almost torn it up after the quarrel with Isabelle, after Willem's fury and Bram's deceit. But the thought of Katelijne's smile, the sound of her laughter at the barn, had stilled his hand. She was the one thing still unspoiled by lies.
He turned the note over in his fingers, though he knew every word by heart. Tomorrow might bring nothing but ruin — debts, exposure, the city's cold indifference. But if she came… if she still trusted him… then perhaps there was a path beyond all this.
The fire popped, sending a brief shower of sparks into the dark. Pietje stirred, muttering softly, 'Fool, fool,' as though echoing his thoughts.
Joseph smiled faintly, leaned back, and whispered, 'Aye, perhaps. But not tonight.'
He closed his eyes to the crackle of the dying fire, the faint scent of smoke and promise clinging to the air.